J.C.

The familiar is the foreign.

That’s the basics of the uncanny valley: if something looks similar, but slightly off, it gives a strong, eerie sense of wrongness. A sense that things are out of place.

I’m doing something perfectly ordinary: sitting on a bench, watching my wife walk through a crowded public square. And yet, nothing is ordinary about what’s going on. In fact, I muse to myself that, bizarrely, I can no longer even tell which is the familiar… and which the foreign.

In the early weeks after the spread of the payload, it was common to see women convoying in public. Looking for safety in numbers, trying to limit any one-on-one interactions with men that could just corner them and collar them. Then, as the payload kept eroding the very capacity for independence of the female gender, convoying disappeared.

Nowadays, if you see women outside, they’re typically being led by a leash, sometimes on all fours. The others, those that are still resisting or have by some miracle avoided contagion, have fewer and fewer reasons to venture outside on their own. Female employment has collapsed almost as fast as female will. And the dangers of braving the outside world on your own are usually not worth it.

And that’s why seeing Sarah just… walk through the square is such a remarkable sight.

In chaos theory, one well-known metaphor is that of the butterfly whose flapping wings could eventually, through cascading events, cause a massive change in the world.

In this case, I think of a woman. One woman, in a world of billions. At this moment, in this place, she is truly unique, or appears to be, anyway.

Sarah’s acting is impeccable: Her posture is erect, radiating determination and conviction. She moves… well, like a woman who isn’t affected by the payload would, I suppose, with a sense of purpose, and precision.

She has a slowly but unmistakably growing number of onlookers trailing in her wake. I try to put myself in their shoes, to imagine what they must be thinking… What is that woman doing? Isn’t she scared? Who’s keeping her safe? Doesn’t she have a master?

A feminist unbowed. Brave, proud and defiant, just like the old Sarah. Exactly as I wanted her to appear. I feel a thrill surge through me seeing my creation come to life

To the untrained eye, she appears unaffected by the payload’s insidious influence. A feminist, unbowed. A woman, unbroken. Uncollared, and to top it all – unafraid.

Exactly as I want her to appear.

It’s all I can do not to chew my nails. In a sense, it’s like I’ve just pushed my latest effort from a testing environment into production… except she’s not software, aside from the payload in her brain, that is. She’s my wife. My owned wife. My research testbed.

My handiwork.

I want to recreate Sarah as she was… at least, on the outside. But this time, when she submits to me, when I assert my sexual authority over her – it will be about my pleasure. Not hers. Not anymore.

I sit up, eyes narrowing. A man’s just approached Sarah. His eyes are roving over her body with undisguised hunger. One look at this guy and I can read him like an open book: he’s performing all the tricks he must have read about on catcher spaces, and is trying to execute them so he can bag himself an uncollared girl.

He’s puffing up his shoulders, to look more intimidating, physically larger. He’s pressing her into her personal space, to make sure the payload has an easier time making her feel sensorially overloaded. He’s talking to her, but he’s making sure his hands are visible at all times, so the virus can bombard Sarah’s mind with images of what those hands would look like, wrapped around her throat…

Except the payload will be doing no such thing, not this time. Sarah is not resisting it any longer, after all. She’s already surrendered, been claimed by it, reshaped by it. In the measure that she’s behaving like an independent woman at all, it’s just to carry out the will of her master. My will.

I tense, my fingers gripping the edge of the bench, straining to hear how their conversation is going.

“… and like, I can’t believe you’re out on your own. I mean, it’s crazy times we live in,” the man is saying, a smirk curving his lips. “You could really use a man to keep you safe…”

He leans in closer, looming over her, and scans Sarah up and down with a glimmer in his eyes. His body language is aggressive, shoulders squared, as if challenging her to step back. And Sarah… is standing tall, arms crossed, glaring at him.

She isn’t backing down.

“I’m not interested, thank you,” Sarah says. “And I would appreciate it if you kept your distance.”

He stares at her as if she’s just grown a second head, and that’s hardly surprising. I’m sure he can’t believe what he’s seeing, what he’s hearing. He approached Sarah expecting her to completely crumble, falling to her knees, or on her back. Either way, she’d be his.

But that’s not what she’s doing is doing: she’s rejecting him. And it’s pissing him off.

His face turns red, eyes narrowing into slits. His fists clench, and he steps forward, getting right up in Sarah’s face. She doesn’t flinch, her glare unwavering.

