I stand.

Maybe it’s silly, but I like looking at myself in the bathroom mirror while I do it. Part of it is that I’m just… proud of my body. Toned muscles ripple beneath my skin as I stretch upwards, like a cat. I’ve been honing this body just as rigorously as I have my mind, and it’s gratifying to be able to see the results.

Not every woman is so fortunate as to have a positive relationship with her reflection in the mirror, but I am.

There’s more to it, though. It’s… symbolic. I do it with grace, with elegance, and I like to think it’s a visual encapsulation of all the progress I’ve made in life. Of the fact that I’m a fierce woman, independent, devoid of weakness. That my rise cannot be stopped.

The road has been bumpy, but I’m far away from where I started: I am not the weak, submissive girl I might have been in another life.

My mother, my grandmother, every woman in the family spent their lives bowing to the whims of domineering men. Unsurprisingly, this garbage attitude attracted garbage partners. I can’t remember a single adult Montgomery man who didn’t see women as little more than pretty trinkets and baby-making machines.

I escaped that suffocating misogynistic hell as soon as I turned 18, and I'll be damned if I ever go back.

I shift in front of the mirror, altering my pose, drinking in the sight of my body. It’s been years. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it, it’s a waste of time. I may still carry the name Montgomery, but the old family is dead to me, and has been for a long time.

The men especially. Them, most of all.

Stepping into the shower, I let the scalding water sluice over me, steam filling the room. Thoughts of old male relatives make my mind wander to the man I’ve chosen, precisely because he’s not like them.

Howard is probably still asleep in my bed. That’s still an odd feeling, even after a couple of years spent dating - I don’t let him sleep over here too often. It helps maintain a certain… perspective. And, because he’s not a Montgomery, because he’s not a chauvinist, because he’s not a pig… he’s fine with that. He’s very good at going along with what I say, actually.

It’s one of his better qualities.

Sweet, unassuming Howard. He is...comfortable. Safe. Milquetoast, predictable, not assertive, and not particularly exciting. And therein lies the appeal. I’ve spent enough time in the company of toxic masculinity, and his gentle, passive nature is a refreshing change of pace.

He tries so hard, the poor dear. So eager to please me, to prove himself a worthy partner. But never in an entitled, demanding way, and never so intensely as to push me away. He knows, deep down, that I have no need for a man to complete me. In fact, he probably needs me more than I need him: I earn more, he’s more emotionally needy than I am, and to be completely truthful, he also needs sexual gratification more than I do.

This relationship exists purely on my terms. I allow his presence in my life. But I'll never let him hold power over me like the men from my past.

I get that in theory, a level-playing field would be nicer, but you know what? After seeing every woman in my family spend life in the shadow of a man, I’ll take the reverse situation quite happily, thank you very much.

Wrapped in a robe, showered and now fully awake, I saunter into the bedroom and find him stretching awake, face sleep-rumpled, eyes full of clumsy adoration.

"Morning, love. Sleep well?" He asks with a dopey grin.

"Well enough, dear," I reply, allowing a slight smile. I never call him love, myself, and I’ll only say I love him if he says so, first.

Just basic ground rules you need to learn, if you want to stay in control.

Howard doesn't understand that drive in me, that diamond-hard core of ambition and trauma that propels me forward. How could he? He's never had to fight for his place in the world, to resist being hammered into a predetermined mold. He's a sweet guy, considerate to a fault. But ultimately, he's...average. Not a trailblazer or a rebel, but a follower.

Well, I can use a follower, and a compliant boyfriend is a nice box to tick in the list of my self-image as an accomplished woman, so at the end of the day, this works for both of us. It surely does for me.

Leaning down, I press my lips to his in a brief kiss, nipping playfully. He responds eagerly, hands roaming towards the hem of my robe. But I pull away after a moment. I mustn't let him think he has free rein with my body.

"Not now, dear," I tease, raising a brow. "We both have to get ready for work."

Howard pouts but complies, rolling out of bed. He knows better than to persist when I've made myself clear. I'm not some blushing maiden to be pursued and pressured.

We’re not Montgomery’s.

As I dress for the day ahead, I banish all thought of my old family from my mind. I slip on a tailored suit, the sharp lines and bold colors making me feel powerful and in control. I take pride in my appearance, not for anyone else's sake, but for myself.

“Want me to cook dinner tonight, Viv?” Howard asks me.

I sigh. He's always trying to do things for me, to prove himself useful. Not that I need him to. I've never needed anyone, not since I vowed to never become like my mother.

“No, let’s just meet at the bistro for dinner,” I say, and he acquiesces immediately. There’s basically no friction with him. He knows he’s a supporting character in the story of my life, and he’s… content? Accepting. I’m not really quite sure.

