The air smells of metal, oil, and sweat.

I’m in some kind of enclosed vehicle, and the floor beneath me is vibrating steadily. We're moving uphill, I think. Assuming I’m being transported to the abandoned factory complex that this cell calls home, it makes sense — we’d need to crest this height and then descend towards the valley below.

Even with the hood over my head, I can tell we're in some kind of tracked vehicle. The distinctive clanking and grinding is unmistakable. Which begs the question: where the fuck did these feminist bitches get an armoured vehicle?

I shift uncomfortably, trying to find a position that doesn't make my zip-tied wrists scream with pain. My body aches everywhere. I've been stripped of my jacket and boots, leaving me in just my pants and shirt. At least they pulled my pants back up after finding me. Small mercies.

We hit a bump, and my head smacks against what feels like a metal wall. Fuck. I taste blood where I've bitten my tongue.

"Careful with the cargo," Ponytail says from somewhere to my left. "Though I wouldn't mind if she got a few more bruises."

No laughter greets the joke. "No bruises in the world can make up for all the good women this fascist bitch delivered to re-ed."

"No," Ponytail agrees, "but what we’ll do to her will."

I try really hard not to hear the words, or think about what they mean. I just refuse to meet my end at the hands of such cattle. I won’t even entertain the fucking thought.

The vehicle lurches as we crest what must be a ridge, then begins to descend. I guess my prediction was accurate, and our destination is the factory complex.

Well. I tried so hard to reach this place, and I guess I’m finally on my way there. If under… suboptimal circumstances.

I should be formulating an escape plan. I am the best at what I do, and in part that’s because I’m always thinking three steps ahead of everyone else… But my mind keeps circling back to one inescapable fact: I'm fucked.

Reeve raped me. He violated me, humiliated me, and left me for dead. And now the very women I've been hunting have captured me. The very resistance fighters whose comrades I've sent to re-education centers to have their minds wiped clean and their bodies turned into compliant fucktoys for the regime.

How the hell am I going to get out of this one?

The vehicle slows, then stops. I hear the engine idle for a moment before shutting off. The sudden silence is deafening.

"We're here," someone says.

Hands grab me roughly, hauling me to my feet. I stumble, my legs numb from being bound for so long.

"Walk," a voice says, giving me a shove forward.

I take a tentative step, then another. Without sight, I'm completely dependent on their guidance. It makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling I’m getting acquainted with apparently. I hate it.

A hand grabs my hood and yanks it off my head. The sudden light blinds me, and I squint against it, blinking rapidly as my eyes adjust.

The world sharpens into focus. We're inside some kind of clearing—a large, flat area nestled against the mountain face. I blink hard, trying to process what I'm seeing.

Holy shit.

The factory complex sprawls before me, half-built into the mountain itself. Massive concrete structures, their surfaces weathered and pockmarked, rise from the earth like the bones of some prehistoric beast. Tunnels—dozens of them—puncture the mountainside at various heights, people moving in and out of them with purpose. This isn't some hastily assembled hideout. This is a fortress.

The clearing itself is a hive of activity. Tents and lean-tos dot the landscape, but they're covered in camouflage netting, branches, and foliage. From above, this place would blend seamlessly with the surrounding forest. Firepits are dug deep into the ground, their smoke channeled through elaborate systems of pipes that must disperse it gradually, making detection nearly impossible.

And the women. Fuck, there are so many of them.

They move with military precision—carrying supplies, maintaining weapons, drilling in small groups. Some are dressed in mismatched fatigues, others in civilian clothes reinforced with bits of armor. All of them look hardened, determined. Dangerous.

This isn't a cell. It's a fucking army.

An army on the move, if I don’t miss my guess. They must have clearly decided that this location has been compromised, or will be soon, because what I’m seeing is definitely packing. They’re getting ready to leave this place behind.

If only I had a radio right now…

As I'm marched forward, they stop what they're doing to stare. Their eyes follow me, cold and evaluating. But not surprised. Not a single one of them looks shocked to see me.

They knew I was coming.

My escorts shove me forward, into the center of the clearing. The women form a loose circle around me, but maintain their distance. It's not fear that keeps them back—it's discipline.

The crowd parts, and a woman steps forward.

Even before she opens her mouth, I know exactly who she is. Everything about her radiates authority—from her straight-backed posture to the confident set of her shoulders. She doesn't wear any insignia or special uniform, but she doesn't need to. The way everyone automatically steps back to give her space tells me everything I need to know. This is their leader.

She stops a few feet away from me, hands clasped behind her back, feet planted shoulder-width apart. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and in turn, I also get a better look at her.

