I love hunting women.

Men think that we women aren’t dangerous, and I can certainly see why they’d think that. They have us in their power, after all. But as a huntress of women, I know better. I think of them as the most dangerous game of them all.

I should know. I’m a very dangerous woman, myself. Especially when I have a feminist in my sights…

Like now.

Although, admittedly, the woman I’ve been stalking for the past few days doesn’t seem particularly dangerous.

I can't see much of what lies ahead. The tall trees block out the sunlight where the foliage is thick enough, and an icy wind bites at my skin. It is a sensation I welcome; it keeps me sharp, focused.

It’s incredible how good this feels, when you’ve been intimate with prison for long enough. The fresh air, the way my body feels strong and responsive to my will, the thrill of the hunt, the promise of freedom…

Some days I ask myself if I was born to do this job.

The underbrush conceals many secrets, but I know the woods like the back of my hand, and when I hear a faint rustle nearby, I halt right away. My hand instinctively moves to the knife at my waist, but the real effort is the stillness. I don’t move a muscle, letting the sounds of the woods swallow the totality of my perception.

Patience. Situational awareness.

Silence.

Then, movement again, somewhere ahead. I continue my stalking, slipping from tree to tree like a shadow.

My quarry is close.

She may not be especially formidable, by the standards of the bounties I normally collect, but it’s not my habit to leave everything to chance. Things in life have a habit to go wrong even when you do everything right, and I’d rather not give the universe any more reasons to punch me in the face, if at all possible.

A flicker of movement draws my attention to the left. I crouch down, peering through the dense underbrush. There, in a small clearing, I finally see the target.

A woman, alone, crouched by a small pit in the earth. Her dark hair is long, falling in tangled waves around her face, and her clothes are worn and travel-stained.

One single look can tell you so much.

For example, it’s obvious this woman isn’t comfortable in the wilderness. She's shaking from the cold, struggling to start a fire before nightfall sets in, and repeatedly failing.

She’s also wary. She spends as much time looking around her as she does looking at what her hands are doing, and her eyes are never still for long. Like so many of us, this is a woman who’s seen the rougher side of the New Order, a woman whose heart is full of fear.

I suppose this is where a lesser hunter - or, even more relevantly, huntress - might feel some empathy for her quarry. I understand the concept of it, of course, on an intellectual level, at least, but that emotional response is just…

So bad for business.

I’m satisfied with what I’ve seen so far. This woman is no threat: she's so thin and weak, I could capture her without effort, even without a weapon.

But that's not the game I'm playing here…

Time to get the show underway. I take a few steps forward and deliberately place my boot atop a twig, before pushing down with all my weight. The snap echoes through the forest, and she looks up, startled. Even with this cue to guide her, it takes her an embarrassingly long time to spot me.

When she does, she freezes.

Her internal struggle is so transparent that it’s almost endearing. Part of her is trying to convince her that she can relax: in a world of uncontested male power, what more natural ally for a female rebel than a fellow woman?

But the other part, the lizard brain… well, it’s my job to handle that one, and that’s best done by defusing it right away.

My mask slides into place.

It’s an easy thing, really. I widen my eyes in pretend-surprise. My body language softens. My posture slumps. It’s fascinating how much you can alter the average person’s reaction with just a little control over your own body.

Give them a bit of acting and they’ll just eat it up.

I raise my empty hands in the air, and lower my gaze to the ground - a universal display of lack of aggression.

"Sorry! I’m sorry," I say. "I didn’t mean to startle you. I've been wandering the woods and… I… I'm actually happy to see a friendly face. One who’s not a… well, you know…"

A man. I leave the implication unspoken, hanging between us. It’s always best to let the targets fill in the gaps in their understanding by themselves. Somehow, they always seem to choose the interpretations that leave them the most vulnerable.

Not gonna complain about that.

The woman's expression shifts, her wariness slowly giving way to cautious relief. "It's...it's okay," she says. "I just...I wasn't expecting anyone out here." She lowers her hands, which had been raised defensively, and gestures to the small, pathetic fire pit. "I'm Mireia."

I let her name hang in the air for a moment, as if I'm processing it. "Mireia," I repeat softly, as if the name means nothing to me. "It's a beautiful name."

I give her my most disarming smile, just to really sell it.

She seems taken aback by my reaction, her eyes widening slightly. "Thank you. Would you...would you like to join me? I’ve been trying to start a fire, but…"

But you’re a pathetic bitch with zero ability to survive, I know. "Heh, yeah, it’s not fair that we’ve been reduced to this… But hey, I can help you start a fire, if you want. I’ve been doing it a bunch, lately, I’m pretty sure I can get one going."

She hesitates a moment longer, then nods slowly. "Alright. That’d be very helpful."

I nod, offering a grateful smile as I step closer. "Thank you, Mireia. I'm Larissa. These woods are… spooky. I’m glad we’ve found each other."

As I crouch down next to the pitiful attempt at a fire pit, I let my eyes flicker over her face. Why do I feel like I’ve seen this woman before?

Recognition dawns on me. Fuck, when the warden gave me the bounty, I knew the name sounded familiar! This is Mireia Alvarez! Before the New Order, she was a rising star in left-wing politics, a firebrand feminist.

She was on TV all the fucking time.

Well, she barely looks like her old self now. Months on the run have taken their toll. Her once-vibrant eyes are dull and haunted, her proud posture replaced by a wary hunch. She's trying to hide it, but I can practically smell the fear radiating off her.

It smells like payment.

She eyes me as I begin to build the fire, not being subtle at all. "Are you...are you also...?" She trails off, unwilling or unable to say the words aloud.

