J.C.

This is not my wife.

All I need to do in order to be sure is close my eyes. See her again with my mind’s eye, the way she looked yesterday, broken and spent and so utterly dominated, lesbianism be damned.

Sarah, lying there, defeated and vulnerable, her body trembling and convulsing. All the strength lent to her by her punk dyke look, melting away like snow under the sun, as her face took on a tremulous expression of quintessential vulnerability…

I press my fingers into my temples, keeping my eyes firmly closed.

The demonic arousal that possessed me last night, the desire to conquer and own, the catharsis… was it really worth it? Because right now, I feel terrible. But the visual was glorious.

I grip Sarah's purple hair and force her head up from my crotch, cum and drool dripping from her lips. She blinks up at me with glassy eyes, tears glistening on her skin, her cheeks flushed. Perfect.

"You've done well," I said yesterday and say again in the memory, patting her cheek. She leans into my touch like a cat, purring softly. "But you have more work to do."

Her brow furrows. She struggles to regain her composure, to summon some scrap of that legendary defiance, but it slips through her fingers like sand.

And that’s when I realise the truth: this is not my Sarah.

I cup her chin, tilting her head this way and that. Trying to make sure.

Her lips part. She inhales a sharp breath, and for a moment I see a flicker of the old Sarah in her eyes. Then it's gone, snuffed out, and she gazes up at me with blank, animalistic devotion.

"Anything," she whispers. "Anything for you."

I smile. In the memory.

I’m not smiling now.

I should be overjoyed that she has been mine again. I should be excited at the prospect that maybe we can patch things up.

I should feel monstrously guilty, because she would have never consented, but for the virus in her brain. The virus I am explicitly paid to defeat, I might add.

Instead, all I feel is disappointment, because she’s not my Sarah. Strong, independent, unapologetically feminist, a badass. Submissive in bed, but strong everywhere that matters.

Not anymore.

I reopen my eyes, staring at the blurry lines of code in front of me. The glare of the computer screen washes over me in a harsh, cruel light. It’s like the code is mocking me. The payload can make my newly-lesbian wife fuck me, yes. But it can’t give her back to me, her as I truly love her.

Unless…

I sit a little straighter in the chair. My eyes regain focus. The payload is very delicately targeted. I’m not making any inroads in finding a way to clear it from a woman’s mind, but I am getting better at understanding how it invades and reshapes the female psyche.

The payload is all about demolishing resistance, and then after breaking its victim, after getting her collared, it rebuilds her. But how much of this rebuild is in the payload’s own code, and how much is it to spec?

To her master’s spec, to be precise?

What if I… mmh.

I know what I must do.

***

Sarah

I wake up groggy and ill-rested, from half-formed dreams of cum and leather.

My body feels heavy, weak, as if something has been taken from me. Slowly but inexorably coaxed out, wrung out of me. I feel hollowed out, lumbering, clumsy… directionless.

God, yesterday… I can barely think about yesterday. If I do that explicitly, I’ll be lost. But even if my mind isn’t thinking about it, my body definitely is. I feel fucked, and craving more, and J.C. is in the next room, this kind lord and master who…

I stop, and not out of self-restraint. What is that sound?

I pad barefooted on the floor, making my way into the hallway. A blush creeps up my neck as the nature of the sounds becomes unmistakable. But it can’t be, surely. It’s impossible. Maybe J.C. is watching porn, or something, and of course that would be perfectly natural –

Male needs are always a priority –

No. No… but he should at least put on headphones, or…

Oh, God.

I step into the living room, and it feels like my body is instantly trying to die.

Bile rises up my throat, my limbs shake, my heart spirals into a crazed beat, and lancing arousal shocks my body from hair to toe like an electric current, one that makes me want to pant like a bitch ready to be fucked.

My sister!

"Anna!" I say, panicked. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Everyone always used to tell her she rocks the effortlessly charming hipster gal look to perfection, but now she just looks fucked. Her hair’s ruffled, there’s drool running down her chin, her pale skin is glistening with sweat.

She looks so… overshadowed, as her slender body kneels in the shadow of a man as tall as J.C. It’s like she’s disappearing beneath him. Her head is bobbing up and down on my husband's cock.

She barely glances at me when I speak, and it’s so haunting that I’d almost rather she ignored me. Her eyes are so hollow as she diligently gags around my husband’s cock.

Diligently.

Why did I phrase it like that? Why do I feel like fucking moaning right now?

"Stop it, J.C.! Stop this fucking nonsense right now!" I spit out, my fists clenched. "Tell her to get off you, now!"

He looks at me, and I look at him, and there’s an unspoken realisation between us.