She's tall, with close-cropped chestnut hair and deep lines etched around her eyes and mouth. Not from age, but from experience. From making the kind of decisions that leave their mark on a person.

Skill issue, honestly. People talk of tough decisions a lot, but I make them all the time without any difficulty, and it certainly doesn’t blemish my skin.

"Gender traitor," she says, her voice carrying easily across the suddenly silent clearing. "At last, it would seem that your time has come as well."

I meet her gaze, refusing to be cowed. "You're going to just quote graffiti at me, or do you have an original thought in your head?"

An angry whisper runs through the crowd, but the leader silences it with a small gesture of her hand.

"You live up to your reputation," she says with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

I theatrically incline my head. "Always happy to meet a fan!"

The leader’s lips curl into a cold smile. "Though I must say, there is one other way in which you live up to your collaborationist stereotype. Your evidently inflated sense of self-importance hasn’t saved you from being raped by your masters, has it?"

My amusement dries up, and a cold, indignant rage replaces it. How dare she bring it up? Her fate, the fate of every woman here, is to be captured, pettified, and turned into a sex slave for the remainder of their days, and she thinks bringing up my rape is a flex?

"Making light of rape?" I ask, forcing a wolfish smile. "That’s not very feminist of you."

"You say that because you speak from a place of ignorance, gender traitor. You are less acquainted with us than we are with you." the leader says smugly. God, I really want to deflate some of that ego on her… and suddenly, inspiration strikes.

I laugh. "Is that what you think? I know more about your cell than you think… Commander Hayes."

It’s a reach, a complete guess. I’ve read that name in one of the briefings provided by the Warden, but there’s no clear known command structure for the resistance at this level, and Commander Hayes could as easily be the leader of a single cell somewhere in the boonies… or even a made up name, a codeword, whatever.

But it isn’t.

Her reaction tells me I’ve struck gold. Her lips narrow into a thin line, and her eyes are shooting daggers at me. I really am fucking awesome. Time to get under her skin a bit more.

"Cute setup you've got here, Hayes," I say, glancing around. "Very... rustic. Must be nice playing soldier in the woods while the real world moves on without you."

She laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. "We’re part of the real world, just as much as the dystopian nightmare you have pledged allegiance to. We are the ember of female power, smoldering under the coals, ready to blaze again. We are the vengeful lurkers, creeping at the margins of the new order. We are the blade that will one day be plunged in the dark heart of this empire."

I roll my eyes as far back into my skull as I can. "Oh my fucking god, I preferred you just quoting graffiti, because at least that was concise.”

"Oh, really? I am so, so sorry to have incurred our honoured guest’s displeasure."

"Seriously!" I continue. "If wars were won with long-ass pamphlets, I guess the men wouldn’t stand a chance. Shame that isn’t the case. Spare me the feminist manifesto, Hayes. I've heard it all before, from better speakers than you."

Her expression doesn't change, but something dangerous flashes in her eyes. "I'm sure you have. Right before you delivered them to be raped and brainwashed."

A few of the women shift uncomfortably, their hands tightening on their weapons. I can feel their hatred like a physical force pressing against me from all sides.

"Look," I say, trying to sound bored rather than rattled, "can we skip to the part where you tell me what you're planning to do with me? I've had a long week, and I'd really like to know if I should be conserving my energy or not."

Hayes raises an eyebrow. "Anxious, are we?"

"Just practical."

She studies me for a moment, then smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Why, Larissa, like I’ve already said, you're going to be our honored guest. We have so many things planned for you."

"How thoughtful," I say. "And here I didn't bring a guest gift."

"Oh, but you did." Hayes gestures broadly. "You brought us yourself. The fondest wish in the heart of every woman here is to see the patriarchy snuffed out under the boot of female power. The second fondest wish for most of us, well… let’s just say that sometimes, dreams come true." She turns to her soldiers. "Secure her."

Before I can react, hands grab me from behind. I struggle, but it's pointless—there are too many of them, and I'm already weakened and bound. They drag me to a wooden pole set into the ground near one of the larger tents and force me to sit with my back against it.

A knife cuts clean through the zip-ties holding my wrists, and the relief is incredible, but it’s also short-lived. One woman produces a coil of thick rope and begins methodically binding me to the pole, starting at my shoulders and working her way down. The rope bites into my flesh through my thin shirt, secure enough that I can barely move an inch.

Another woman hammers two metal spikes into the ground on either side of me. They bind my ankles to them with more rope, forcing my legs to spread wide.

So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?