"On the run?" I finish for her, my voice low and conspiratorial. I make a show of glancing at my surroundings, as if to make sure we’re not being overheard.

"Yes Mireia, I am. Ever since the Regime took over. It's been...difficult." I let my gaze drift into the distance, as if lost in painful memories.

I tell her about my desperate flight from the city, the close calls with the regime's patrols, the loneliness and fear of life on the run.

All lies, of course. The artistry is in the delivery: I lie with such raw sincerity that I can see her guard lowering by the second. Her hand twitches, as if she wants to reach out and comfort me.

"I...I know how you feel," she says. "It's been...hard. I never imagined it would come to this."

I nod, sniffling as I feed larger sticks to the fledgling fire. "I heard rumors about a resistance," I say, glancing up at her through my lashes. "That's why I'm out here. I thought...maybe I could find them. Join the fight."

"I… I might know something about that," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "But let’s save that for later, yeah?"

I let out a shaky breath, nodding solemnly. "Of course. I understand." Inside, I'm grinning. Hook, line, and sinker.

Each captured feminist rebel earns me another precious month of freedom. That’s the standard deal the New Order offered to every inmate as soon as they seized power – especially the violent inmates. And it’s a pretty sweet deal.

One month outside the cage, for every dissident dragged back to a female re-education center. As an additional bonus, you get to rape your quarry before delivering her, if you’re so inclined.

The New Order is just so nice and considerate like that.

I’m sure for many male inmates, that’s a relatively straightforward choice, but very few women other than I have stepped forward and taken the deal, as far as I know. Which is understandable.

But, let’s be honest. If I didn’t take the deal, I would have already been processed in one such center by now, and I know exactly what methods they use there.

Conditioning. Indoctrination. Brainwashing drugs. Hypnosis. Rape.

The methods vary, but the goal is always the same - to shatter female will. To turn feminist rebels into female pets for the New Order's faithful soldiers. Stepford smiles hiding dead eyes.

It’s ruthless. It’s efficient. And not a fate I intend to share, thanks very much.

I’d much rather hunt women. It lets me stay one step ahead. It lets me keep my mind free and my body out of the breeding pens.

And it’s fun, too!

Of course, it is a bit of a slog. Every feminist I capture buys me a month of breathing fresh air, feeling the wind in my hair… but a month goes by very quickly, I find. I’ve set my sights higher, this time.

If I can convince Mireia to lead me back to her rebel enclave, to betray the location of an entire cell…

The rewards would be so much sweeter.

Not just a paltry month, but a full year of liberty. Maybe more. Enough time to figure out a more… long term solution.

As the fire builds to a steady blaze, I lean back, rubbing my hands together for warmth. Mireia mirrors my posture, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small whetstone.

Mireia's eyes flicker to it immediately, wariness creeping back into her expression. I give her a reassuring smile. "Just keeping my tools in good condition," I say lightly, unsheathing my knife. "Never know when you might need a sharp blade out here."

I begin to run the knife along the whetstone in smooth, practiced strokes. The rhythmic sound fills the small clearing, mingling with the crackling of the fire. Mireia watches me, her body tense. "You're... good at that."

I chuckle. "Lots of practice. When you're on your own, you learn to take care of your gear." I glance up at her over the flames. "I could teach you some day, if you like. It's a useful skill to have."

Mireia hesitates, then nods slowly. "I… I'd appreciate that. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure. We women need to stick together out here, you know? Watch each other's backs."

Mireia returns my smile, albeit tentatively. There's a fragility to her, a skittishness born of too many close calls and too much time spent looking over her shoulder. But there's also a flicker of hope in her eyes, a desperate longing for connection, for trust.

As the night grows darker and the fire burns lower, I find myself enjoying this little game more than I expected. Mireia is so desperate for companionship, for someone to confide in, that she's practically eating out of my hand.

It's almost too easy.

"You know, it's been so long since I've had a chance to just... talk with someone," I say, measuring my words as if I’m making some difficult, grand admission. "To feel that connection, that sense of shared experience. It's a rare thing these days."

Mireia nods. "I know what you mean. It's been... lonely out here. Always on the move, always looking over my shoulder." She shivers slightly, hugging her knees to her chest. "You start to wonder if you'll ever feel safe again."

There’s my opening in the conversation. "Yes, that’s why I was looking for safety in numbers…"

"Right, I assume you want to know about…" she trails off, biting her lip.

"You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with," I say softly.

"No, no, it’s fine," she says, drawing a deep breath. That’s when I know I have her.

She tells me of the early days of the resistance, the secret meetings and tentative sabotage missions. Her voice trembles as she recounts the day the regime finally caught up to them, the firefight that forced her cell to abandon their safehouse. She got separated from them, and is now on her way to rendezvous with them.

It’s hard, because really, my impulse would be to just snort, but I’m a professional first and foremost. I make an expression of overawed admiration. "You're so brave…! To risk everything like that, to stand up for what's right…"

Mireia flushes, but there’s a hint of steel flickering in her eyes now. Still got some pride, this one, at least for now.

"Someone has to," she says, her voice a bit louder this time. "We can't let them win. We can't let them break us."

I nod fervently, my hand sliding down to grasp hers. "You're an inspiration," I say. "Truly. I… I've been trying to find a way to fight back too. To make a difference. But I've been so lost, so alone."

Mireia eyes the knife in my hands. The firelight flickers mesmerizingly along the length of the blade.

"You don’t look defenseless, Larissa. Don’t sell yourself short."

I smile self-deprecatingly, setting the knife and whetstone aside. "I can handle myself in a scrap, sure. Had to learn that quick out here. But that's just survival. What you're doing, what the resistance is doing… that's something more. Something meaningful."