Alright, that’s enough for this one experiment, I think. Time to step in. I rise from the bench, heart suddenly pumping – I’m nervous. Maybe even a little bit anxious. I make my way to them as quickly as I can.

“Back off, buddy,” I tell him. He turns to face me, anger and confusion on his face, fists clenched. He probably thinks I’m some kind of competitor seeking to collar the same girl. But when Sarah begins to creep closer and closer to me, understanding begins to dawn on his face.

It rapidly becomes clear that all eyes are on us. Every bystander in the square is watching on as the man looks at me, then at Sarah, then finally back at me.

“…I was just talking to her,” the man mutters, grudgingly stepping back. “Didn’t know she was, uh, already taken.”

I give him a look that clearly conveys my lack of amusement. He hesitates for a moment, looking like he wants to say something else, but then he turns and walks away.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, my body relaxing slightly. That was close.

I can see Sarah’s relief as well, her shoulders slumping slightly.

I look around, at the people staring at us. There’s a mix of emotions in their eyes – curiosity, surprise, and most of all, disbelief. They’re not used to seeing a woman stand up for herself. To see her fight back.

A knot tightens in my stomach. I’m getting the dawning impression that, in my eagerness to push through with this very public experiment, I may have… acted unwisely. I put my hand against the small of Sarah’s back, and lean to whisper into her ear.

“Let’s head back to the car. Now.”

We’ve barely started in that direction, however, that a woman’s voice calls out to us. I turn around to face her.

She’s an Asian woman in her mid-30s, or something. Slightly shorter than Sarah. She looks dishevelled, her black hair a mess, with deep bags under her eyes that suggest only one thing: chronic insomnia. No prizes on offer for guessing what caused that. She’s wringing her hands, nervous and on edge, and her eyes dart from Sarah, to me, and back again.

“Please,” she says, her voice trembling. “I need your help.”

I blink, taken aback. For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. But then I notice the way Sarah’s expression softens, a compassionate look crossing her face. “Of course! What’s your name, dear?” she says, her voice gentle. Too gentle. This is how she sounds when she’s faking politeness. There’s a glimmer in her eyes.

Uh-oh.

“Fiona,” the woman says, her voice quivering. “Please, I live with my daughter, and I… she… we’re trying to stay sane, but… she’s recently been fired from the office. And I… I can’t… I can’t…”

Her words hang in the air, and I can see the vulnerability in her eyes, the desperation. Another woman, battered into complete submission by the payload… she’s truly barely hanging by a thread, this one. Sarah nods, thoughtfully, her frow creased with apprehension. She rests a hand on Fiona’s shoulder.

Damn, she’s selling it well.

“Fiona, I understand what you’re going through. But I’ve found a way to fight back, to keep my mind clear and focused. It’s not easy, but with the right techniques, you can learn to resist the conditioning. That’s what you wanted to ask me, right? To teach you?”

Fiona nods eagerly, relief washing over her features. “Yes, yes, thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Sarah smiles reassuringly. “Of course, dear. Why don’t you come over to our place tomorrow afternoon? We can start working on some exercises to fortify your willpower and help you reclaim your autonomy.”

She’s inviting her home?

The stiffness in my pants is unmistakable. I look at Fiona’s face, so full of hope, and imagine what she’d look like with her lips spread around my cock. Sarah, luring her in for me, betraying womankind for my pleasure… the idea is just… intoxicating.

But… I’m also wary. Worried. Unsettled. I never intended for Sarah to actually go through with this, to actively seek out and ensnare other women. I simply wanted her to believe that her actions, her facade of resistance, were furthering the subjugation of women. It was the best, most direct way to use the payload to reshape her to my specifications.

I may not have as much fine-tuned control over her psyche as I thought. And that’s… not the only thing I’m worried about.

With plans made and goodbyes exchanged, Fiona departs, a renewed spring in her step and a flicker of determination in her eyes. Sarah watches her go, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

As we resume our walk back to the car, Sarah leans in close to me, her breath hot against my ear. “Did you see that, Master? She’s so desperate, so eager for any glimmer of hope. It’s going to be delicious, nurturing that hope, letting it grow… only to shatter it into a million pieces when the time is right.”

For once, no matter how hot the words sound, I find myself only half-listening. I was not prudent enough. Sarah doesn’t realise it, but we may be in danger right now.

And what happens when we start drawing that kind of attention to us?

I walk faster, practically hauling Sarah into the car. I get in, and I start the engine. I’m about to ask her if she’s alright, when I realise she hasn’t even fastened her seatbelt yet.

