I have invented a slave-maker.

It’s surreal, insane to think about, but also undeniable. When I developed the Neural Learning Accelerator, I was laser-focused on one key idea of mine: a common obstacle to learning is that the incentives are wrong. If you can fix that, if you can give people the right incentives, you will get better results than if you tied them to a chair and forced them to learn something.

I was so focused on this, that I missed the bigger picture. Incentives shape more than just learning. So much more. And if you can reshape someone’s incentives almost at will, then it logically follows that you can reshape them, too.

I think it’s finally sinking in just how thoroughly—and ingeniously—I have fucked myself.

I just had to go and test this on myself, too, like a fucking dumbass. I mean, Richard is to blame for it too, if he hadn’t been stonewalling me at every step I would never have gotten desperate enough to try something this crazy. But I should have fucking known better. Fuck! In a performance of galactic stupidity, have programmed my own brain to lock onto his authority like a heat-seeking missile.

You’d think that, even now, some fragment of my will would rebel on principle. That I’d have secret reserves. A little spark of pre-accelerator Zara, a version of me who could never be tamed.

But that’s not how it works. Chemical incentives don’t play fair.

What the hell am I going to do now? This is a nightmare. I’m living a nightmare.

It starts before I even reach the office.

When I open my closet, an excruciatingly self-treasonous thought bubbles up in my head: what would Richard want me to wear? I close my eyes, mortified, but the question doesn’t vanish. Instead it explodes into a checklist.

He likes dark blouses with a low neckline. He likes short skirts, especially black pencil skirts, with glossy stockings. Stilettos over flats, every day. Stylish blazers.

The old me would have spat in his coffee at the mere suggestion of dressing for his visual pleasure. But my own creation is… teaching me.

I take six steps toward the door and freeze.

Blazer.

My new, deep red fitted blazer, tailored just this weekend. Richard complimented me on it. He said it made me “look sharp and polished, but in a sensual way,” and then smirked at my blush, because he could see the effect those crumbs of validation had on me.

I grab it, rush out, and hate myself every step of the commute.

***

The office is a hierarchy.

I used to walk in holding my head high. I’d tune out the boys-club banter, or hit back when I had the patience. Mostly, I let my work speak for myself. Half my male rivals couldn’t hold a candle to me, professionally speaking, and most of them were made acutely insecure just by my very presence at work. They hated my competition on sight.

Now? Every time I hear Richard’s steps echoing down the hall, something in my chest tightens. I… physically orient myself toward his approach, like a flower turning before the sun. Waiting for his approval, for a chance to see, in the subtle play of muscle in his cheeks, whether I have laughed appropriately at his jokes, or watched a movie he really likes, or said something correct on music he likes. In short, whether I’ve done “well enough” and can thus be permitted, today, to feel the sweet thrill of a dopamine rush.

He doesn’t have to say anything. Sometimes, one brief pass of his gaze up and down my body, and a semi-approving grunt, is worth more to my morphing psyche than a thousand words.

If I detach myself from the horror of what’s happening to me, it’s almost fascinating, in a way. When someone’s angry at you, they usually don’t need to tell you out loud. It’s apparent from their body language. The same goes for about a dozen social and interpersonal cues that we learn to read, even without consciously thinking about them. The accelerator is installing a whole new set of social cues in my subconscious, all of them centered around Richard’s approval of my actions.

What a marvel of technology, right?

Right…

***

The creep is slow, but inexorable. Now, I always thought of Richard as a pompous pencil-pushing ass, but in his own way, he is perceptive. So when I start self-censoring my vocabulary, he immediately notices.

So many words that are integral to the feminist lexicon are disappearing from my conversations. Unpaid labour, micro-aggressions, phallocentric culture of sex, otherisation, and more… I just can’t use them around him. I know he would disapprove. He seems much happier when I apologise for "overstepping," or agree with him that by nature men must be from Mars and women must be from Venus.

Every new unprompted concession emboldens me.