I lean forward, my eyes locked on hers, my voice low and fervent. "I want to be a part of that, Mireia. I want to fight for a better world, a world where we're not just… property. Breeding stock. A world where we’re free again."

"You… you really mean that?"

"More than anything," I say. "I'm so tired of running, Mireia. So tired of hiding. I want to stand up, to fight back."

There's a long, heavy moment of silence. Mireia searches my face, her eyes flickering back and forth. I hold her gaze steadily, looking like the very picture of angelic sincerity.

And then, slowly, she nods.

What a fucking idiot.

"Okay," she says, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "Okay. You can come with me. I can’t make any promises, but I can at least introduce you to the others. Then, the group will decide. Okay?"

"Okay," I say, smiling warmly. "I’m so grateful, and I don’t blame you for being cautious. I’ll make sure your trust will be repaid the way it deserves."

Even if it’s not the way you think.

The rest of the evening passes in quiet conversation, interspersed with periods of companionable silence. When I pull my sleeping bag out of my backpack, and snuggle into it for the night, I do so with the satisfaction of a job well done.

As the night deepens, the crackling fire fades to glowing embers. The familiar nocturnal sounds of the forest lull me to sleep - the hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush, the whisper of the wind through the trees.

I let myself drift off.

***

My instinct leads the way.

Even as my thoughts are lagging far behind, my body’s already reacting. A noise. Motion. My eyes snap open, my limbs tense, and I find myself rolling to the side just as a shadow draws an arc in the air, descending towards me.

I roll out of the way just in time for the shadow to miss my head by an inch. It lands on the ground with the sound and heft of heavy stone.

Before I even know what’s going on, I scramble to my feet. The fire has burned down to nothing but a few glowing coals, casting a faint, eerie light over the clearing.

Mireia is standing before me, panting, her chest heaving with exertion, her hands still firmly on the heavy, jagged stone that just landed where my head should have been.

For a moment, we simply stare at each other, the stillness of the night broken only by our ragged breathing. Then, with a guttural cry, Mireia lunges at me again, swinging the stone wildly.

But I'm ready for her this time.

I sidestep her clumsy attack with ease, letting her momentum carry her past me. As she stumbles, I seize my chance. I extend a leg, tripping her. She falls gracelessly to the ground, dropping the stone.

My body flows to follow her, and I pounce on her just as she’s getting back up, planting one knee against her back while I grab her wrist in an iron grip.

With a sharp twist, I wrench her arm behind her back, eliciting a yelp of pain. Using my superior leverage, I force her down to her knees, then shove her face-first into the dirt.

There’s a satisfying oomph as she lands on the ground, my knee driving air out of her lungs.

She cries out in pain and writhes beneath me, but it's futile. I have her completely pinned, my weight bearing down on her, one hand keeping her arm locked behind her while the other tangles in her hair, keeping her cheek pressed to the ground.

"You fucking bitch," she says with a sob, her free hand desperately clawing at the soft earth. "You fucking lying bitch!"

"Mireia, Mireia," I say, my voice dripping with mock disappointment. "And here I thought we were becoming such good friends."

She snarls and thrashes beneath me, bucking and twisting, but it's futile. If she gives me any trouble I’ll just break her arm like a twig, and she knows this. I outweigh her, outmuscle her.

I've already won.

"You sneaky little cunt. Did you really think you could take me by surprise?"

Mireia struggles weakly in my grip. "I knew it. I knew you were too good to be true. You're one of them, aren't you? A collaborationist, a fucking traitor to your own kind!"

I can't help but laugh at that, a cold, mirthless sound. "A traitor? Oh sweetie, I was never on your side to begin with."

That seems to give her pause. "Do you genuinely support male supremacy? How fucked up in the head are you??"

I snort. "Don’t be absurd. I’d much rather live in a world where I’m not legally cattle."

Mireia twists her head to the side, trying to catch my eye. "Then why? Why are you doing this?"

I let the silence stretch between us for a long moment, letting her stew in her own confusion and despair. The night air is cold against my skin, but I barely feel it. The heat of Mireia's body beneath me, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the hammering of her heartbeat - that's what I feel. That's what I revel in.

Finally, she speaks again, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were in prison, weren't you? Before... before all this. That's why you're doing this. They offered you a deal."

I can't help but smile at that. She's not as dumb of a cow as I thought she was.

"Bingo," I say, my voice casual, almost bored. "One captured rebel equals one month of freedom. And let me tell you, sweetheart, after being locked up in a cage, you'd be amazed at what you're willing to do for a taste of fresh air."

Mireia is silent for a moment, processing this. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. "What were you in for?" she asks at last. I guess morbid curiosity must have won out over hatred and fear.

I chuckle softly, shifting my weight to make myself more comfortable atop her prone form. "Embezzlement," I say, my tone light and airy, as if we're discussing the weather. "White collar crime. Not very exciting, I know. But it turns out, I'm pretty damn good at making money disappear. Or, well, I guess I was."

Mireia makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "And now you're hunting women for the regime. Quite the career change."

I shrug. "I’m just a survivor."

Mireia snarls again, trembling from panic, or rage, or both. "You should fight them! You should help us! We can make a difference, we can-"

"We can what?" I say, cutting her off. "Overthrow the regime? Restore women's rights? I already told you, don't be absurd."

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Your resistance is a joke, Mireia. A handful of scared, scattered women against the might of the entire fucking planet. You never stood a chance."

"But we have to try," she says, her voice thick and unsteady. Is she about to cry? That’d be adorable. "We can't just give up, we can't let them win…"

"They've already won! Don't you get it? This is the world now. Their world. And the only way to survive is to play by their rules."