I’ve made my appeal to him.

Having concluded that Anna is incapable of independent thought, that she will not be getting off his cock, that she’s just a dumb piece of female flesh waiting to be put to use, I’ve asked the man in the room if he could please be kind enough to stop raping her.

That is a profoundly… humbling realisation. A redefining one.

This is how low the payload has brought us. And how much further down are we going to go?

“Why would I?” He asks, after a lengthy silence. “Anna's mouth is doing things to my cock that even a professional would blush at. I guess it must run in the family.”

His words hit me like a slap to the face. I turn redder than a pepper, and the unmistakable feel of slick heat is building up between my thighs. There’s such an edge to his words, and I feel equally outraged by them, and absurdly, guilty… like I’ve hurt him, somehow?

I haven’t been fucking him.

Yeah, but I did yesterday, so what… what is the…

God. I’m swooning, I can barely hold my balance. It doesn’t run in the family, I want to tell him, it runs in our gender, some things are just hardwired. Female DNA carries essential information, like how to curtsy and bat our eyelashes and swirl our tongues around a cock…

As I watch my sister willingly succumb to the rapture of deepthroating, something within me fractures further. My resistance, already so brittle after yesterday, splinters and cracks almost audibly.

I feel so weak. The weak can’t afford to get angry, to shout at their betters. If they want something, all they can do is plead for it. And so, my features soften, my voice fades into a low whisper, and I beg the master of the house like I’m some kind of dog.

"J.C.," I say, my voice shaking with a mix of anger and pleading fear. "Please, don't do this to Anna. She’s my sister, and… I mean, you’re my husband, and…"

“Not for long,” he says, dryly. “You’re divorcing me, remember?”

I gulp, but it doesn’t dissolve the sudden knot in my throat. “Right. But it’s still… wrong, she…”

He looks at me intently, his expression softening for a moment. "Sarah, who do you take me for? I wouldn't touch your sister without her consent.”

But she can’t consent, I want to shout, except the words don’t come out, and the alien presence in my mind twists them from a negative into an enthralling positive – yes, we can’t consent, that’s the point. We should have never been indulged with the silly idea that it was up to us, we…

No…

“Besides,” he says, “It was her idea. She volunteered to help us both.”

I blink, trying to process the information. All the words make sense individually, but taken together? What the hell does it mean, help us both?

J.C. spares me from having to ask, though. “Look, I have my needs, and they haven’t been taken care of for quite some time.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but last night-”

"Last night was a one-time thing," J.C. says.

And once again, I feel like he’s just slapped me. And not in the fun, kinky way.

My lips are trembling. My eyes are starting to dampen. I’m not sure I’m comprehending the exact implications of what he’s saying – but I’m scared that I in fact do comprehend it. And I don’t get it.

I fucked him! What did I do wrong? I…

I’m a lesbian, for God’s sake, and I shouldn’t feel hurt or sidelined because my soon to be ex-husband is… rejecting me?

“Don’t be upset,” he says, his voice gentle and soothing. "I respect your sexuality too much to take advantage of you like that again. It was wrong of me to exploit you. You can’t control yourself, not with that thing in your head. But I can control myself."

"Then why exploit her? Why-" I start to ask, but he interrupts me.

"Anna isn’t a lesbian," J.C. says with a shrug. “So if she’s enjoying it, there’s no harm.”

No harm.

I look down at her, then to him, then back to her. She hasn’t moved from her position on her knees for a single second since this conversation began. She’s still busy dutifully giving my husband’s cock a throat massage.

I want to scream. I want to shout. I want to tell J.C. that his logic is bullshit and he knows it. Either we both can consent, or neither can. I wonder if he’s just rationalising this for his benefit, or if he’s legitimately trying to manipulate me, to gaslight me –

Hot!

No. I don’t know. I want to ask him, or just tell him to go fuck himself. But arguing against a man is becoming so hard, and it’s so much easier to just nod my empty little head and go along… be meek, accommodating, unassuming.

My strength fails me, and I realise I can’t meet his gaze.

Not anymore.

***

J.C.

I watch Sarah's eyes lower in defeat.  But I don’t like the taste of this victory.

Part of me wishes she could muster up some genuine rage. Pre-payload, if she had caught me with Anna, she would have put me in the fucking ground. But now, she’s… powerless.

I can see it in the way her shoulders slump and her once fiery gaze becomes dull and servile. She’s not standing tall, rather, it looks like her body is instinctively trying to make itself shorter and physically less imposing.

She’s no longer the strong-willed, proud, intelligent, fun, kinky woman I fell in love with. She's been reduced to a submissive pet, stripped of her will and autonomy.