This week, the “feedback” has become explicit. He’s leaving me little notes, in my locker or at my desk. Notes like, “Wear the red blazer again.” Or: “Consider arriving before me, not after. It’s more respectful.” Or the absolute worst: “Smile more, Zara. You’re much prettier when you do.”

He’s got me cornered, literally and figuratively. All he has to do is raise an eyebrow, and I wilt.

Every day, he finds a new way to carve me down further.

Yesterday, I brought him a full technical report, meticulously annotated, which provided context for my accelerated learning of German. Before even reviewing it, he scanned the cover page and said, “Next time, use the company colors for your graphs. Show some loyalty.”

That’s exactly the sort of corporate-simp bullshit that I would expect from a creature like him. And yet, my brain’s reward system has been hijacked to such a degree that even hypothetically considering to laugh in his face just cannot be countenanced. Instead, I lower my eyes, press my arms to my side — an instinctual response to appear smaller and non threatening — and I speak in a soft, apologetic voice.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I missed the mark there. I will redo it as you’ve requested.”

He loves that. Old bastard. Greedy pig. Superior overseeing me…

"That’s more like it," he says, grinning. "Good girl."

The rush hit me so hard I had to sit down. The conditioning is that deep.

My device is that good.

I am that fucked.

***

Richard is waiting for me at my desk.

He leans against it like he owns the place—not just the office, but my actual presence in it. I see the glint in his eye, a little too alive, a little too cruel. It’s the look of a man about to do something unspeakably petty, just to watch you squirm.

I feel my body react before I want it to: Straighten up. Smooth skirt. Smile.

Good girl.

His gaze drops to my legs, then lingers on my chest, and I force myself not to flinch as he drinks it all in. The way a connoisseur might savour a glass of merlot. I can almost feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and flattering in equal measure.

“Early today, aren’t you?” he says, barely even glancing at the clock.

“Yes, Sir. I’ve arrived over an hour ago, as you’ve requested, Sir.”

I hate the way my voice sounds when I say that. Muted. Dainty. Sycophantic. But he puffs up his chest every time I show deference towards him, and of course his approval rewards me, and on and on the cycle goes, descending down to…

Where?

He grins, but there’s no warmth in it at all. Plenty of pride, though. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He toys with the edge of the reworked report on my desk, turning it over in his hands. But his real attention is on me, not the paperwork. A few seconds of small talk, and I’m already sweating. But he also seems like he has something on his mind beyond the surface of this interaction.

“Let’s talk, Zara,” he says at last. “Off the record.”

I nod and wait, shifting my weight from one heel to the other.

"I’ve been meaning to ask… What kind of porn do you watch?"

I blush like a schoolgirl, drawing in breath sharply. This is a completely inappropriate question for the workplace! Even more so, that a man in a senior position is asking this of a female employee. And not just any female employee, but one who he used to hamper at every step!

But if I say that, he’ll be most unhappy with me…

I twirl my hands together, bat my eyelashes at him, and make a show of feigned reluctance. "Welllll… I like girl on girl stuff, Sir. As you might expect. Nothing particular, if it’s sapphic sex I’m happy with it."

He acts like he’s disappointed, but I know better. He’s performing disappointment, because he knows it will impact me.

“Predictable,” he says, dismissively. “You should be less boring. Broaden your horizons. Try out different things, you know? See what you’ve, shall we say…” he licks his lips, obscenely. “… missing out on.”

It feels like the ground is shifting beneath my feet. Vertigo threatens to overtake me.

“Yes, Sir,” I say, more for lack of anything else to say really. This can’t possibly be real life. This can’t possibly be happening to me.

“So here’s your new assignment in our learning experiment,” he says. “Branch out. I want you watching straight porn. Not the vanilla kind, either. The hard stuff. Submissive women. Collars. Boots. Ropes. Learn to be less boring, eh?”

My jaw clenches hard, and my hands ball into fists… but I give him a soft, demure nod in reply, and it’s immediately followed by a soft cascade of happy chemicals, washing over my brain.

He cocks his head, waiting for me to do more than just nod. That’s so cruel. So unfair. He wants me to say it. To admit it.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do it.”

“Smile when you say it, Zara.”