"You keep using that word, surviving," she says. "You call this surviving? Being a lapdog, a tool for fascist men? Wake up, Larissa. Wake the fuck up! You're just as much a prisoner as I am. What happens when there are no more rebels left? When the resistance is crushed and the New Order reigns supreme? What do you think they’ll do to you, then?"

I feel a flare of anger at her accusation. How dare she judge me?

"You think I don't know that?” I say, in a low, hissing voice. “You think I haven't thought about how this story ends?"

I lean in close, my lips brushing against her ear as I speak. "I know exactly what awaits me. I know that day will come. But here’s the thing, Mireia. Every one of you I bring in buys me a little more time. Time to…"

What? Set up a hideout? Stockpile resources? Find some way, any way, to get out of this nightmare once and for all?

Fuck if I know. All I know is I need to keep going for as long as I can, by whatever means necessary.

And if that means throwing my fellow women to the wolves, then so be it. Better them than me.

"… to figure things out," I continue at last. "I had it all planned out, you see. You were going to buy me so much more than just a measly month of freedom. But then you had to go and fuck it all up, didn't you?"

Of course, it’s not a total loss. I’m still going to deliver her. And tomorrow, when I can set things up for a proper interrogation, I intend to extract information about the feminist cell from her myself. I could still make the rendezvous on my own, I suppose, but without Mireia to vouch for me, it’d be much dicier, and I’m not sure I can set up a forceful takeover in time.

Still, I’m sure Mireia has information I can use to continue my hunt. I’m sure they’d get answers from her at the re-education center, but then the warden would take the credit for it.

Besides, the idea of interrogating Mireia seems especially appealing now that I’m shaking with rage. This weak bitch who can’t even light her own fire presumes to lecture me?

I don’t think so.

I carefully place my knee against her arm, to make sure she isn’t going anywhere, and I grab the length of rope from my pack. I start looping it around the bitch’s wrists, cinching the knots tight.

"You fucking bitch," she sobs again, but there's a note of despair in her voice now. She knows she's trapped. Helpless.

At my mercy.

With a grunt of effort, I roll her over onto her back. She lands with a pained oof, her bound arms pinned beneath her. I straddle her hips, my weight bearing down on her, trapping her even further.

I lean down, my face mere inches from hers. I can feel her breath on my skin, quick and shallow with fear.

"Is that any way to talk to the woman who holds your fate in her hands?" I ask softly. "You know, I’ve got to give it to the New Order. There is one thing about the deal that I find especially sweet."

Mireia stiffens beneath me, a new kind of fear entering her voice. "W-what do you mean?"

My hand slides down her side, feeling the curve of her hip, the firmness of her thigh. She's trembling now, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "P-please," she whimpers, and oh, how I love the sound of that word on her lips. "Please don't do this."

"Do what?" I ask innocently, my hand slipping under the hem of her shirt as I gently roll it upwards.

Her eyes widen in horror. "No," she whispers. "No, you can't…"

"Oh, but I can," I say, my lips curling into a smile. Not the charming, disarming smile I flashed for her before, no. This is a much more honest smile.

The grin of a predator.

"It's part of the deal, you see. Say what you want about men, about what they’ve done to us, but… the fuckers understand the value of incentive. The appeal of, shall we say, first dibs…"

Mireia's chest is heaving with panic. No more lecturing from her, huh? "Please," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please please please please."

Reduced to one word only. She’s coming along nicely. At this rate, she’ll go nonverbal before I’ve even done anything. I ignore her whelping and let my hands roam freely over her body, taking what is mine by right of conquest.

"Shh, shh. Don't fight it, Mireia. It'll only make things worse for you. You wouldn’t want me to pull out the knife again, right, sweetie? Just relax and let it happen. Who knows, you might even enjoy it…"

She lets out a choked sob as I roughly grope her breasts through her thin shirt. Then, just as she’s braced herself for me to really hurt her, I switch to a feather-light touch, teasing her nipples with the tip of my fingers. I dip my head to suckle at her neck, nipping and biting gently at the skin.

It takes some time, and patience, and some gentle rubbing of my hips against hers for good measure, but eventually, her nipples begin to stiffen.

I smile to myself. This is how you truly break your prey. You make her enjoy her own rape.

Withdrawing, I start undoing her pants, tugging them down over her hips along with her underwear. She struggles a little at that, but it’s a feeble thing that just makes her look even more helpless.

My hands slide lower, tugging at the waistband of her pants. She renews her struggles then, bucking and twisting beneath me, but it's useless. I'm far too strong for her.

I trail my fingers lightly over the inside of her thigh, slowly but inexorably making my way towards her exposed cunt. She gasps when I touch her there, her hips bucking involuntarily into my touch. I smile, circling her clit with the pad of my thumb, relishing the way she twitches and writhes.

"Men think that we women aren’t dangerous," I tell her, voicing my earlier thoughts, "but they’re wrong. This… the way your body is responding to me right now… it’s what a human body does when it’s conquered. Men do it to us all the time. But, as you can see… a woman can do that, too. Does that make you feel better, pet?"

"No… no…" Mireia whines, twisting her hips in a feeble attempt to evade my probing touch. But there's nowhere for her to go.

I circle her clit with my thumb more firmly, going on and on until she's squirming from the forced stimulation. She's panting now, her chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. Little mewls and whimpers escape her with each breath, sounds of pleasure she can't quite bite back.

I slip a finger inside her, then two, curling them just so. She cries out at that, her back arching off the ground, her hands clenching into fists where they're bound behind her back.