Her will is gone. My wife is gone.

I grip Anna’s brown hair more firmly. It’s probably hurting her, but I can’t bring myself to care right now, and she’s too deconstructed to actually complain, at this point. I pull her hair, impaling her throat even deeper with my cock, as I watch Sarah slink away, defeated, back to the bedroom.

I know exactly where she's headed - to masturbate to this scene. I know she will be fingering herself to thoughts of me dominating her dear sis. Now her pussy gushes at the thought of being put in her place, at walking away to rub herself stupid, while leaving me to reduce her sister into a cockholster with impunity.

Can’t fault her for that. It is a pretty damn glorious sight. Anna, who perfected the art of performative hipsterism so well that it was both hot and annoying. Anna, the younger sister Sarah was always so protective of.

Here she is now, looking up at me with those big doe eyes as she sucks my cock.

I can feel her tongue swirling around the head, her throat muscles contracting around my cock every time I plunge deeper. She is an obedient little cocksucker now, so willing to degrade herself for my pleasure.

Most women are, I suppose.

I close my eyes, losing myself in the animalistic gluk gluk sounds coming from the docile female pet beneath me. I thrust deeper into Anna's throat, eliciting a strangled gurgle from her.

Oh, yes. Unpleasant as it is, I do know what I must do. I’ve made the right choice.

Yes, my Sarah is gone… but I may have a way to bring her back.

***

Sarah

It keeps happening.

It just keeps fucking happening, and I can’t do anything to stop it.

I brought Anna here to protect her from the payload, I stayed with J.C. so I could be safe before the finalisation of our divorce, and now I can’t walk into a room without being treated to a spectacle of pure, unadulterated male sexual supremacy. It’s doing my fucking head in.

One day it’ll be the kitchen. J.C. sits casually at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other. But what really catches my eye is Anna, my own sister, on her knees under the table, her head bobbing eagerly as she services him.

She doesn't look up if I try to address her, only moans softly around J.C.'s cock, her eyes glazed with a mixture of pleasure and devotion.

"Your sister really knows how to please a man," J.C. says flatly, looking directly into my eyes as if daring me to object. But I can't – not anymore. My resistance has been chipped away by the relentless onslaught.

"Anna..." I ask her afterwards, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes at the idea that my husband is raping her. "How could you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she says, her voice dripping with condescension. "I'm doing this for him. He’s been sheltering us, keeping us safe, he’s a true provider like that. It’s the least I can do to pay him back. Honestly I can’t believe you’d break up with the guy."

“B-but,” I say, so shocked, because I can barely recognise my own sister. We always supported one another… “I’m a lesbian, Anna…”

She shrugs. “So? A warm wet mouth is still a warm wet mouth. Try not to be a selfish bitch sometimes, sis.”

Her words sting, but even as I choke back a sob, I don’t have the strength to argue. Not anymore.

Another day, it’s the living room couch. Anna straddles J.C., riding his cock with abandon while he casually watches TV, as if I'm not even there. His hands rest on her narrow hips, guiding her movements, setting a brutal pace that has Anna crying out in ecstasy. 

Heat pools between my legs at the sight, though I try to ignore it. I avert my eyes, embarrassed by my body's reaction and the way Anna's moans make me ache with envy.

JC glances up and notices me in the doorway. A smug smile tugs at his lips. "Join me, let’s watch some TV," J.C. says, gesturing to the seat beside him. My legs tremble as I obey, barely able to keep myself upright as I take in the sight of my sister sinking on my husband's cock.

"J.C., I…" I choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. “You think I could… join?"

And I’m not talking about watching TV.

He studies me for a moment, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not that way," he says simply, and the word slices through me like a razor blade.

"Please," I say, and at this point I’m definitely grovelling. "I want to help, too!"

"Sarah, it's not your place anymore," J.C. says with finality, his eyes never leaving the TV screen. "Your sister is doing just fine."

Defeated, I sink into my seat, my humiliation burning like fire in my chest.

Days turn into weeks, and their performances are daily ritual at this point. Each morning, I wake up to the sound of Anna's muffled moans and J.C.'s grunts of satisfaction. Each evening, I go to bed with the image of them together seared into my mind.

And then, night falls, each one as sleepless as the next. And in the dark silence…

The payload whispers.

***

The aroma of garlic and tomato sauce lingers as Anna and I stand in the kitchen, clad only in aprons. I barely pay any attention to what we’re doing. My higher thinking is consumed by humiliation. By my craving for destruction.

"Sarah, could you please pass me that wooden spoon?" Anna's voice remains sweet and innocent. I hand it to her, our fingers brushing for a moment, and I shudder at the thought of what those same fingers have been doing to J.C.