I suppose my strength of character comes at a price. Maybe I’m a little too guarded with Howard. I know it’s easy for women like me – women who have had to fight tooth and nail for every inch of success –to become jaded and closed off emotionally. But it’s necessary for survival.

I will bow to no one. Least of all a man.

***

I stretch.

As comfy as my office chair is, I still get restless in it. I know that for others at work, the hours crawl forward at a snail’s pace, but for me, it’s just a regular day at the office. It flies by in a blur of meetings and emails.

I stay focused. There's no time for idle chitchat with colleagues. I'm here to get shit done.

Finally, I send off the last email and glance at the clock. It's time to head to the gym for my evening workout.

The office is where my mind shines, but I believe in balance as a recipe for succcess, and I won’t neglect my body. At the gym, I am in my element. My muscles ache beautifully with each rep as I push myself to the limit.

Later in the evening, Howard's waiting for me in his usual spot - outside the trendy new bistro, wearing that hopeful, puppy-dog expression he thinks is endearing.

"Dear," I say. "Right on time, I see."

"I wouldn't dream of keeping you waiting, Vivian," he stammers, extending his arm in a chivalrous gesture that makes me frown a little. I take it anyway. I suppose one can make an occasional concession to performative romance every now and again.

Dinner is typical Howard - safe, boring, and utterly forgettable. He babbles on about some work drama that I couldn't care less about, while I pick at my salad, my mind miles away. We make small talk about our days, empty and circumstantial stuff, really, but it’s fine. Safe, uncomplicated, and devoid of conflict.

Finally, the check arrives, and we head back to my place. In the elevator, I lazily press myself against him as I guide my hand to his thigh. His breath catches in anticipation, and I allow myself a slight smile. Men are so easy to control. Sometimes I wonder why more women don’t just… do this. Wrap your hand around a man’s cock, and you’ll usually have it wrapped around his will, too. Maybe that’s how patriarchy is felled. Just a few calculated tugs of a cock-leash.

Heh. If only it were that easy…

But in this particular context, it does work. I have a lower sexual drive than Howard, but even if I didn’t, I would still deliberately grant him slightly less sexual release than he needs. It’s important to keep them wanting more. You’ve got to make men understand that your body is not at their disposal, that sex happens on your terms. If you don’t, well… best not dwell on that. Entitlement and masculinity are a very dangerous combination.

I play with Howard’s zipper for a moment, then withdraw my hand as the elevator comes to a halt. It has been a while… I suppose I can have some fun tonight.

Once inside, I turn and give him a coy smile. "Why don't you wait for me in the bedroom while I slip into something more comfortable?"

Howard's eyes light up and he nods, scurrying off down the hall.

I take my time undressing, carefully folding my clothes, building anticipation. It’s the same old rule. Keep them wanting more. Reinforce who is in need and who’s providing.

When I join him in the bedroom, his eyes widen and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"You look...incredible," he says reverently.

I reward him with a dazzling smile. "Why thank you. Now lie back and let me take care of you."

He complies readily, settling against the mountain of pillows. I climb onto the bed and straddle his face, feeling his hot breath against my skin.

Slowly, sensually, I begin to move my hips, while reaching back with my hand to stroke his cock. It’s already at full mast, of course. There isn’t particular sophistication in my technique, I just rub it up and down. Putting in effort to sexually please a man is not something I’d ever countenance. He can be content with what he’s getting.

It is nice to relax to his oral ministrations, though. He’s diligent and dutiful in eating me out, my own personal cunt attendant, and it does get me going, it’s nice. Good way to unwind from the long day. And he does know how to use that tongue.

It’s not the most… thrilling sexual experience in the world, to have him be so passive, but it’s safe, and it allows me to direct the endeavour, and my pleasure clearly comes before his.

What more can a girl wish for in life, really?

***

I sit down.

This isn’t just a letter I have in my hands. It’s one of those letters that feel immediately serious the moment you touch them, the moment you feel the expensive stationary beneath your fingertips. It’s from my great-aunt, Adelaide.

I haven't heard from her in years, not since I cut ties with the rest of the toxic Montgomery clan. I tear open the envelope, curious as to why she would contact me now.

The letter informs me that Aunt Adelaide has passed away.

As I read the words, I'm surprised she thought of me at all in her final days. It’s a small act of grace, I suppose, and I do appreciate it. I remind myself that she’s been a victim of the misogyny that’s been deeply embedded in the family for decades, not a perpetrator. It’s not her fault. I should mourn the fact that she never got to truly spend a day living for herself, rather than for the men around her.

I skim past the legalese to the part mentioning me. The letter goes on to say that Aunt Adelaide has left a precious family heirloom to me - a ruby necklace that has been passed down through generations of Montgomery women. I frown. I don’t remember seeing it in the family jewellery collection, but then again, it’s been years, and I didn’t exactly go rifling through Aunt Adelaide’s stuff during family visits.