I quicken my pace, pumping my fingers in and out of her, my thumb still circling her clit. She's close now, approaching the edge… closer, closer, closer…

I withdraw my fingers.

The high-pitched whine of animalistic deprivation she emits at that is the most pathetic sound I’ve heard in my life. Some feminist hero she must have been, before the fall.

Dumb bitch.

"Something wrong, Mireia?" I ask softly, teasingly. "Tell me. No secret between girls!"

She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her lips together, refusing to say anything. That’s fine. I have always preferred deeds to words anyway.

I lower my head between her legs, replacing my fingers with my tongue.

What a glorious shudder that causes. I flick my tongue against her clit, and let her own reactions prove my point.

"P-please…" she gasps out between ragged breaths. "Please don't…"

But her body betrays her, hips bucking up to meet my mouth, seeking more of that delicious friction despite herself. I chuckle darkly against her flesh, the vibrations making her cry out.

"Don't what, pet?" I ask, lifting my head just enough to meet her wide, panicked eyes. "Don't make you cum? But you're so close already, I can feel it. Your pretty little cunt is just begging for release."

I give a firm suck to her clit and she nearly screams, head thrashing from side to side. "No! I don't want- I don't-"

Her final denial morphs into a throaty moan. Her thighs tremble around my head, stomach muscles fluttering as she rapidly approaches orgasm.

"Theeere you go," I say, in-between flicks of my tongue. "Even when your mind falters, your body knows the truth. Your body knows its master. Cum, now. Cum for master."

And with a wailing sob, she does. Her whole body goes taut as a bowstring, shaking and shuddering as wave after wave of forced ecstasy crashes over her. I continue my ministrations throughout, prolonging her orgasm until she's babbling incoherently, tears streaming down her face.

Only when the last aftershocks have faded do I relent, sitting back on my haunches to survey my handiwork. Mireia lays sprawled before me, thoroughly debauched. Her hair is a wild tangle, her skin flushed and gleaming with sweat. Just like her cunt is glistening with her juices.

She looks utterly broken. Conquered.

Mine.

A deep, dark satisfaction unfurls within me like a banner at the glorious sight of pure, concentrated defeat.

This, right here, is power in its purest form. The power to take, to claim, to bend another to your will. It's a heady thing, intoxicating and addictive. No wonder men are so loathe to give it up.

I suppose I can’t really blame them for enslaving us. In their place, I might have wanted to do the same thing.

I mean, in the end, I just have, right?

For all the things the New Order has taken from me, I will never fail to recognize they’ve given me this. I never would have gotten away with the thrill of raping a girl, in the old order.

In life, it’s important to look at the bright side.

Speaking of which, it’s time to take what’s mine. I shed my own clothes, kicking them aside while Mireia stares at me with a look of resignation that’s simply irresistible. She knows what’s coming.

I straddle her face, my knees on either side of her head. I can feel her breath, hot and quick, against my exposed flesh. She tries to turn away, but I grab a fistful of her hair, holding her in place.

"Ah ah ah. You're not going anywhere, pet. You have a job to do."

With my free hand, I reach for my knife, holding it up so the blade glints in the moonlight. Mireia's eyes widen in fear.

"Now, I'd prefer not to use this," I say, my voice deceptively soft. "So don’t get any weird ideas. Understand?"

She nods frantically, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please. Please don't hurt me."

"Then be a good girl and make me cum," I say, unceremoniously lowering myself onto her face.

For a moment, she remains still, frozen with fear and revulsion. But then, tentatively, I feel her tongue dart out.

There is something in the psychology of a defeated person that changes radically, when such a threshold is crossed. Everything could go awry for me tomorrow, the feminists in her cell might free her before I can deliver her to the re-education center, and still, she wouldn’t be able to un-lick my cunt. She would have to live the entirety of her life with the knowledge that this is who she is.

That’s a form of triumph money just can’t buy.

I let out a soft moan of encouragement. "Good pet. Eager puppy. Just like that."

She begins to work in earnest then, lapping at me with a desperation born of self-preservation. Her technique is sloppy and unpracticed, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in enthusiasm. Or rather, in a fervent desire to avoid further pain.

I grind down against her face, relishing the way her nose bumps against my clit with each roll of my hips. I can feel her struggling for air beneath me, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps against my heated flesh whenever she can snatch a moment.

But I don't relent. If anything, her distress only heightens my arousal, the knowledge that I hold her very life in my hands sending electric thrills down my spine.

I reach down, tangling my fingers in her hair, holding her in place as I roll my hips, rubbing my aching clit against her nose and mouth. She whimpers and moans, the vibrations sending delicious shockwaves through my core.

"See how well-behaved you are after a good rape," I say, my head falling back in pleasure. "Keep going, you pathetic little slut. Make me cum all over your face."

Tears stream from the corners of her eyes, mixing with my wetness on her skin. That sight, that picture of complete humiliaton, is what finally pushes me over the brink.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!" I cry out, my body shaking and shuddering, and then, with a final, shuddering moan, I cum, my thighs clenching tightly around her head as I draw her face even deeper into my cunt. Only when the last aftershocks have faded do I finally relent, lifting myself off her face.

She immediately turns her head to the side, gasping and coughing as she sucks in desperate lungfuls of air. She looks utterly wrecked, marked with my cunt juices, her spirit broken. Her defiance has been extinguished, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

Good.

I collapse, back-first, against the soft ground, my chest heaving, my heart pounding in my ears. The night air feels cool against my flushed skin.

See, mister Warden, Sir? I think to myself. I don’t need brainwashing or hypnosis to break a girl. A true professional does it without cheating.