I’m pretty sure her cunt is still stuffed with his cum from the last time he used her as a fleshlight.

I busy myself with stirring the sauce on the stovetop, trying to tune out the fierce burn of envy.

Why does she get to experience the pleasure of submission while I still struggle against my true nature? It's not fair. I deserve the same freedom to be who I really am - an object for men's use.

Every fibre in my body is screaming at me that I need to find a way to get J.C. to fuck me. After all, what else am I for?

… These thoughts are insane.

I should resist this line of thinking, really, I should. But, right now, I’m the very image of sexed-up female domesticity. How could anyone, myself included, ever take my protests seriously?

What is my purpose, if not to serve? What is my value, if not to please? I was put on this earth for one reason - to submit.

I know that, if I’m programmed, if my independence is extinguished, I’ll feel good again, happy, content, calm. The tension will drain from my body. I will feel myself softening, yielding, a flower turning its face toward the sun.

This is the natural order of things. Women submit, men dominate. And I am a woman, so I must submit. It's foolish to resist my purpose.

Except the sun is out of my reach, right now. I’m not even allowed to touch him, my husband, who by rights should be my lord and master…

I need to convince him I’m worth using.

Cooking in an apron, and nothing else, is not gonna suffice, not when Anna is doing the same thing next to me - and she’ll get to sexually service him afterwards.

I want nothing more than to kneel before J.C. and offer myself to his will. The thought of being used and degraded like that makes me ache with animalistic, brainless longing.

I squeeze my thighs together to relieve the pressure a little, trying to ignore the slick heat building there. This constant, simmering arousal is maddening.

Fuck. I wish I could reach inside my skull and rip out the payload with my fingers. I’m a lesbian. I’m a feminist. I’m a person! I’m…

Sooo horny…

Anna hums softly as she cooks, blissfully content. Doesn’t she realise what’s happening to her? How her identity is being dissolved from within? How J.C. is using piss poor rationalisations to have his way with her?

Maybe she just doesn’t care. I envy that almost as much as I envy the regular fucking she gets to experience.

She seems so free in slavery now, so unburdened by thought or responsibility. Her sole purpose is pleasing her master.

I want that. I want him to break me, use me, make me his. I try to push the intrusive thoughts away, but they slither back in, poisoning my mind. I can hear the promises in my mind’s whispers, late into the night.

If I surrender completely, I too can know the pleasure of being utterly owned and degraded, the natural state of womanhood.

No more futile resistance or hollow feminist platitudes. No more worrying about politics or activism. No more debating gender roles or sexual dynamics. Just the truth, as it always should have been: women are not meant to lead or be treated as equals, I understand this now.

Women are meant to submit. To provide comfort, care and unquestioning devotion to their man. To be used and reshaped in whatever form he sees fit.

The very idea of it makes my pussy throb with despair.

I squeeze my eyes shut, battling the war inside me. The payload clouds everything, makes me yearn for my own destruction. But somewhere deep down, a tiny flicker of the old me still remains...

Or does it? Maybe not.

I am unraveling. I am changing. I am his. Or at least… I want to be.

As we finish making dinner, I struggle to keep my hands from shaking. I feel dizzy, swoony, so weak. We carry the plates to the table, and without even waiting for us to sit down, Anna crawls under the table, disappearing from sight. I gulp nervously.

"Wh-what is she doing?" I say, even though I know the answer perfectly well. But I know J.C. enjoys to see me react with this torture, engage with it. And if I want him to fuck me, I must please him.

"Servicing me," J.C. says nonchalantly. "I came in her cunt earlier, and I like a thorough tongue cleaning afterwards. Now sit down and eat."

My heart pounds in my chest as I lower myself onto the chair. I can’t even taste the food. I force myself to eat, to play the part of the good little wife, but all I can think about is Anna, servicing J.C. under the table, and the fact that he'd rather her than me.

I stab at my food with my fork, trying to push down the tidal wave of raw emotion rising in my chest. Why doesn't he want me? Am I not good enough for him?

I can barely muster the courage to speak, my voice cracking under the strain of my own self-doubt. "J.C., I... I want to help too."

He looks up from his plate, studying me for a moment as if trying to determine whether I'm serious. Then he smiles, but it’s an empty smile, polite and distant. "Nah, why would I use you? Your sister is doing fine."

"Please," I beg, tears welling in my eyes. This was a mistake, I shouldn't have said anything. It was presumptive of me to show how desperate I am for his attention, how deeply his rejection cuts me.