When they're finished, Hayes steps forward again. She looks down at me, satisfied with herself. "Comfortable?"

"Five-star accommodations," I say through gritted teeth. "Though the room service leaves something to be desired."

She chuckles. "I love your sense of humour, dog. My guess is that you’ll get to keep it… for the rest of your life." She turns to address the gathered women. "Back to your duties."

With a single, sharp clap of her hands, the crowd disperses. Just like that, I'm ignored—still bound in the middle of their camp, but suddenly invisible as everyone returns to their tasks.

The sun beats down on my head as I watch them work. No one speaks to me. No one even looks at me. It's as if I've ceased to exist.

Hours pass. The sun moves across the sky, shadows lengthening as afternoon slides toward evening. My muscles cramp from being held in the same position. My throat burns with thirst.

Night falls. Fires are lit, carefully shielded to minimize their visibility from a distance. The smell of cooking food makes my stomach clench painfully. I haven't eaten since yesterday.

Hayes reappears, flanked by two guards. She carries a metal cup and a small bowl. Crouching beside me, she holds the cup to my lips.

"Drink," she commands.

I want to refuse out of pride, but my thirst overwhelms my stubbornness. I drink greedily, water spilling down my chin in my haste.

When I've finished, she sets the bowl on the ground in front of me. Some kind of stew, thin but hot.

"I can't exactly feed myself like this," I say, nodding toward my bound hands.

Hayes smiles thinly. "No, you can't."

She dips a spoon into the stew and holds it to my lips. God, this is so humiliating. I am being spoon-fed like a fucking invalid.

Still. Food is strength, and I’m going to need mine when, eventually, a window of escape presents itself. So, I eat every last spoonful.

When the bowl is empty, she stands. "Rest while you can. Tomorrow will be... educational."

She walks away without another word, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the distant sounds of the camp settling in for the night.

I test my bonds for the hundredth time, seeking any weakness, any give in the ropes. There is none.

***

Sleep doesn't fucking come.

Each time I start to drift off, a cramp shoots through my shoulder or my ass goes numb from sitting on the hard ground. I shift as much as the ropes allow—which is barely at all—and try again.

When I do manage to snatch a few moments of unconsciousness, my dreams are worse than being awake. Reeve's face hovers above mine. The Warden's cock forces its way down my throat. Faceless women I've captured stare at me with glassy eyes as I'm raped and broken in by a faceless man in front of them. There’s no delight in their faces, no sadistic glee, no sense of justice. Their eyes are just… empty.

I wake with a jolt each time, heart hammering, sweat cooling on my skin despite the night chill.

Fuck this. Sleep isn't happening.

Instead, I focus on the camp around me. Might as well gather observations while I'm the rebels’ "honoured guest." Most of the women have retired to their tents or deep into the tunnels, but there's still activity—guards patrolling the perimeter, a few figures huddled around the dying embers of fires.

Something catches my eye. A man—definitely a man, broad-shouldered and bearded—emerges from one of the larger tents carrying what looks like communication equipment. He's followed by another man, this one younger, who's struggling with a heavy crate.

Wait. There are men here?

I scan the darkness more carefully. Now that I'm looking for them, I spot more. One cleaning a rifle near the edge of the camp. Two loading supplies into a battered truck. Another standing guard at what appears to be an entrance to the underground portion of the complex.

I count at least a dozen men scattered throughout the camp. More than I would have expected in a feminist resistance cell.

I think about it for a minute.

If you’re a man in the New Order, why would you ever want to fight such a lost cause? You can just sit back and enjoy the free rape card. You get to be master of at least one woman, in an incredibly literal way. I know that most people are just cattle, but can there truly be men so cucked, so wimpy, so devoid of hunger, that they wouldn’t reap the benefits of the new world?

That baffles me already. But what’s even stranger is that women would welcome such men into their ranks.

First of all, even if they are genuine, any man spineless enough to fight for women rather than for himself is going to be weak and useless.

Second, and arguably more important, how could the women ever trust these men not to betray them? Seriously, have these cunts never heard of the security dilemma at all? They’re supposed to be the male-hating extremists described in regime propaganda, because during a gender war, hostility is the only natural, healthy attitude.

Ugh. I’m annoyed.

The novelty is interesting, though. Female rebels get captured and brainwashed, pretty straightforward. But what does the regime do to male rebels? Why have I never received a bounty for one?

As I ponder these questions, I watch a woman approaching the man with the communication equipment. She says something—too low for me to hear—and points toward one of the tunnel entrances. The man nods, not quite meeting her eyes, and immediately changes direction. There's no discussion, no argument. Just immediate compliance.