Not that I’d ever dare tell him something like that to his face.

Slowly, languidly, I stretch out my limbs, relishing the pleasant ache in my muscles. I love the way my body feels after a good rape. I feel sated, content in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

Not since my last hunt, I suppose.

Even missing the opportunity to infiltrate the cell doesn’t rankle quite so badly, now.

But even as I bask in the afterglow, I know I can't afford to let my guard down. Not fully, not ever. The world is too dangerous for that now, especially for a woman. One moment of weakness, and it could all be over.

I turn my head to look at Mireia, sprawled beside me. She's curled in on herself, her bound hands held protectively against her chest, her face hidden behind a curtain of tangled hair. She’s sobbing.

I shake my head. She doesn’t realize it yet. She’s heard about the centers, but she’s never seen what goes on in there. In a few weeks, she’ll look back to this rape as the last time she had sex like a person. A captive one, sure, but a person nonetheless.

I shrug. At the end of the day, that’s nothing to me. There’ll always be another woman to hunt. And the next, and the next…

Until I’m next, my mind supplies, unhelpfully. As if I don’t know that already. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it, ideally after I’ve finally busted this cell and given myself time to be free, time to think. For now…

I have a delivery to make.

***

The trek back through the woods has been harder than I expected.

Even for someone as physically fit as myself, the uneven terrain, the dense underbrush, the occasional stream to ford — it’s all taken a toll. Especially because I’m carrying luggage around, so to speak, which makes everything a lot more arduous.

If I’d infiltrated the cell, I could have asked the warden back at the center to send me the support needed to collect the bounty, but the New Order won’t bestir itself for just one captive. So, I have to deliver her the old-fashioned way.

Mireia stumbles along behind me, her wrists bound in front of her, a makeshift leash connecting her to my belt. I keep the pace brisk, not out of any particular sadism, but simply because I want to get this over with. The sooner I deliver her to the re-education center, the sooner I can collect my reward and resume hunting for her comrades.

Still, it is a little funny, every time she trips or falters. It never gets old, for some reason.

I guess I’m a woman of simple tastes.

As for Mireia, the past few days have been...educational for her, to say the least. I've taken my time with her, savoring the slow erosion of her will, the gradual shattering of her defiance. It's not just the rapes, though those have certainly played their part. It's the constant degradation, the small humiliations, the inescapable reality of her utter powerlessness.

I've made her beg for food and water. She resisted to that more than I liked – grovelling a little, but never as much as I wanted her to. She even refused to lick my boots. But it takes time for water to erode stone.

I’ve been taming her like an animal, and it’s working.

The change in her is absolutely remarkable, small pockets of internal resistance notwithstanding. The once-proud feminist firebrand has been reduced to a cowering, submissive thing, flinching at my every move, desperate to avoid my displeasure.

What a pity that the center’s brainwashing is going to nuke all this beautiful handiwork I’ve done. Really, there’s no artistry in mind control. This is much superior, in my opinion.

But in the New Order, no one cares about my opinion.

We crest a hill and there, nestled in the valley below, is our destination. The re-education center looms like a dark scar on the landscape, all brutalist concrete and razor wire. Even from this distance, I can feel the aura of despair emanating from it. It’s a misogyny factory, a gravity well of dehumanization.

A place where female power comes to die.

As we descend into the valley towards the towering grey walls of the re-education center, Mireia seems to snap out of her numb resignation. With each step closer to her impending doom, her panic mounts.

"No, no, no, please Larissa, please don't do this," she begs frantically, trying to pull away from me. But my grip on her leash remains firm.

"Please," she says, her voice breaking. "Please, don't take me there. I'll do anything. Anything you want."

As if she hasn’t been doing that already.

"Larissa… no, see, I… I know you’re better than this…"

I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Is this bitch serious right now? After everything I've done to her, after reducing her to little more than rapemeat, she thinks she can appeal to my better nature?

How adorably naïve.

But I school my features into a thoughtful expression, as if I'm actually considering her words. "Anything, you say, pet?"

The hope that flares in her eyes is almost too much. She nods eagerly, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Yes, yes, anything! And I… I think I understand you better now, Larissa. I know you're not a monster. You're just doing what you have to!"

I let out a heavy sigh, as if the weight of the world rests on my shoulders. "It's not that simple, Mireia. I’m a woman in a man’s line of work. Any doubt about my loyalty could cost me way more than just missing out on the month of freedom you’re about to earn me. Surely, you must see that…"

She's not deterred. If anything, my feigned hesitation seems to spur her on. She drops to her knees in the dirt, clutching at my legs with her bound hands. "Please, Larissa, please. I'll do anything, anything you want. I'll be your slave, your plaything, your personal fucktoy, broken to heel, whatever you desire. Just don't send me in there!"

Wow. Those were words she wouldn’t say when begging for food and water, but she’s said that now. She’s said them, and they can never be unspoken. She’ll always be the feminist who begged for mercy. Who offered herself as a slave.

I reach down, tangling my fingers in her matted hair, forcing her to look up at me. Her eyes are wide and pleading, brimming with a wild, desperate hope.

For a moment, I let the silence stretch between us, allowing her to think she actually might have a chance at convincing me. Then, slowly, I take a step towards her, squarely planting one booted foot before her.

"Lick it clean."

Mireia doesn't hesitate, this time. She bends forward, her tongue darting out to lap at the leather of my boot. Another line crossed. Another permanent stain on her status as a human being. Another deed she can never, ever take back.

She works diligently, her bound hands gripping my ankle for balance as she licks and slurps, cleaning every inch of the boot from tip to calf. I let her continue for a while, until I spot her leaning forward enough that she’s overbalanced.