In fact, she’s not looking at me at all. She’s looking at her own hand… the hand that’s now slipped inside her pants.

She’s touching herself. Her fingers move in slow, deliberate circles, and her breathing is heavy, her lips parted. Her other hand is trembling, clenching and unclenching, resting limply against her thighs. Her eyes close, and she lets out a low moan.

For a moment, I’m taken aback by the sheer intensity of her need, the hunger in her eyes, the way she seems to lose herself in the moment. “Sarah…” I say.

Her eyes snap open. She gasps softly, her fingers moving faster. Her free hand flies up, grabs her bare breast, and starts almost kneading it. “Oh god,” she whispers, her voice breathless and desperate. “It’s… it’s going to be so hot…”

Her eyes flutter closed once more, and she lets out a louder moan, her hips bucking slightly. Her hand moves more urgently now, and I can see the slickness between her fingers.

I can hear it. She’s fucking herself on her own hand.

Her breathing becomes ragged, and her moans grow louder, more desperate. She’s so very close to the edge, teetering on the brink of orgasm.

I would love nothing more than to indulge, but not now. Not here. It’s not safe.

“Sarah,” I say, this time more firmly. “We’re heading home. Okay?”

She lets out a whimper, her eyes fluttering open. She pulls her hand out of her pants and fastens her seatbelt, with the resigned look of a scorned puppy dog.

I drive, my jaw clenched, trying to focus on the road ahead. Sarah doesn’t understand why I’m so nervous, and I’m not sure I want to tell her.

In a world of fallen women, someone like Sarah, acting like her old self, will stick out like a sore thumb. What if someone filmed a video of Sarah standing up to that guy? It could be all over social media right this instant. Hell, it could even make the news, maybe. And then… what if the wrong people get wind that this happened?

The thought sends a chill down my spine. The creators of the payload, whoever they are and however many they are, must be monitoring the results of their endeavour. There is no logical alternative.

A woman who can seemingly resist the payload’s conditioning? They’ll be all over that. They’ll want to know how she’s doing it, what makes her different. And they won’t ask nicely. No, they’ll come for her, quietly and efficiently. They’ll make her disappear, spirit her away to some secret facility where they can study her, pick apart her mind to uncover the flaw in their design… even if there is no such flaw.

Fuck, my mind is terrorising itself with these scenarios. Yes, being cautious helps, but maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe I don’t need to panic.

All the same…

I step on the accelerator, and drive home as fast as I can.

***

Fiona will be here soon.

Funnily enough, while I’ve spent the last 24 hours worried sick about our safety, Sarah has been the very image of purposeful action and serenity. No wonder: she does have a supreme purpose in life, after all. Ever since she caved in, ever since I began resculpting her, she’s always had an unequivocal goal to work for.

Right now, that goal is to get our living room ready to further Fiona’s corruption. To lure her in with a promise of salvation, and then betray her.

She’s clearly enjoying herself. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Gone is the desperate, horny lesbian who spent so long battling tooth and nail against the alien voice inside her head. With defeat, has come clarity. Literally: she’s carrying out my will, so there is no need for the payload to bombard her further. She has regained a certain, relative control over her own thoughts…

Within the limits proscribed by my power, of course.

Sarah begins to rearrange the living room. The couch is pushed back against the wall, creating a wide open space in the center. Then, she drags over a large, imposing armchair from the corner. It’s made of dark leather, with a high back and sturdy armrests. She positions it in the middle of the room, facing the door, like a throne awaiting its king.

Next, she retrieves a yoga mat from the closet. It’s a deep purple color, with intricate mandala patterns. She unrolls it on the floor, directly in front of the armchair. The placement is strategic, of course. Whoever sits on the mat will be forced to look up at the person in the chair. Not exactly subtle, but…

You don’t need subtlety to break down women, these days.

Sarah stands back, surveying her handiwork with a critical eye. She makes a few minor adjustments, tweaking the angle of the chair, centering the mat. Finally, she nods, satisfied.

It’s only then that she turns to me, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What do you think, Master? Is it to your liking?”

I nod slowly. “Well done, pet.”

She beams at the praise, a flush of pleasure coloring her cheeks.

I wish I could enjoy the moment as much as she clearly is. But I can’t.

I mean, maybe I could. So far, I haven’t seen anything to suggest that Sarah’s performance from yesterday ended up online, or anything of the kind. But I’m still antsy.