Similar scenes play out across the camp. A man receives orders from a woman and executes them without question. Two men carrying water jugs are redirected by a female officer who doesn't even break stride as she issues commands.

Not a single man appears to be giving orders. Not one seems to be in any position of authority. They're labour. Muscle. Support staff.

My, my…

Isn’t that just fascinating? I’ll have to ponder this further… ideally, in better circumstances.

Dawn is still hours away when I spot a man approaching me. He's one of the younger ones—maybe early twenties, with a patchy beard and hunched shoulders. He carries a canteen and what looks like a blanket. His eyes dart nervously around the camp as he approaches, checking to see if anyone's watching him.

Is this going to be my first rape of the night?

He stops a few feet away, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I brought you some water," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "And a blanket. It gets cold up here at night."

I stare at him, trying to read his intentions. His eyes keep darting to my spread legs, then quickly away, as if he's afraid to be caught looking. There's hunger there, but also fear. Uncertainty.

"Well, well," I drawl, letting a cruel smile spread across my face. "Aren't you the gentleman? Coming to check on poor little me in the middle of the night. I wonder what your feminist overlords would think of that."

He flushes, the red visible even in the dim light. "I just thought you might be cold."

"Cold? Is that really what you're concerned about?" I lower my voice to a purr. "Or did you come for something else? Something these butch bitches can't give you?"

His eyes widen. "No, I—"

"Have they completely emasculated you?" I ask, unable to stop myself. "Do you know that in the real world out there, women are legally required to comply with sexual advances? That's the law now. Any woman who refuses can be sent to re-education."

He looks around nervously. "Please, keep your voice down."

"What's wrong? Afraid they'll hear you talking to the big bad bounty huntress?" I laugh. "God, you're pathetic. I'm literally tied up with my legs spread, and you still don't have the balls to just take what you want. Figures. Real men fight for their own interests, not those of others."

His breathing quickens, and he balls one hand into a fist. Touched a nerve, have I? Let’s touch it again!

"Or maybe," I say, "you think I'm still too dangerous? Even all tied up like this? Afraid I might bite that pathetic cock off if you tried to shove it down my throat? Smart boy. I would, you know. First chance I got."

"That's enough."

A woman's voice cuts through my taunting. The man practically jumps upon hearing it.

The woman steps into view. She's one I haven't seen before—medium height, athletic build. She's lean and angular, with a jagged scar running from her temple to her jaw. She's carrying a coil of rope and what looks like a hunting knife.

"Stand down, Julian."

The man—Julian, apparently—nearly jumps out of his skin. "Mei, I was just—"

"I know exactly what you were 'just' doing," she says, her voice cold. "Leave the water and blanket and go. Now."

Julian drops both items and scurries away without another word, disappearing into the shadows of the camp.

The woman—Mei—turns her attention to me. Her eyes are dark and unreadable in the dim light.

"Making friends already, I see," she says dryly.

I shrug as much as my bonds allow. "Just getting to know the locals. Your boy there seems a bit... underdeveloped in the masculinity department."

"Julian is young and curious," she says, "but even he knows better than to touch you. Male rebels are strictly forbidden from engaging sexually with collaborationist female prisoners."

I can't help but smirk. "So I was right. You have neutered your men. How very progressive of you."

She crouches down to my level, her face uncomfortably close to mine. She’s smirking right back at me.

"I said male rebels are forbidden from touching you. Female rebels, on the other hand, are under no such restriction."

Her hand shoots out, grabbing my breast through my shirt and squeezing hard enough to make me gasp.

"What the f—"

Her other hand clamps over my mouth. "Quiet, traitor. You don't get to speak unless I ask you a question." Her fingers dig into my cheek painfully. "Nod if you understand."

I glare at her, refusing to comply. She pinches my nipple, hard. Pain shoots through me, and I can't suppress a gasp — fuck it hurts, and it makes me think of Reeve and so I nod once, jerkily. When I break out of these bonds, I’m going to fucking destroy this woman. For starters.

"Good girl," Mei says, removing her hand from my mouth. But before I can immediately break her rule and spit the insults burning on my tongue, her fingers are at my throat.

Her free hand moves from my breast to between my legs, cupping my crotch through my pants.

Her hand is firm between my legs, applying just enough pressure to make her intentions clear. My body tenses at the unwanted contact.

"This is what you’re famous for. Rape," Mei says, quietly. "How does it feel to be on the receiving end, Larissa?"

I force a laugh, though it comes out strained. "You gals look less and less feminist by the minute. Sexually assaulting a bound woman? I thought you rebels were supposed to be the 'good guys.'"