I abruptly pull my foot away. She pitches forward, landing face-first in the mud with a wet splat.

I can't help but laugh at the sight of her, sprawled pathetically in the muck. I quickly step forward and press the flat sole of my boot against Mireia’s cheek, shoving her face deeper into the dirt.

She squirms beneath my foot, her muffled sobs and pleas music to my ears.

"Listen up, pet," I say, my voice ringing out in the stillness of the valley. "Because I'm only going to explain this once."

I grind my boot harder, relishing the way she stills beneath me, hanging on my every word. I make sure to spead loud and clear, to make sure she can hear every word.

"The world is zero-sum. Life feeds on life. Men take from women. I take from you. You can’t appeal to my better nature, because I have none. There’s no heart of gold hiding behind my demeanor, girl. Only a terrible thought.”

I lift my boot slightly, just enough for her to turn her head, to look up at me with tremulous, desperate eyes. I smile down at her.

"You’re nothing. You have nothing to offer me that’s more valuable than my freedom. And nothing to offer men, other than what they’ll choose to extract from you. You're not getting free, pet. You never were. Your fate was sealed the moment I caught you."

I step back, then, withdrawing my boot from her face. She doesn’t get up — instead she just stays there, whimpering, lightly sobbing. I let her do that for a moment, in my infinite generosity, before I decide she’s wasted enough of my morrning already.

"Get up. It’s time."

Mireia struggles to her feet, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated. I don't help her. She's not my responsibility anymore. She's the re-education center's problem now.

I grab the end of her leash and give it a sharp tug, nearly sending her sprawling again. "Move," I say, and she does, stumbling after me as I lead her the final distance to the looming gates of the center.

As we approach, I can see the armed guards patrolling the perimeter, their postures alert and menacing. One of them spots us and raises a hand in greeting. I nod back, a quick, professional acknowledgment.

The gates creak open as we reach them, revealing the bleak, lifeless courtyard within. I lead Mireia inside, her leash held firmly in my hand. She's crying openly now, her breath coming in great, hiccuping gasps, but she doesn't resist. She knows it's pointless.

We're met by a group of guards and a severe-looking man in a crisp uniform. The warden. He eyes Mireia with a cold, assessing gaze, like a butcher appraising a slab of meat.

"Just the one?"

"Yes, Sir. Mireia Alvarez, feminist rebel," I say. "She’s all yours."

I hand the leash over to one of the guards. Mireia throws one last, desperate glance over her shoulder at me as they drag her away, her eyes wide and pleading. But I just watch impassively until she disappears from view, into the heart of the facility.

Into the maw.

The warden clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. "Follow me," he says brusquely, turning on his heel and striding towards the main building.

I fall into step behind him, my boots clicking against the concrete. The re-education center looms above us, a hulking monstrosity of brutalist architecture. The windows are narrow slits, too high to reach and too small to crawl through, their glass reinforced and unbreakable. The walls are a dull, lifeless gray.

We pass through several security checkpoints, each one manned by stone-faced guards armed with batons and tasers. They eye me with a mix of wariness and grudging respect. They know who I am, what I do.

Few women have that privilege, these days.

Finally, we reach the warden's office. He ushers me inside, closing the door behind us with a definitive click. The room is spartan, functional. A desk, a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet. A large window overlooking the courtyard where the new arrivals are processed.

The warden moves around his desk and sits, gesturing for me to take the seat opposite him. I do so, crossing my legs and leaning back in a posture of casual indifference. Let him think I'm at ease here. Let him think this place doesn't get under my skin.

The warden leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. He regards me with a cool, assessing gaze, his eyes as hard and unyielding as the concrete walls surrounding us.

"So," he says, his voice deceptively mild. "Just one rebel, hmm? And here I thought you were the best. You promised perfection, Larissa."

I have to instantly suppress the flicker of annoyance caused by his tone. I keep my expression carefully neutral. "She's not just any rebel, Sir. That's Mireia Alvarez. Before the New Order, she was-"

"I know who she was," he cuts me off, waving a dismissive hand. "Yes, it's a symbolic victory. But symbols don't win wars."

He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his gaze boring into mine. "Your mission was to infiltrate the rebel cell. To lead us to their hideout so we could crush them in one fell swoop. Instead, you come back with one measly captive."

I feel a muscle in my jaw twitch, but I force myself to remain calm. "With respect, Sir, circumstances changed. Mireia grew suspicious of me. I had to act fast or risk losing her altogether. Besides, I did interrogate her. I’ll share all the information with you, if it please you."

The warden's eyes narrow, and for a moment I think he's going to lash out at me. But then he seems to think better of it, his expression smoothing into one of cold calculation.

"Very well. On your way out, stop by the chief interrogator’s office and tell him what information Mireia has shared with you. As for the bounty…" he says, his voice still deceptively cordial. "You've brought in your quarry. That earns you your month of freedom, as per our arrangement."

He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a stamped piece of paper - my temporary release form. He slides it across the desk to me, but as I reach for it, he places his hand over mine, his grip like iron.

"But let's be clear, Larissa," he says, his voice soft and dangerous. "This is a one-time reprieve. The next time I give you a mission, I expect results. Full results. No more excuses, no more half-measures. Understood?"

I swallow hard, trying to quell the rising sense of unease in my gut. "Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir."

He stares at me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, as if he's trying to see straight into my soul. Then, without warning, he leans forward, raises his other hand and slaps me across the face, hard.

The blow snaps my head to the side, stars exploding behind my eyes. I taste blood where my teeth have cut into the inside of my cheek. For a moment, I'm too stunned to react, my mind reeling from the sudden violence.

