Epilogue – A Fallen Woman
“Mmmpphh?” I mutter. It’s a soft call to get attention. My knees are starting to tingle, after all.
“Quiet,” Leah says from above me, her eyes narrowing. “And stay still. If I misapply the nail polish, we’re starting over. In the same position.”
I mumble softly in apology, resigning myself to acting as her footstool for a little while longer.
Unlike me, she gets to sit on the sofa, the beautiful soles of her feet – pampered, soft, unblemished – adhering completely to my defeated face as she paints her toenails.
A part of me really appreciates the many layers at play here, of course. By encouraging intra-female competition, catchers like Reinhard can further the domestication of our gender.
Too busy to fight over scraps of power that fall from their table, we keep one another down for their amusement.
In my peculiar case, there’s more to it than that, of course.
When I was Leah’s girlfriend, I used to utterly dominate her in bed. Making me her maid and waiting girl has utterly destroyed what sliver of independence and pride I could still hold, after Master first turned me straight.
She was by far less academically gifted than me. So she gets to keep studying, and can look forward to a secretarial position somewhere down the line, while I have to stay at home, cooking and cleaning.
The reversal is obvious. I was the one more out of line with the new order, dreaming above my station. Leah submitted immediately, while I resisted. That’s why I need to be brought down harder.
My humiliation-addicted brain doesn’t mind that at all.
There’s more, of course, there’s always more. Reinhard picks what Leah is allowed to wear, but at least she gets some selection of skirts and dresses, and even jeans on the occasions when he’s feeling generous.
My closet consists of nothing but skimpy, scandalous French maid uniforms. As I’ve come to learn, it was a big kink for Master, so of course I’m expected to submit to it in full. And I can’t certainly say it doesn’t match my role…
A cleaning girl and a sex slave. That’s what I have become, and what I am destined to be under Master’s generous guidance.
There is one more major difference between Leah and I. She is allowed to speak.
I don’t just muffle beneath her soles because her naked heels press harshly down against my lips. I do it because Master has taken away my ability to speak without getting prompting and/or permission from a man.
That is a humiliation so devastating that even thinking about it is enough to bring me close to the edge of climax. What is a woman without her voice? Without the ability to express her opinions and feelings, or even just to verbally acknowledge orders?
Just a set of holes, that’s what.
And to my domesticated mind, it seems only fitting.
I look up at Leah with big, pleading eyes, but I know they won’t move her. She takes some pleasure out of our reversal, but even if she didn’t, she would carry it out to perfection.
This is Master’s will, after all.
“Done!” She says at last, removing her feet from my face and lowering them to the ground. She cocks her head, waiting for me to perform due reverence, which I immediately do.
I prostrate myself before my ex-girlfriend, blowing her nails dry. Then, I start placing worshipful kisses all along her soles, arches, heels, and toes. She’s kind enough to lift each foot in turn to allow me to reach the soles with my conquered lips.
I even gently fellate her big toes when I’m done, a gesture that makes her rub her thighs in pleasure, as always.
“That’s a good doggy,” she says, ruffling my hair. “And just in time, too. It’s five o’clock, and you know what that means. Run along to Master, come on.”
“Gnnnhh,” I mumble in appreciation and arousal. Leah is used to my non-verbal communication by now, and dismisses me with a flick of her hand. I crawl on all fours out the room, and only once in the hallway am I allowed to stand up.
I compose myself as best I can, making sure I look perfect for Master, before marching down the hallway.
Yes, there are many differences between Leah and I, but in one thing, we are the same. We are both collared women, our Master’s property, to do with as he sees fit. We’ve both had to abandon our life plans, and accept whatever terms he saw fit to impose upon us.
Just like the rest of womankind, whose enslavement deepens with every passing day.
In the future, I tell myself, feminism and the fight for equality will be remembered as a barely detectable blip in history. A small flicker of light that burned for a very short time, then faded, and died.
I don’t know if getting to live that transition in person is a blessing, or a curse.
By the time I make my way to Master’s study – which used to be mine, of course – I drop to the ground again, crawling in on all fours.
He looks up from his laptop, smiling at me.
“You’re punctual, fuckpuppet,” he says. “Get to work, dyke.”
“Mmmpphh,” I mumble wordlessly. He clocks off work at this time, and always likes to end the day with a nice blowjob, so I do as I am bid, and slide under his desk.