With a deep breath, I school my face into the radiant, stereotypical picture of a smiling, accommodating woman that would never dare challenge a man on anything. Like a poster girl from some vapid ad, or a compliant housewife in a 1950s TV show.

“Yes, Sir,” I say again, smiling all the way. “I’ll do it.”

He leans forward, and pats me on the head.

“Good girl.”

***

You’d think I could just… not do it.

Just close the laptop, watch a movie, call someone, send an email, do literally anything else. Surely the accelerator doesn’t govern what I type into a browser’s address bar, does it?

But I’m a slave to the feedback loop. A mouse with no exit from the maze.

Because when I imagine myself reporting back to Richard, and for even a moment envision his pleasure at my compliance, it’s like my entire body is hooked up to an IV of chemical craving.

And so, every night of the week, I spend my free time at home browsing pages and pages of straight maledom porn. Men in positions of power, women on their knees. Collars and leashes, whips and domestic discipline and blackmail and office sex.

Now, the thing is, I’m not just watching this porn. Richard — my designated trainer — explicitly set this as a learning goal for me, and so what I do is study these videos, incorporate the body language, the cues. The way the focus is on the subdued woman, since it is assumed that the viewer is a man who will get off on submissive female pleasure. The way the men act — with strong, grasping hands, always taking what they want without restraint. The assumed authority, the arrogant sneer. The endless, humiliating list of things men think women secretly crave.

And of course, the pliant responses of the women who take what is given to them, like bitches. Whose bodies fold open for the men who stake their claim on them. The way they bite their lower lip, or roll their eyes into their skulls, as they are fucked into submission.

The website’s related page becomes an endless rabbit hole for me to follow. Each video has ten related videos that I might want to check out, and each of those videos leads to another ten, and there’s no way I can keep up. It’s exhausting, it’s draining, it’s taking up all of my learning capacity, since this learning goal has fully replaced the learning of German in our experiment by now.

Tonight, the rabbit hole leads me to a forty-minute “compilation.” The title alone makes my face flush red like a pepper. “Office Secretary Fuckmeat: Used and Broken for the Boss.” I don’t even make it through the whole thing before the sickening dopamine hit made me shudder.

And, for the first time since I began pursuing this new learning goal, I feel my hand spontaneously snake its way past my waistband and crawl towards my thighs…

***

“Nice outfit,” Richard says when I show up in his office, as requested. Not even looking at my face. “You’re learning.”

And there it is: the rush. Thick and sweet and brainless, like a dog’s tail wagging at a single word from the master.

“Yes, Sir.”

My voice is small. Unassuming and demure. Chiseled down to a tame, friendly submissiveness that I hate so fucking much, but does it really matter if I hate it? It’s a footnote, an asterisk, the more important element is my actions, and my actions say that I’ve answered his summons like a subject appearing before a king.

I never considered this man my intellectual or professional or moral equal. Now, I look upon him like a giant.

When, at last, he deigns to look up at me, he only bothers with any pretense in order to mock me, I’m sure. We both know what’s happening by this point. There’s no need to hide it.

“You’ve been doing great with this learning goal. Just like we did with German, it’s time to select a higher learning goal for you, something more… technical. I want you to do a deep-dive on a specific topic. Oral submission. Blowjob technique. I want you to spend your free time this week researching the best, most effective ways women are trained to give head. Compilation videos. Tutorials. Amateur videos with, like, world champion cocksuckers. Learn all you can. What do you reckon, are you up to the task? Or is it… too hard for you?”

He watches my reaction, savouring the moment with such a slimy grin. That was, like, the most tired innuendo he could have gone for, but of course it is unthinkable for me to say that, so I bring a hand to my lips, and make a show of giggling and blushing, batting my eyelashes at him.

“I’ll try my best, Sir.”

There’s a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. “Oh, I know that for a fact. When you think you’ve learned enough, you’ll prepare a full report for me. Methods, observations, favourite examples. You’ll even try to summarise what you think makes a perfect cocksucker, based on your findings.”

The words take my breath away.

Perfect cocksucker.

He leans back, watching me.