Mei's lips curl into a cold smile. "Right. Let me nod thoughtfully while you claim the moral high ground. You, a woman who's hunted her own kind for sport." Her fingers start to move in slow circles. "You don't get to lecture anyone about ethics, traitor."

I try to shift away from her touch, but the ropes hold me firmly in place. "If you're going to rape me, just get on with it. Skip the sanctimonious bullshit."

"Impatient?" Mei's hand leaves my crotch, only to grab the collar of my shirt. With one swift motion, she rips it open. The cool night air hits my exposed skin, but that’s not the only reason why I shiver.

"Nice tits for a traitor," she says, groping me. "I bet the regime pigs you serve love to play withthese."

Movement catches my eye. Women are emerging from tents, drawn by our voices. They form a loose semicircle around us, their faces hard in the dim light. Some look curious, others vengeful. All of them are watching.

"Looks like I've drawn an audience," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You like what you see, girls?"

"More like we've been waiting for this moment a long time," one of the women says, stepping forward. I recognize her—Ponytail from the forest. "How many of our sisters have you violated exactly like this before sending them to have their minds erased?"

I give Ponytail a long look. "You don’t really want me to answer that, punk. You couldn’t handle the answer."

A ripple of anger passes through the crowd. I can feel their hatred like the heat of a malevolent fire, washing over me in pulses. Good. Let them be angry. Angry people make mistakes.

Mei slaps me hard across the face. "Our guest here seems to think we should be better than our enemies."

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd. Angry laughter.

"Let me help," the woman says, kneeling beside Mei. She's older, with weathered skin and hard eyes. Without preamble, she spits in my face.

The warm saliva slides down my cheek. My kingdom for the ability to wipe it away… but I refuse to flinch.

Mei's hands are back at my waistband, her fingers hooking under the fabric. I feel the rough tug as she starts yanking my pants down over my hips, exposing my thighs to the night air. The pants catch briefly on my knees before she jerks it down to my bound ankles.

The cool mountain air hits my exposed cunt, making me shiver involuntarily. I hate myself for that small display of weakness.

Most of all, I hate Mei’s hand, clumsily groping my sex.

I try to twist away from her touch, but the ropes bite into my flesh, holding me firmly in place. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

"How many times have you done this exact thing?" Ponytail asks, crouching down beside Mei. "How many women have you violated while they were bound and helpless?"

"The difference is that, unlike you, I’m actually good at it," I say. "Seriously, Mei, you handle cunt more cluelessly than men do!"

For a moment, Mei has no response, though her fingers continue to rub up and down my crotch without particular direction. Then, she speaks, in a voice so low I have to strain to hear.

"You’ve betrayed so many women that you’ve lost count," she says. "You can barely remember all of your rapes. Well. I’ll make sure you remember this one."

Her fingers force their way past my outer lips, and it’s rape in the truest, most original sense — forcible penetration, rough and painful. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"The dog is dry," Mei announces to the crowd. "Guess she doesn't find us as attractive as her regime masters."

A chorus of jeers and taunts rises from the gathered women. I catch fragments—"trad-fuck gender traitor," "cock whore," "collaborationist bitch."

Mei withdraws her fingers, then spits into her palm before returning to her task. The added lubrication does extremely little to ease the discomfort as she thrusts two fingers inside me again.

I close my eyes, trying to shut them out, to retreat somewhere inside myself where they can't reach me. But Mei slaps me hard across the face.
"Eyes open, traitor. I want you to see every face watching you."
I open my eyes to find dozens of women staring at me with undisguised hatred. Some are smiling, others look grim, but all of them want to see me broken. All of them want their pound of flesh.

"You’re all pathetic," I say. What truly offends me isn’t even the fact that they’re raping me. It’s the fact that they don’t understand just how stupid they are, compared to me. "So righteous until you get a taste of power. Then you're no better than the men you claim to hate."

Mei’s only response is to increase the pace of her fingerfucking, her thumb finding my clit.

"I bet you're wetter when your masters rape you," she says, thrusting her fingers in and out of my cunt. "I bet you get soaking wet for the men who own you."

I force a laugh, though it comes out strained. "Is this supposed to make me wet? What’s this, fucking amateur hour?"

I'm trying to provoke them, to make them angry enough to get sloppy. But Mei doesn't take the bait. Her expression remains coldly focused as she works her fingers inside me.

"You know what I think?" Mei says. "I think you're terrified. I think for the first time in your pathetic life, you're realising what it feels like to be truly powerless." She makes a show of looking up, in reflection. "Well, no, correction. The second time. The first was yesterday, wasn’t it, pig?"