And then, there’s Fiona…

On some level, I know that, beneath all the levels of rationalisation I can call up, I’ll cross a line if I let this happen. Sarah is my wife. Anna… I never actually wanted to own her. She was simply the best path for me to get to Sarah, to make her mine again. But Fiona is a stranger, and my job is literally supposed to be to stop the payload.

Well… analyse it, at least. But the ulterior intended goal is obvious.

So, I should tell Sarah to call it all off right now, to tell Fiona that unfortunately, we have no help to give her. Nobody does. It will break her heart, but at least it won’t break her, hopefully.

…

Then again, she’s so close to the abyss already. If I don’t use her, some other guy will, at some point.

… But that still doesn’t make it okay. I should call it off.

Unfortunately, my cock twitches every time I think about claiming her. I take my face in my hands, but before I can ponder the issue any further, the doorbell rings. Sarah’s eyes light up with wicked anticipation.

“Showtime,” she purrs before sauntering to the door.

Moments later, she returns with Fiona in tow. The Asian woman looks even more on the edge than yesterday, disheveled, sweating, sleepless. Her eyes dart nervously around the room before landing on me. Confusion furrows her brow.

“What’s all this?” she asks, her pitch very high, so girly and vulnerable. “Uh… why is… why is he here?”

Sarah smiles reassuringly, placing a comforting hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. This is all part of the process. J.C. is here to support us. If you want to learn to fight back against the virus, you have to have a man around you.”

Fiona visibly shudders, her step uneasy, faltering. I know the words are burrowing deep into her brain: you have to have a man around you. I’m impressed by how skillfully Sarah wormed that in.

Still, Fiona’s putting up quite a bit of a fight.

“But… why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sarah says, squeezing Fiona’s shoulder. “It helps you practice. If you can resist the payload while being in the presence of a man, you can resist anywhere. It’s like… having a sparring partner when you’re learning martial arts, you know? It’s to… simulate an opponent, but there’s no actual danger involved. It’s a safe space.”

Fiona doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she nods hesitantly. Sarah guides her to the mat, encouraging her to sit down. “Trust me,” she soothes. “I know it might seem a bit unconventional, but these techniques have helped me immensely. They’ll help you too.”

Sarah leads Fiona to the mat, and nods plaintively towards it. And for a second, I feel like Fiona’s going to make a run for it, bolt towards the door, and run like hell.

Surely, she must see why this is a terrible idea.

She looks down at the mat. Then at me. Then, back down at the mat. She fidgets, for a second – ready to run for real, I think – but Sarah’s hands immediately rush to touch her shoulders, her thumbs tracing small circles of mock-reassurance. Sarah’s eyes meet mine.

Almost imperceptibly, she pushes down, against her shoulders. And Fiona begins to descend to the floor, settling herself at my feet.

***

Sarah

The sight of Fiona sinking to the ground before Master is exhilarating. The way my hands push against her shoulder, the way they push this woman down before a man, makes my pussy quiver and spasm. Were it not for the need to maintain my charade, I would squeal with glee. I’m a gender traitor! Yes!

“Alright, Fiona,” I say, soothingly, “thank you so much for trusting me. Let’s begin with some simple breathing exercises. Close your eyes and focus on your breath. In and out, nice and slow.”

Fiona closes her eyes, her brow still furrowed with uncertainty. But she does as I instruct, drawing in a deep, shaky breath and letting it out slowly. I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands tremble slightly as they rest on her thighs.

As Fiona focuses on her breath, I allow my eyes to flick over to Master. He’s sitting in the armchair, his posture regal, domineering. His eyes are fixed intently on Fiona, a hunger in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s the look of a predator sizing up his prey.

I can barely contain my excitement. Fiona is putty in my hands, so desperate for salvatio

“Now, Fiona,” I continue, “I want you to visualize your true self. Picture it in your mind. Embrace your purpose, your reason for being.”

Fiona’s brow furrows in concentration. Behind her closed lids, her eyes dart back and forth, as if searching for something. Every few seconds, they flick open, glancing nervously at Master before squeezing shut again.

“I… I don’t know,” she murmurs, her voice strained. “I can’t… it’s hard to focus…”

“Shh, it’s okay,” I soothe. “Just keep breathing. Let the image come to you naturally. Don’t fight it.”

Fiona’s face twitches, her lips moving silently as if arguing with herself. I can tell my words are having an effect, but not in the way she thinks.

The payload must be buzzing like a beehive inside her brain right now. Busy disassembling her, attacking her from all sides. She’s put her trust in a woman, and now she pictures herself betrayed by that woman, offered as tribute to the altar of male power.