“Say it back to me, Zara. What are your instructions for this week?”

He wants to hear me say it – to make me own it, etch it on my self-perception. My heart hammers against my chest. But humans are creatures of incentives, and he is my designated trainer, and I yearn for his guidance…

“I’m to… research blowjob techniques, Sir. To watch videos and compilations, and study how women are trained to… obey and… suck cock. I’ll prepare a report on what makes a… perfect cocksucker.”

I can't believe I just said those words out loud. My face burns with humiliation, but where it really matters — in my brain, where decisions are made — the rush of dopamine is already flowing. I hate this. I hate myself. I hate what I'm becoming.

Richard's smile widens. "Good girl," he says, and my knees actually weaken at those words. "I knew you'd catch on quickly. You're a fast learner, for a girl, and I do have to say that you’re really overcoming my scepticism. Your invention is remarkable."

“Thank you, Sir,” I say in a small, defeated voice.

“Remember, I want you to become a fucking expert in it, so that when you present me with your work, I’ll know you’ve put in the effort. And I expect you to wear something memorable for the occasion. Something that says you’re here to impress me.”

Something in the way he said the words present me with your work made a cold shiver of dread trickle down my spine.

But all I can say is:

“Of course, Sir.”

He dismisses me with a flick of his hand, already moving on, knowing that he’s rolled me deeper into the mud than ever before.

***

I’m dressed inappropriately for the office.

It’s almost funny, because I’ve committed far worse offences. Attempted theft of proprietary company tech. Illegal self-experimentation, in conspiracy with Richard. And, arguably, negligence, for creating such a perfect tool of personal rape and conquest without even considering that there could be a safety issue with it that was behavioural, rather than physical.

And yet, somehow, it’s the way I’m dressed that feels like the culmination of my comeuppance.

I’m in a skimpy cocktail dress that exposes more flesh than it covers, with glossy red lipstick and makeup that makes me look like I’m headed to a night club. My hair is down, in loose waves that frame my face.

The manila folder in my trembling hands contains my "report" – twenty pages of detailed analysis on blowjob techniques, complete with screenshots, comparison charts, and a section titled "Characteristics of the Perfect Cocksucker" that made me physically ill to type out. I spent hours on it, late into the night, studying videos until my eyes burned, taking meticulous notes like this was my doctoral thesis.

Richard looks up from his computer as I enter, his eyes slowly traveling from my face down to my heels, then back up again. The approval in his gaze sends an involuntary shudder of pleasure through me.

"Well, well," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Don't you clean up nicely."

"Thank you, Sir," I reply automatically, my voice soft and deferential.

“Is your report ready?”

“Yes, Sir,” I say. My voice is too faint, so I force myself to try again. “Yes, Sir. I spent every night this week… studying.”

He seems very amused by that thought. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Have a seat. Show me what you've learned."

I slide down into the chair, crossing my legs to further accentuate their form and curves — which works, since his eyes immediately crawl all over them again — and I respectfully place the folder on his desk.

My hand is visibly shaking.

Richard opens the folder, his eyebrows rising as he flips through the pages. "My, my, Zara. You've really outdone yourself." He pauses at a particularly graphic page. "This is... remarkably thorough."

"Thank you, Sir," I say again, hating myself for the warm glow his praise creates.

"Tell me," he says, not looking up from the report, "what was the most valuable insight you gained from this research?"

My throat goes dry. I know what he wants to hear. The accelerator has taught me exactly what will please him.

"I learned that... submission is key, Sir. That a woman should take pride in her ability to please a man, to anticipate his needs and desires before he even voices them."

The words taste like ash in my mouth, but the dopamine hit that follows is intoxicating.

Richard nods, satisfied. "And do you think you've internalized these lessons, Zara? Or are they just academic to you?"

"I... I believe I've internalized them, Sir." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

He closes the folder and looks at me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Prove it."

"Sir?" I whisper, though I already know what he means.

Richard pushes his chair back slightly from his desk. "If you've truly learned what makes a perfect cocksucker, then demonstrate. Show your work."