How dare she remind me of Reeve having his way with me? As if she could take him in a fight! This stupid fucking cow, this loser feminist! "How many one on one fights have you won, loser?" I ask, pouring as much venom as I can into my voice. "You have to earn the right to talk shit."

She curls her fingers inside me, hitting a spot that makes my body jerk involuntarily. I bite down hard on my tongue to keep from making a sound.

"Well, for instance, looks like I’m winning this one…" she says with satisfaction.

She isn’t. And this isn’t even a one on one fight. Unlike the one with Reeve.

Fuck. Why am I thinking about my rapist right now? Why is the thought flipping a switch inside me?

The memory of his hands on my body, the raw power of his mastery over me, the absolute domination as he forced me to cum for him...

A rush of heat floods my lower body. My cunt pulses around Mei's intrusive fingers, suddenly slick.

No. No, no, no.

I try to shut it down, to will my body back under control, but it's betraying me in the most humiliating way possible. Each thrust of Mei's fingers now meets less resistance, the friction eased by my own treacherous wetness.

"What's this?" Mei says, her voice filled with mock surprise. "The traitor's getting wet after all."

My face burns with shame. I want to crawl inside myself and die. But there's nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape—not from them, and not from my own body's response.

"Looks like she likes it," Ponytail says, leaning in closer. "Maybe that’s why she serves the New Order. She’s confused horniness with politics."

"The bitch is soaking my hand," Mei announces, twisting her wrist to demonstrate the obscene wetness. "What happened to all that tough talk, traitor?"

"I’ll ask you the same question," I say, my sweat-soaked hair now hanging loosely in front of my face, "when I’m the one raping you, cunt."

"You're fighting it," Mei says. "Good. I want you to fight. I want you to lose."

It's like I'm outside myself, watching this happen to someone else. The sexual assault is triggering something in me—a response conditioned by years of associating violence with arousal, of finding pleasure in domination. But I've always been the one doing the dominating, never the one being dominated.

Except with Reeve. With him, I was prey. And some dark, twisted part of me responded to that, just as it's responding now.

My eyes lock with hers, and I see the moment she realises what's happening. The understanding that flickers across her face, followed by a cruel smile.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" she whispers, for my ears only. "The bounty hunter who raped you yesterday. You're getting off on the memory."

I want to deny it, but my body betrays me again, clenching hard around her fingers at the mention of Reeve.

"That's it," Mei says, her voice low and taunting. "Remember how he held you down. How he forced you to take his cock. How he made you cum against your will."

Each word sends another pulse of unwanted arousal through me. I'm close now, teetering on the edge of an orgasm I don't want but can't seem to fight.

"Stop," I manage to gasp, but it's weak, unconvincing even to my own ears.

"Why should I?" Mei asks, her fingers working relentlessly inside me, her thumb circling my clit with cruel precision. "You never stopped when they begged you. Why should I show you mercy?"

The tension builds, coiling tighter and tighter. My breathing becomes ragged, my thighs trembling against my bonds.

"He left you zip-tied and broken in the wilderness," she says, pumping, faster and faster. "He destroyed you so completely that your story could have ended right there. He broke you so thoroughly that we ended up capturing you without breaking a sweat. Who’s pathetic then, huh? Who’s the fucking loser now?"

I scream.

It’s a cry of hatred, and a cry of pain. But it’s also a cry of climax.

So many times since the world ended, I've forced orgasms from unwilling bodies.

And now it's happening to me.

The orgasm crashes through me with the violence of a hammer striking an anvil, a sudden, violent wave that makes my whole body convulse. I cry out, unable to stop myself, as my cunt spasms around Mei's invading fingers.

The crowd erupts in cheers and laughter. I slump in my bonds, shame washing over me in waves as intense as the orgasm itself.

Mei withdraws her fingers, wiping them ostentatiously on my thigh before turning to the crowd. She bows, theatrically, to a roar of applause.

I'm panting, my chest heaving with exertion, my mind reeling with shame and fury and a dozen other emotions I can't even name. I want to scream. I want to kill them all. I want to disappear.

I can't look at them. Can't bear to see the triumph in their eyes, the mockery, the misplaced belief that they are somehow better than me.

"I think it's time we gave someone else a turn," Mei says.

The crowd parts, and a woman steps forward. She's thin, almost gaunt, with hollow cheeks and eyes red from crying.

She kneels between my spread legs, her eyes never leaving mine. "My girlfriend. Elena," she says, with a flat, emotionless voice. "You took her."