Apparently, there’s a note by her, specifically for me, enclosed at the bottom of the letter.

"To my most headstrong and spirited great-niece, Vivian Montgomery, I bequeath the Ruby Of Femininity. May this be your way back into the family."

I chuckle darkly. Of course, it would have a dramatic name. Aunt Adelaide was always one for theatrics. And as for that last bit…

I snort derisively. My parents, too, thought they could bribe me back into the family fold with their wealth. I cut financial ties with them just the same as all other ties. You can’t truly distance yourself from someone, if you depend on them.

I started over, built my life from scratch, and I’m better off for it.

Still… this isn’t wealth, being offered me. It’s just a necklace. I've always appreciated rare treasures and fine pieces of jewelry. Perhaps I should at least take a look before deciding.

A few days later, a package arrives containing the fabled ruby necklace. I open the box eagerly, letting the lamplight dance across the glittering rubies.

It is exquisite. The metalwork is elegant, and the deep red stone glows like a smoldering ember against the delicate gold filigree. I carefully lift the necklace from the box, feeling the weight of each large ruby stone. This is a true antique, a priceless heirloom, not some trinket.

I stand and cross to the mirror, fastening the necklace around my neck, the ruby resting at the hollow of my throat. I turn my head from side to side, watching the stone flash. This is a masterpiece.

Smirking with satisfaction, I decide to keep the necklace. This will be my small rebellion, snatching away such a treasure from their unworthy hands.

For a moment, the ruby seems to glow brighter against my skin, as if responding to my acceptance. I feel an odd tingling sensation, as if the necklace is vibrating against my skin.

It's likely just my vivid imagination, kicked into overdrive by the beauty of this thing. The ruby feels almost like a third eye. My mind begins to cloud as I stare deeply into the glinting red of the stone, so deep, so multi-layered. I feel myself relaxing, and my doubts about accepting anything that ever belonged to a Montgomery start to dissipate.

Yes, I will keep the necklace. This is meant to be mine.

That night, I dream.

I find myself wandering through a dark mansion, cold marble floors under my bare feet. There is an eerie stillness in the air, and I feel a strange sense of foreboding. As I drift silently from room to room, I notice the walls are lined with gilded mirrors that seem to multiply into infinite reflections of myself. But the woman staring back has sunken, vacant eyes. She seems almost entranced as she moves slowly through this imposing place.

Out of the stillness, I hear a deep voice call out. "Vivian..." The voice echoes through the empty halls.

And just like that, hands surround me.

There’s so many, too many to count. They’re not rough, but they’re unmistakably firm. They grip my wrists, my ankles, my hair. Fingers hook under my chin, and others wrap gently around the hollow of my throat. They cup my nose, cover my lips, twine with my own fingers.

They undress me.

I surrender to the caresses, to the touch, unable to fight back, to mount any meaningful resistance. Everything feels foggy as the hands begin to toy with my nipples, as fingers slide under my panties, as I find myself breathing faster, humping faster, and faster, and faster, and faster…

I sit up.

I jolt awake, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. A nightmare, nothing more. I tell myself, but the memory of the dream lingers, like an itch I can't scratch.

That morning, I make my way to the kitchen, my head still foggy from the vivid nightmare. Howard is already there, sipping his coffee while scanning the newspaper headlines.

"Good morning, Viv," he says in an unusually chipper tone. Not love, I can’t fail to notice, he’s called me Viv. He doesn’t look up from the newspaper as I enter the room.

The hair stands up on the back of my neck. For a moment, I’m filled with a primal, instinctual, nameless sense of danger, the same instinct you feel when something’s stalking you in a dark forest, a fear older than words…

But then, I spot the plate of eggs he’s prepared for me, and the fear dissipates. Normal, it’s all normal. My doting boyfriend has made me breakfast, dreams mean nothing, and all is good with the world again.

"Morning," I mumble back as I pour my own cup of coffee.

I sit down across from him and pick at my food, trying to find my appetite. We eat breakfast in relative silence. A dull headache throbs at my temples as I try to chase away the grogginess.

The ruby pendant gleams on the kitchen counter, which is just weird. I frown, recalling. I definitely left it in a drawer in my night stand yesterday evening. Did I move it? If so, why don’t I remember doing that?

Did Howard move it? If so, why hasn’t he commented or asked about it at all? It’s not exactly something you overlook or ignore, what with how astonishingly pretty it is… beautiful, deep, red, even now, as the stone is catching the first rays of dawn.

It glows…

***

I take my face in my hands.

The last few weeks have been… complicated. Both at home and at work. I’m not used to it, especially because my best weapon to overcome adversity - my strength of character - has been… a little less reliable than usual, lately, and I can’t figure out why.