She’s physically in a man’s shadow. She’s being asked to visualise her purpose in life. It’s all begging the payload to finally, finally end her pretensions at independence forever. To finally complete her programming, seal her fate, and break the bitch.

One fewer free woman in the world. Maybe two, soon, in fact…

I can practically see the gears turning in Fiona’s head, as her mind caves inward under what must be an absolute bombardment of conditioning. It’s delicious. Like watching a surgeon at work, excising so deftly, chiselling away at her feeble female brain with singular intent.

“Visualise it, Fiona,” I press. “See yourself as you truly are. Embrace your purpose.”

Fiona’s breathing becomes more ragged, her body trembling. Her eyes keep darting to Master, lingering on his crotch, on the bulge straining against his pants.

Deep down, she knows what her biological destiny says she should be.

A submissive plaything. A willing slave. An obedient fucktoy, eager to serve her Master’s every whim.

“I… I can’t…” Fiona gasps, her eyes flying open. They’re wide with panic, with the dawning realization of what’s happening to her.

I rush in to pacify her. I quickly kneel beside Fiona and place a comforting hand on her back. “Shh, it’s okay,” I murmur soothingly. “The first time can be overwhelming. Just relax and let it flow through you.”

Fiona takes a shuddering breath, leaning into my touch. I feel a perverse thrill at how easily she trusts me, how desperately she clings to the false hope I offer. If only she knew the wicked plans swirling in my mind, the betrayal I have in store…

“Let’s try some yoga poses,” I suggest brightly, standing back up. “They can help center your mind and connect you with your inner truth.”

Fiona nods hesitantly and rises to her feet.

We start with simple stretches, then move into downward facing dog, her ass high in the air, pointing directly at Master J.C. I position myself behind her, my hands roaming over her hips as I correct her form.

Next is the cat-cow pose, her back arching and dipping sensually. I kneel beside her, my fingers tracing along her spine, lingering at the small of her back. Fiona shivers under my touch, confusion and arousal warring on her face.

We transition into the cobra pose, Fiona lying on her stomach, pushing her upper body off the mat. The position thrusts her breasts forward, and I lean over her, my own chest brushing against her back as I whisper in her ear.

“Arch your back more, dear. Thrust out your chest.”

As the session continues, my touches grow bolder – a hand skimming along the inside of her thigh in warrior pose, fingers grazing the curve of her breast as I guide her into a backbend. Fiona’s breathing grows heavy, her cheeks flushed, but she doesn’t protest. The conflict is clear in her eyes – equal parts confusion and arousal warring within her.

I chance a glance at Master and have to suppress a moan at the sight of the prominent bulge tenting his pants. Knowing that I’m the cause, that my manipulation of this woman is fueling his lust, makes my clit throb with need.

Every glance Fiona sneaks at him only serves to heighten her inner turmoil, the payload screaming at her to submit even as she tries to cling to her fading resistance.

As she poses for him, I let my hands roam her body, briefly toying with her nipples, then groping her ass. She lets out a startled gasp but doesn’t pull away. She’s already so far gone.

“You’re doing so well,” I praise, giving Fiona’s rear a firm squeeze. She whimpers and I feel a rush of twisted satisfaction. Breaking her will be so deliciously easy.

After an hour of this sensual torture, Fiona is trembling and glassy-eyed, her nipples visibly hard beneath her sweat-dampened shirt. I allow my eyes to rake over her body appreciatively, making no attempt to hide my hunger.

“You did so well today,” I purr when I finally let her go. “Same time tomorrow?”

Fiona swallows hard and nods, seemingly unable to find her voice.

“I can’t wait to continue our… training,” I say, and this time, Fiona flinches – and does speak up.

“Me too! I… I think that helped,” Fiona says, her voice wavering unconvincingly. “The meditation and yoga, it… it cleared my head a bit.”

“I’m glad you found it helpful,” I say with a smile, even though it’s obvious from Fiona’s strained expression and trembling limbs that she’s lying through her teeth. The poor dear is barely holding it together, her mind no doubt reeling from the relentless onslaught of the payload’s insidious whispers combined with my own wicked machinations.

But I play along, nodding in understanding. “It can be a lot to process at first. Don’t worry, it gets easier with practice. We’ll work on strengthening your mental defenses tomorrow.”