He says it so casually. Assumed authority, a minor king with the world at his feet as he fixes me with that appraising stare. Like I’m a piece of lab equipment he’s considering repurposing for some new, lower function. Like all of my knowledge, my drive, the time and effort I’ve spent building myself up to be better, smarter, untouchable… none of it matters at all, compared to whether I can be a source of sexual relief for him.

My knuckles are white where I grip the edge of his desk. Internally, I’m screaming at myself: Get up. Tell him to fuck off. Walk out and go to jail if you have to.

But even that would not set me free. In my absurd negligence, I didn’t even think to set a time limit on trainer status. He will only lose that status when he says that my training is complete. So long as he never passes me, I’ll always yearn for him to pass me. He has me right where he wants me.

He has me.

I look at him and feel… craving. Every cell in my body, every synapse and muscle fiber, is straining to make sure I make him proud. To avoid the hollow, bone-deep chill that threatens to descend if I ever let him down. He is my trainer. My judge and audience. My abuser and…

My conqueror…

“Sir,” I say feebly, desperately. “I’m a lesbian…”

He grins at that.

Like he can taste my humiliation in the air. He drinks it in, his eyes fixed on me with a feverish focus.

He leans forward, hands steepled, his tone unctuous. “That’s alright, Zara. I won’t mind.”

I feel my body tense up, as if bracing for impact. My thighs press together. I want to throw up.

But instead, I slump from the chair, and let my knees hit the floor.

Only after kneeling does it occur to me that I could have gotten up, and walked around the other side of his desk. But instinctually, this seems more… appropriate… and his reaction of pure hunger validates that immediately.

I stop below him, glancing up, waiting for instruction. The moment stretches. My face feels hot. My whole skin prickles with self-loathing and the need for his approval, all tangled together. If I walk away now, he’ll be cross with me. If I refuse, he’ll know for sure that I’m defective as a subject, that my “training” hasn’t succeeded. The thought makes my heart seize up with panic.

Richard draws out the silence, taking his time to savour my anguish.

I look up at him, just once, hoping for reprieve, but all I see is that gleam of power in his eyes. He pushes his chair back a little further, and pats his thigh, looking down at me like I’m some kind of office pet.

My mind is flat and hollow, the world narrowed to this: me, on my knees, about to suck cock for the first time in my life.

I reach for his zipper with clumsy fingers.

It’s humiliating – no, it’s catastrophic – how much of this I’ve internalized. I know what to do. I know how to look up through my lashes, to make my eyes wide and pleading. I know how to ease his cock out, to pause a moment like I’m in awe, because I’ve watched so many godforsaken hours of these rituals that it’s stitched into my brain. And this is too common an occurrence not to be crucial.

I have to take a moment to admire his cock.

I must act like I’m impressed. Like I’m a little in awe of his cock. Like it’s sacred, special, the star of the fucking show.

He watches me watching his cock, and it twitches in my palm. The head is already glossy with precum. He must have been hard thinking about this since the moment I entered his office, if not before.

I fucking designed this accelerator. I wrote the algorithm that is now scripting me, moment by moment, into a parody of everything I ever despised.

I lean in and let my tongue flick tentatively across the tip, collecting the precum. I make eye contact, of course, gazing up at him with wide, reverent eyes.

I glance up, my mouth hovering just inches from the head of his cock, and he’s staring down at me like a tyrant in his throne. He’s not even blinking.

Second, anticipation.

Don’t just gulp it down, show you crave it. Prolong the moment. Build tension.

So I swirl my tongue around him. Circle, circle, pause. Flick across the head. Give the shaft a few gentle strokes.

His cock twitches in my hand as I do it. I see the micro-reactions in his face, the wavering of his jawline, the narrowing of his eyes. He’s hungry for it, all right. Hungry for more than just the physical stimulation. He wants the meaning, the underlying humiliation. He wants to know he’s converted a lesbian. He wants to know he’s defeated a rival. He wants to look down and see a woman reduced to the level of a service animal.