We do this every afternoon, with me eagerly tasting his precum while he holds my head, treating my face like it’s little more than masturbatory aid for him. I swallow most of the time, but sometimes he’ll finish on my face, and order me to leave his cum to dry for the rest of the evening.
Marking me as his property, with his scent and with his seed.
Even before the event, a man facefucking a woman would sometimes forget that she was a person, or so Master has told me once. But now, whenever he masturbates himself with my lips, it’s different.
Now I’m the one who remembers that I’m not a person. If I ever was, the payload put an end to that for good. Now I’m just a warm receptacle for cum, my mouth existing to perform suction around cock. To be felt, rather than heard.
It’s part of who I am, of my feminine biology. Even if it wasn’t, the fact that I was so pliable to the programming speaks for itself. The simple truth is that women are easy to tame… and that men have a sixth sense for putting them in their place.
I used to think this was predatory behaviour, but now I understand this is just what men do, in the same way that cats will just toy with mice and lizard that trespass in an apartment. It’s in their nature to be predators, and it’s in our nature to be prey.
I begin to gag and glurk as Master breaches the entrance to my throat. My gag reflex has been trained out of me, but even so, as his hand palms down on my head and his cock tames my throat, my eyes begin to water.
He starts truly fucking my face, then, enjoying the gluk gluk gluk sounds. I’m sure they’re more interesting than anything I could possibly have to say. As always, the clit in my brain throbs at the utter feminine meekness I display for him, and I quietly climax around his cock.
It’s nowhere near as strong as the first time, of course, but that doesn’t worry me. When I really need to re-experience the thrill, there’s always more parts of my life I can surrender to him. More fellow women I can betray. More dehumanising humiliations I can cook up for myself…
At last, Master’s cock quivers inside my mouth, and that’s enough to make me squeal with pure womanly joy. He pulls back just enough to let me breathe, and then the first rope of his cum hits the back of my mouth.
I do my best to swallow, drooling around his cock, rope after rope painting my mouth white, marking his territory. As the last dribble of his cum is deposited atop my tongue, I withdraw my lips with a final suction, and loudly gulp it all down.
I suckle and clean at Master’s softening cock, and follow him as he rolls the chair slightly away from his desk – just far back enough that he can look down at me, cleaning his cock.
He studies my eyes, as if looking for something.
“There’s no dignity left in you,” he says at last. “Is there?”
“Mmmpphh,” I reply, shaking my head around his cock.
“Just as I thought,” he says, withdrawing from me. Before I can offer him tissue, however, his hand lands atop my head again, pushing me down.
When I’ve descended out of his reach, his booted foot lifts in the air. The flat sole of his boot settles firmly against my neck, and then he pushes, pinning me to the floor.
“Stay there,” he says, but it’s a redundant order.
The mental image of it all – me splayed on the floor, broken and defeated, with his boot literally planted on my neck, is enough to make me quietly climax again. It’s a tiny, subdued orgasm this time, but I welcome it nonetheless.
As his sole moves away from my neck, adhering to my cheek, I relax and let it crush my face against the ground. It feels like heaven.
A strange acceptance washes over me, and for the first time since the event, I realise I am fully at peace with what happened. Nothing of the old Audrey is left – nothing of her resistance, anyway.
I let out a little, submissive oh, sighing out in relaxation and defeat, the slackening of all resistance. My facial features distend, and my body goes limp and slumps while Reinhard poses with me as a hunter would with his slain prey.
And I realise, with a tingle of pleasure, that this is a perfect metaphor for the state of the world right now.
Me, a former lesbian and feminist, not even on her knees anymore, but acting as a footstool for her male conqueror, while he sits at the desk where he works and wins bread for the household… all of this, having just obediently swallowed his cum.
It could become a painting, encapsulating every minor nuance of the modern world. It’s worth more than a thousand words, it’s… perfect.
Some people might fool themselves that this is temporary, that the payload is going to get rolled back eventually, but I know that Cindy was right. I know that this single, magnificent image represents everything: the past, the present… and the future.
It’s strange to think that I actually used to read books and form opinions on them, before the event. But I’m kind of glad that I did, because now, a distant quote from Orwell comes back to my mind, unbidden. With a suitable alteration, it perfectly describes the speed and depth of the fall of women.
The future is man’s boot, pressing down on woman’s face.