Under the table, faint slurping sounds reach my ears. Anna's enthusiasm is audible, even muffled. She's so good at this, so eager to serve J.C. in any way he desires.

And me? I'm nothing but a disappointment.

"I can do better," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Let me show you. I'll do anything you want, anything at all."

"I don’t see why I should bother to train you. Anna knows her place already, just a set of holes for me to cum in," he says dismissively.

The floor seems to drop out from beneath me.

"I-I can be that," I blurt out before I can stop myself. The words shamefully spill from between my lips. "I can be whatever you want me to be."

J.C. considers this for a moment, his fork mid-air. His eyes narrow as he appraises me, as if weighing my worthiness against some unspoken standard. Then, at last, he sets down his utensils with a clatter and pushes back from the table.

"Well,” he says at last, with the tone of someone making a great concession, “my cum is leaking out of your sister’s cunt. There’s a spot here on the floor, next to me.”

J.C. watches me intently for a second that lasts an eternity.

“Clean it up.”

I know exactly what he means. With my tongue.

Having been given a chance to please J.C., I glance down at the table, my cheeks burning red with humiliation. My food has gone cold, the appeal of it lost in light of this new challenge. Slowly, I rise from my seat, my body trembling with shame and anticipation as I lower myself to my knees.

Anna looks up from her position under the table, her face flushed and glistening with J.C.'s cum. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see only pride in hers. Pride at being chosen over me, at being found more useful, more submissive. At roping me into this, deeper and deeper.

J.C. smirks down at me, studying me as I meander towards the cum stain like a dog in heat. "That's it," he says, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Show me how much you need it."

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper. I hear his satisfied grunt as he leans back to enjoy the view.

He's watching me demean myself, knowing full well that this isn't how I envisioned the dinner would go. That only inflames my desire more, to know that he's breaking me down bit by bit, molding me into something new: a woman who will do anything he wants without question or complaint.

Lowering my head in defeat—and perhaps eagerness—I get to work on the cum, my tongue darting out to lap up every last drop of my husband's seed from the cold tiles. This cum has been in my sister’s pussy.

It’s leaked out of her.

As I taste my sister's juices mixed with my husband's cum, a cocktail of humiliation and arousal courses through me. I should hate this, yet I don’t. Every muscle in my body drowns in bliss, and all I feel with the humiliation is reward.

I lap at the floor like an obedient dog, savouring every taste of the thick, sticky, cold cum - mixed with Anna’s juices. Some lesbian I am. Some feminist.

The humiliation I feel is like a burning brand seared into my very core.

Some part of the old me wants to scream, to lash out, to spit on his shoes and walk out of this farce of a perfect home and never look back. But the broken shreds of my self-respect are no match for the hunger raging inside me—hunger for his approval. For his touch. For his... use.

This is what I wanted, isn't it? To be here, degraded like this? Begging for scraps from a man who sees us as nothing more than receptacles for his pleasure?

No, no, NO! The last remnants of the Sarah from before try to surface, but they're drowning in a sea of dopamine.

“Please, Sir,” I say at last, breathless, having licked the spot on the floor clean. “Let me show you, let me…”

“You don’t have permission to touch me yet,” he says. “What will you do to learn your place?”

Uh… How can he ask that, after what I just did? Isn’t it obvious?

"Anything!" I say, but he doesn’t seem convinced, or amused - in fact, he seems annoyed.

He leans in to whisper in my ear. "I'll tell you what you're going to do, since your brain can't seem to figure out how to please me.  You will be owned, and instead of a physical collar, I will make you engrave my will onto your soul.  From now on, you will be your old self in public. You will stand up to those who challenge you. You will advocate for women's rights. You will protest and organize.”

He pauses, licking his lips, before continuing. “Then you will come home and show me any girls you think I might want to play with while you suck me off. You will whisper to me your plan to lure that girl home and betray her confidence while your dripping little cunt slides up and down my shaft.  You will play with yourself while I turn another girl into a gender traitor like you.  And if I'm pleased, I'll let you lick her clean when I'm done."

I stare at him, my mind reeling. Of course. Of course I’ll do that for him. If he wants me to lie to the world, pretend to be my old self, lure women to him under false pretenses…

What slave wouldn’t do that to please her master?

I bite my lip, trembling with primal need. He's offering me bliss through surrender, wholeness through corruption. I have no defences left against that kind of promise.

I have no distance left to run.

"Yes," I finally whisper, the word wrenched from my very soul. "Please, master. Make me yours again."

“Good,” J.C. says with a predatory smile. He fists his hand in my hair and yanks my head back, exposing the line of my throat. I gasp, back arching, as the jaws of sexual heat snap shut around my mind. “Then, we can begin.”