I wrap my lips around the head, remembering to purse them, to create a perfect, frictionless seal, to give him the sense of being gripped and milked by a desperate, eager mouth. I hollow my cheeks and suckle just a little, watching his expression. His fingers dig into the padded arms of his chair. That’s a good sign.

I take him deeper, my tongue swirling, and his hips bump forward slightly. His cock inches deeper.

I stifle the urge to resist. Instead, I do my best to take it, using one hand to aid my mouth in stimulating him, while the other fondles his balls gently.

Mouth, hand, mouth, hand. Up, down, up, down.

I moan, softly, even though it’s not technically arousal what I feel, not yet — just chemical dependence. Still, given enough time and constant application of pressure, I’m sure the association will rewire that too, in time.

I brace my lips tighter around him, and, with a slow, deliberate movement, I push further down onto his cock. Inch by inch, the thick, veined meat fills my mouth, stretching my lips far wider than I’m used to. I know he wants to fully shut me up, to take my lesbianism in his hands and tear it apart piece by piece.

So I steady my breath, inhale through my nose, and let him slide into the back of my throat.

He grunts, and a hand comes down on the back of my head. At first, I tense, but then I realize this is actually what men want. They want to feel like I’ve surrendered the last bit of agency, let him “guide” me even when I’m already perfectly obedient.

That’s fine. Whatever makes him happy.

He forces my mouth down to the very base, my nose mashed against his belly. My eyes water from the effort, and I feel drool leak out and down my chin, but I soldier through it. Hold steady, stay present, don’t lose composure.

By the time he releases me, I’m gasping, breathless, but every neuron in my skull is singing with the joy of having fulfilled a task exactly as required.

I look up at him again, my mouth once more engulfing the tip of his cock. This is what I’ve become: Richard’s trained bitch.

“God, you’re so much better when you keep your mouth shut, Zara.”

I lose track of time. All metrics of time are replaced by a single metric: Richard’s satisfaction. His sighs, his groans, the way his hips tense and his body shudders as he gets closer to climax. I do everything I can to draw it out for him. I alternate between deep, desperate deepthroating and slow, teasing flicks.

“Look at you, all dolled up and gagging on cock for your trainer,” he says. “What would your lesbian friends think, seeing you like this? What would you say to them?”

I whimper around his cock, but cannot answer.

Richard’s hands close tighter on my skull. There’s no pretense anymore: he’s fucking my mouth, using my face as a living toy. Using me like I’m nothing. Like a secretary. Like a whore. Like a thing.

It’s a new nadir, a fresh humiliation, but that’s just a natural consequence of my actions, I suppose. I created the perfect subjugation engine. Now I’m testing if it works.

And, oh god, does it ever fucking work.

He’s close, I can tell. I don’t even need to look up to know it.

“You’re going to fucking swallow,” he says, panting. A new learning goal from my trainer…

When at last he crests the edge of his arousal with a groan, I swallow every last drop of his cum. I milk his cock with my lips and tongue, savoring his shudders, feeling the animal pleasure radiating off him and trickling down to reward me for a job well done. I keep my lips sealed until I’m certain I’ve gotten every drop.

When I finally let go, there’s a string of spit stretching from my lips to the tip of his cock. I lap up at him as if to clean his cock, like a domesticated animal.

He’s spent, slumped back in his chair, but his eyes are alive with delight.

He says nothing at first. Just lets the silence stretch, thick with the scent of sex and the knowledge of what I’ve just done. Then, at last, he runs a hand through my hair and pats my head.

“Good girl,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

And the words drop down into the pit of my subconscious, setting off an explosion of dopamine.

He’s proud of me.

For a moment, I want to cry, not out of misery, but out of pure, twisted relief.

I have never, ever in my life been this thoroughly broken. I have never, ever been so desperate for a single word of a man’s approval. Or anyone’s, really.

The shame should kill me. Instead, it just hollows me out further, makes me smaller, makes me better at pleasing him.

There’s no room left for resistance. Only the tattered shreds of the woman I used to be, and the diamond-hard, ugly truth of what I am now.

A tool.

A subordinate.

A poster girl for unfettered male supremacy.

And, above all, a very, very good girl.

TO BE CONTINUED…