I don't remember any Elena. It’s such a boringly common name, too.

"She had such gentle hands," the woman continues. Her own hands are anything but gentle as they grab my breasts, squeezing until I wince. "Do you remember her, bounty hunter? Or was she just another notch on your belt?"

I say nothing.

"Answer me!" she demands, twisting harder.

"I don't remember," I say at last. "There have been too many. Besides, what does it matter? She stopped being your girlfriend — or for that matter, herself —the moment she stepped through the gates of re-ed. She’s just an animal now."

The words send her into a manic rage. She slaps me hard across the face, once, twice, thrice. "Too many! Is that it? There have been too many?" she repeats, her voice shaking with fury. "Too many lives you've destroyed without a second thought! You, YOU are the animal!"

Her fingernails rake down my chest. Her boots kick me in the ribs.

"A dangerous, rabid animal!" she snarls, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at her. "You need to fucking pay!" She kneels and slaps my exposed cunt hard enough to make me jerk against my restraints.

The blow sends a nauseating wave of pain radiating through my body. I can't hold back a gasp, which only makes the woman smile a feverish, manic smile. The crowd around us is growing, more women pushing forward for a better view of my humiliation.

I grit my teeth against the pain. "Is that the best you can do?"

My words trigger something in the crowd. A dam breaks.

They descend on me like vultures.

A woman with a shaved head forces her fingers into my mouth. "Suck them, traitor."

When I try to bite down, someone else grabs my jaw, forcing it open.

"Come on! Surely you must have plenty of experience sucking by now!

Another rebel yanks my head back by my hair, exposing my throat. She leans in and bites the skin where my neck meets my shoulder, hard enough to draw blood. The pain is sharp, immediate, making me buck and thrash and whelp. I can feel warm wetness trickling down my collarbone.

Hands are everywhere now—pinching, slapping, scratching. My breasts are mauled, nipples twisted until I can't help but cry out. Someone's fingers are inside me, pumping roughly. Another woman has her hand around my throat, throttling me.

The air fills with their accusations, each one punctuated by another violation of my body.

"My best friend is drooling in a re-education center because of hunters like you!"

A sharp slap across my face.

"You’re fucking worse than your masters!"

Teeth sink into my shoulder, breaking skin.

"You're nothing but their stupid dog!"

Fingers twist my nipples until tears spring to my eyes.

A boot appears in front of my face. The woman with the ponytail steps forward, planting herself directly in front of me. She's wearing heavy military-style boots, caked with mud and God knows what else.

"You know what?" she says, her voice dripping with contempt. "I think it's time the gender traitor learned her proper place."

Before I can respond, she raises her right foot and slams the sole of her boot directly into my face. The impact snaps my head back against the wooden pole with enough force to make me see stars. The taste of dirt and blood fills my mouth as she grinds the filthy sole against my lips, my nose, my cheeks. The rough tread digs into my skin.

"This is where fascists like you belong," Ponytail says, pressing harder. "Dirt under a woman’s shoe. And make no mistake, you’re no woman. You forfeited membership of the female sex the moment you joined the vile crusade of oppression, worm."

I can barely breathe with her boot crushing my face. The wooden pole behind me prevents any retreat, leaving me pinned.

Ponytail eases the pressure slightly, just enough for me to gasp for air, before grinding down again. The crowd around us cheers, their voices blending into a hateful chorus.
"You know what I want?" Ponytail says, leaning down so her face is closer to mine. "I want you to worship this boot like it's a cock.

I glare up at her, hatred burning in my eyes. But my body is broken, my pride shattered. I've been raped twice in as many days. I've been beaten, humiliated, exposed. And now I'm expected to lick this bitch's filthy boot while an audience of feminist cunts watches?

"I said lick it!" She presses harder, the edge of her boot cutting into my cheek.

I open my mouth, letting my tongue dart out to make contact with the filthy leather. The taste is revolting.

"Do it. Suck on the toe like it's a nice, fat cock."

The crowd's jeers grow louder, more animated. They're enjoying this spectacle, feeding off my degradation like vampires. I wrap my lips around the toe of her boot, sucking as instructed.

Ponytail is loving this, the loser that she is. This must be the highlight of her pathetic feminist life.

I force myself to suck harder, to run my tongue along the filthy leather, to make obscene noises as I fellate her footwear.

"Look at her go," someone calls from the crowd. "We should have expected the fascist-lover to be a natural bootlicker!"

"Probably been practicing on the men for years!"

Ponytail withdraws the boot, then, but the cascade of humiliations only accelerates after that.