Fiona manages a weak nod, her eyes darting nervously to Master once more before she quickly averts her gaze. I can practically feel the heat radiating off her flushed skin, see the way her thighs press together as if trying to contain the growing ache between them.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to grin in wicked delight. She’s so close to breaking, teetering on the precipice of surrendering to her basest desires. And I’ll be there to give her that final, fateful push.

But for now, I need to attend to my own needs. The throbbing in my pussy has grown almost unbearable, the damp fabric of my yoga pants clinging to my swollen lips with every shift of my hips.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” I say, my voice husky with barely restrained lust. “I just need to… take care of something.”

Fiona’s eyes widen as I saunter over to Master, my hips swaying seductively. I make a show of it, biting my lip and letting my hands roam over my curves, teasing the hem of my top.

Then, in one fluid motion, I sink to my knees before him, gazing up at him with worshipful adoration. “Master,” I breathe, nuzzling against his straining erection. “I need you…”

I hear Fiona’s sharp intake of breath, feel her shocked stare boring into my back. But I don’t care. All that matters is pleasing Master, showing him what a good, obedient pet I am.

With trembling fingers, I undo his zipper, freeing his magnificent cock. It springs forth, hard and thick, the bulbous head already glistening with precum. I lap at it eagerly, savoring the salty-sweet taste on my tongue.

“Oh my God,” Fiona whispers, her voice a mix of horror and reluctant arousal. “Sarah, what are you…?”

But her words dissolve into a strangled moan as I take Master into my mouth, my lips stretching obscenely around his girth. Above me, Master groans, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head.

He pushes me down, forcing me to take him deeper. I relax my throat and submit to his will, letting him use me as he pleases. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as he hits the back of my throat, but I don’t pull away. I can’t.

This is my purpose, my reason for being. To serve and worship Master’s cock.

Behind me, I hear Fiona’s choked gasp, the sound of her stumbling back. “Oh my god,” she whispers, and I know she can’t look – nor can she look away.

I hollow my cheeks, sucking Master’s cock with fierce devotion, worshipping every thick inch of his manhood with my tongue. His musky scent fills my nostrils and I inhale deeply, intoxicated by his raw virility. My eyes flutter shut in bliss as I lose myself in the act of servicing him, giving myself over completely to his pleasure.

Master’s fingers twist in my hair, gripping tightly as he guides my head, setting a relentless pace. I moan around his shaft, the vibrations making him grunt and thrust harder. Drool seeps from the corners of my stretched lips, dripping down my chin obscenely as he uses my mouth.

I peek up at him through my lashes, reveling in the dominant hunger etched across his handsome features. His eyes are dark with lust, searing into mine, silently reminding me of my place, my purpose. I am his toy, his plaything, existing solely for his gratification. The very thought makes my neglected clit throb almost painfully.

Behind me, I hear Fiona’s labored breathing, the rustle of fabric as she shifts restlessly. I imagine her pressing her thighs together, trying to ease the ache blooming at her core as she watches me debase myself. She’s witnessing my complete submission and it’s awakening something primal within her, no matter how much she tries to deny it.

Soon, so very soon, she’ll be joining me on her knees, choking on Master’s cock, surrendering to her true calling as one of his sluts. We’ll serve him together, a harem of obedient fucktoys eager to fulfill his every depraved whim. My pussy clenches at the thought, soaking my yoga pants with my shameful arousal.

Master’s hips piston faster, fucking my face with reckless abandon. His balls slap against my spit-slicked chin with each brutal thrust, the obscene wet sounds of my gagging filling the room. Tears stream freely down my cheeks but I take it all, determined to prove my worth, my devotion.

“Fuck, such a good little cocksleeve,” Master growls, his grip on my hair tightening to the point of delicious pain. “Gonna ruin this throat.”

I whimper in wanton agreement, my hands coming up to massage his heavy sack. He groans his approval, slamming into my mouth with renewed vigor, using me like the fuck-doll I am, I’m meant to be.

Just as I feel him start to throb against my tongue, signaling his impending release, he suddenly pulls out, leaving me empty and desperate. I chase after his cock with a needy whine but he holds me back, chuckling darkly.

“Hold on one second,” he says, looking up, to Fiona. “You, girl.”

He’s called her girl. Oh my God. That’d be delightful enough in and of itself, but nowhere near as much as the desperate, animalistic squeal she emits in place of a verbal response.

“Get out of here,” Master says. “You can come back tomorrow, when Sarah’s not… busy. Oh, and one last thing.”

His lips stretch into a smile.

“Bring your daughter, too.”

TO BE CONTINUED