He hit me. He actually hit me.

I feel a surge of rage boiling up inside me, hot and fierce. How dare he lay a hand on me? I'm not some cowering captive, I'm his star huntress! I open my mouth to protest, to snarl my defiance…

But then I catch sight of his expression, and the words die in my throat.

He's watching me with a look of cold amusement, his lips curled in a slight smirk. He knows he can do this. He knows there's nothing I can do to stop him. He knows I’m not stupid enough to actually try and stand up to him.

Fundamentally, he knows I’m just a woman.

The warden leans back in his chair, looking quite satisfied with himself. "On your knees, Larissa. Crawl under the desk and show me that you know your place."

What choice do I have? If I defy him, if I show even a hint of resistance, he could revoke my freedom with a snap of his fingers. He could toss me into one of those cells alongside Mireia, to be broken and brainwashed until I'm nothing but a drooling, obedient slut.

No. I won't let that happen. I can't.

So I swallow my pride, I bury my rage deep down inside me, and I slowly sink to my knees. The hard concrete floor digs into my skin through the fabric of my pants as I crawl forward, my movements stiff and jerky.

I feel the warden's gaze on me like a physical weight, heavy and oppressive. I can practically feel his smug satisfaction, his gloating triumph at seeing me brought so low.

The space under the desk is cramped and dark. I have to hunch my shoulders and duck my head to fit, the top of the desk brushing against my hair as I maneuver myself into position between the warden's spread legs.

He's already hard, I can see the bulge straining against the front of his uniform pants. The sight sends a shudder of revulsion through me, but I force it down.

With shaking fingers, I reach up and fumble with his zipper, tugging it down. His cock springs free.

No room for hesitation.

I wrap my hand around the base of his shaft, feeling the hot weight of him against my palm. I stroke him once, twice, building up my resolve. Then, taking a deep breath through my nose, I lean forward and take him into my mouth.

I begin to move, bobbing my head up and down his length. I keep my movements slow and deliberate at first, focusing on the tip, swirling my tongue around the sensitive head.

I can feel him twitch and throb against my tongue. I'm rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from above.

So to speak.

I take my time, building him up gradually. I alternate between long, languid licks up his shaft and shorter, more focused suckling on the head. My hand works in tandem with my mouth, stroking what I can't yet fit between my lips.

Which is something I begin to focus on. Slowly, inch by inch, I go further and further. I start to bob my head faster, taking him deeper on each downstroke.

I reach up with my free hand to cup and massage his balls, rolling them gently in my palm.

I relax my throat, suppressing my gag reflex through sheer force of will as his cock nudges the back of my throat. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. I won't let him know I’m struggling.

His hand comes down to tangle in my hair, his fingers tightening, pulling. He starts to thrust, fucking my face, using me for his pleasure. I let him, keeping my jaw slack, my mouth open, my throat pliant.

The wet, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out of my throat fill the small space under the desk. It mingles with his grunts and groans. I can tell he's getting close. His rhythm becomes erratic, his grip in my hair bordering on painful.

I brace myself, preparing for the inevitable.

But then, abruptly, he pulls out and slides back with his chair. His cock, slick with my spit, bobs mere inches from my face. I look up at him, confused and wary.

He’s staring down at me, his eyes hard and cold. He's still gripping my hair, holding my head in place. His other hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, keeping it pointed directly at my face.

"Listen carefully, Larissa," he says, “because I'm only going to say this once."

Funny. I just told Mireia the same thing.

"You have one more chance," he continues. "One more opportunity to prove your worth to the New Order. To prove your loyalty."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"You will find that rebel cell. No second-hand information. No interrogations you’re not equipped to handle properly. I want you to have your two pretty eyes on those rebels when you radio in to me. I want you to keep them in your sights as we deploy. I want you to stand there and applaud as we collar every last one of those uppity women."

His grip in my hair tightens, his eyes boring into mine.

"If you succeed, you'll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. A full sixteen months of freedom, to start."

To start? It's more than I've ever dared to hope for. With that much time, I could do more than just survive. I could thrive. I could plan.

"But if you fail…"

He trails off, letting the silence speak for itself. But I can see it in his eyes, the unspoken threat.

He doesn’t need to say anything else.

So I do the only thing I can do. I nod my head, a single, sharp jerk of my chin. A wordless acceptance of his terms.

The warden's lips curve into a smile. Then he slides back forward and, with a final brutal thrust, he shoves his cock back into my mouth, all the way to the hilt. I gag, my eyes watering, but I don't resist. I open my throat and take him deep, my nose pressed against his pubes, inhaling the musky scent of him.

He groans, low and guttural, his hand fisting in my hair. His hips jerk, once, twice, and then he's coming, his hot seed spurting down my throat in thick, bitter pulses.

I swallow it all, working my throat around him, milking him for every last drop.

I’m a survivor. And in a man’s world, this is what surviving looks like.

Finally, he releases me, his glistening cock slipping from my lips with a wet pop. I sit back on my heels, gasping for air, my face flushed and streaked with tears and saliva.

The warden tucks himself away, zipping up his pants with a casual efficiency. He leans back in his chair, regarding me with a look of smug satisfaction.

"You may go," he says, waving a dismissive hand. "Don’t forget your release form."

I nod, staying silent, wiping a final strand of cum from my lower lip.

Slowly, painfully, I crawl out from under the desk, my knees aching from the hard floor. I stand, my legs shaky, and turn to leave.

As I reach for the door handle, the warden's voice stops me.

"Oh, and Larissa?"

I pause, my hand on the knob, my back to him.

"Do not disappoint me again."

TO BE CONTINUED