A woman with a pixie cut straddles my face, grinding herself against my mouth, smothering me with her cunt. "Lick it, traitor," she hisses. "Show us what a good little oral whore the regime trained you to be."

I can't breathe. I can't see. All I can do is comply or suffocate. I extend my tongue, hating myself for the surrender, and she moans above me.

When she's finished, another takes her place. And another. And another. Soon, the taste of feminist cunt juice clings to my face and my hair.

A woman grasps my throat so tight that I fear she’s actually going to kill me. She licks my ear as she throttles me, enjoying the way my body spasms ineffectually against the ropes and her grip.

"The difference between you and your victims," she whispers, "is that they were innocent. You are not."

She rises and steps back, making room for the next in line as I sputter, gulping in desperate lungfuls of air.

My face becomes a makeshift vibrator for their pleasure, my mouth and tongue tools to be used and discarded. Some ride my face frantically, chasing their release. Others take their time, prolonging my suffocation for their amusement.

Through it all, the insults rain down.

"Fascist pig." "Regime whore." "Gender traitor." "How does it feel to be on the receiving end?"

And one, in particular.

"If the men win, they’ll destroy you too. If we win, we’ll destroy you. Nicely played, genius. No matter how this war ends, you are fucked."

I lose track of time. Minutes blur into hours. My world narrows to a cycle of pain, violation, and brief moments of respite that only serve to make the next assault more jarring.

By the time the feminists finally tire, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten. Dawn approaches, bringing with it the promise of a new day. But for me, there is only the aftermath of the night's horrors.

My body is a map of their vengeance—bruises blooming across my skin, bite marks on my breasts and thighs, scratches down my torso. My cunt is raw and swollen, my jaw aches, my throat burns.

Commander Hayes appears, then. She surveys the scene with complete nonchalance, her eyes betraying nothing of her thoughts.

"Enough," she says, her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. "Clean her up."

Two women step forward with buckets of cold water, which they unceremoniously dump over me. The shock of it snaps me back to full awareness, making me gasp and sputter.

Hayes crouches down to my level, her eyes boring into mine. "When we spoke yesterday, I told you something."

I’m absolutely in no condition to talk, right now, so I just sit limply against the pole. I’m sure Hayes won’t mind. She sounds like she wants to monologue at me.

By all means. What’s one more abuse after a night of rapes?

"I told you that you speak from a place of ignorance. You imagine uptight and moralising feminists… and some of us are like that, sure. Some are even naive. But you fundamentally misunderstand the nature of our movement. The character of our struggle."

She lifts my chin. "I told you that we are more acquainted with you, than you are with us. Your response was to deflect with humour. How humorous are you feeling now?"

I’m not sure if the flat stare I’m giving her conveys my desire to personally drag her on foot back to the re-education center I’m working for, but I sure hope it does.

Undeterred by my lack of response, however, Hayes continues.

"We are angry."

That almost gets a reaction out of me. No shit?

"Ours is the anger of the morally wounded, demanding recompense. Ours is the anger that propels revolutions.If you look at men’s rule over women today, and your response is not violent fury, then you are as much to blame as them. Men are the only ones to profit from female docility, weakness, compliance. There is no better fire to cleanse this meekness than the spark of war. You don’t defeat fascism and misogyny with pamphlets. You defeat them with this.”

She slams the butt of her rifle against the ground.

"You defeat them with this."

She wraps one hand around my throat, not choking, but threatening to.

"You defeat them with this."

She theatrically places her boot atop my naked cunt, making a slow, grinding motion with her heel that makes me whimper like a pitiful dog.

"Larissa, the men have sowed the wind. One day, they will reap the whirlwind. For you, however… that day has come today." She raises her voice, her words now carrying across the clearing. "By the authority vested in me by the Feminist Resistance Council, I hereby charge you with treason against the female sex. You are accused of collaborating with the patriarchal regime, of hunting your sisters for bounty, and of delivering them to torture and mental destruction."

She steps back, addressing the assembled crowd. "Her trial will begin at noon. Justice will be served."

As they cut me free from the pole only to bind my hands behind my back again, I find myself wondering what form that "justice" will take. Death seems probable, but not a clean one — that would be merciful, which means it's unlikely. The resistance doesn't strike me as the merciful type.

As they drag me toward one of the tunnel entrances, I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle of water. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me—bruised, bloodied, broken.

Is this who I am now? Is this all that’s left of me?

Is this how my story ends?

The thought follows me into the darkness as they push me underground, into the bowels of their mountain fortress. Into whatever fate awaits me.

TO BE CONTINUED...