My thoughts feel muddled, my emotions amplified. It's getting harder to focus at work, to stand my ground in meetings. Even at work, I falter, I feel softer, more pliant. The confidence I've always prided myself on ebbs away. I hesitate to argue forcefully during meetings. When a male colleague makes a casually sexist comment, I just smile weakly instead of calling him out like I normally would.

At home, I surprise Howard by wearing casual dresses and more marked makeup more often. I used to scorn such frivolous feminine pursuits, but now they feel comforting. Howard seems pleased, though confused, by my change in demeanour. As for me, I guess I’m just feeling more…

Feminine.

Damn. Am I becoming like my mother? But no, obviously not. Just because I’m getting a little femme’d up doesn’t mean I’m going to suddenly start kowtowing to men, that’s insane. I need to stop living my life in fear of my past. I’m just… unsettled by all this change, that’s all.

One thing, however, does remain constant: the pendant. Throughout the day, I find myself fidgeting with it absentmindedly. In meetings, my fingers stroke over the smooth facets of the ruby, while I listen to my male colleagues drone on. I squeeze it to seek reassurance when it’s my turn to speak, and I find myself shrinking back if I’m contradicting something a man has said.

Howard is spending more and more time at my place, and I haven’t found the energy to re-establish a proper boundary yet. We haven’t been to the bistro in a while either - he says that he likes it better when we cook together. Though I’ve been the one doing most of the cooking, lately.

And most of the dish-washing.

And now, as I’m finishing up with the dishes, he stands up behind me.

"Hey, come here," he says.

Suddenly, his strong grip pulls me onto his lap, and before I can react, his rough lips forcefully press against mine. His stubble scratches my cheek, and I try to squirm out of his grasp.

"Howard, stop," I gasp, pushing against his chest. But he only tightens his hold on my waist and runs his greedy hands over my body.

I raise my hand to slap him… but immediately lower it again.

And that, that’s what terrifies me. Not that he’s being so pushy, but that I can’t enforce my boundaries. Normally I’d chew him alive for even presuming… for daring…

“Stop?” He asks with a frown. "Why?"

I try back away slowly, but his grip is still tight around my wrist. "I… I’m not really in the mood."

"Oh, you’re not in the mood,” he says, and I look at him with wide-eyed disbelief. Was that a… mocking tone in his voice? Howard never mocks me. He wouldn’t dare!

“You know what, Viv? That’s fine. There’s more productive things we could be doing. For example, we need to talk," he says bluntly. I feel a knot forming in my throat.

My heart drops into my stomach at those words. "W-w-what about?”

He smiles. Thinly. "It's time we move in together. I’ve told my landlord already. I’m moving in with you.”

I find myself snarling, anger rising within me. "What? You can't just make decisions for us without consulting me! Don't I get a say in this? This is my apartment!"

Howard shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. "We've been together two years, Viv. It's time to take the next step."

His casual tone infuriates me even more. I'm not some obedient little housewife! I’m not like my mother!

"You can't just make unilateral decisions for us," I snap. "This relationship is supposed to be equal."

Howard raises an eyebrow. “When has it ever been equal, Viv? You decide on everything. When and how we have sex, where we eat, how long I’m allowed to spend in your presence. That inequality has always suited you. Well, now I’m making a decision. What are you going to do about it?”

I stare at him in disbelief, a cold dread creeping through my veins. This can't be the same docile, accommodating Howard I've known for years. The one who always deferred to my wishes, who never challenged my authority in our relationship.

Where is this sudden sense of entitlement coming from? His arrogant stance and patronising tone sound just like… like…

A Montgomery man.

That mental connection is enough to make my skin crawl, and my heart hammer against my chest. Some of the fogginess smothering my mental clarity seems to lift, and I take a step closer towards Howard, invading his personal space.

"How dare you presume to control me and my home," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I am not some docile little pet you can order around. I've spent my whole life escaping that patriarchal nonsense, and I'll be damned if I let you turn me into the subservient housewife my family wanted me to be."

Howard steps even closer, backing me against the wall. He grasps my chin firmly and tilts my face up to meet his gaze.

“I’ve put up with this crap from you for too long,” he says. “Just because I want to move in with you, I’m a misogynistic monster? Get a fucking grip, Viv.”

That’s not why, I want to say. It’s because you’re doing this without worrying about my consent. I try to summon the words, but they won’t come.

Howard tsks softly and cups my chin, forcing me to meet his flinty gaze. "Such a bratty little princess. Stop this nonsense and act like an adult, for once.”

His words send ice through my veins. This can't be real. My strong, successful self crumbles under his domineering presence.

No. I won't surrender control, won't become just another dainty and feminine Montgomery woman, I won’t allow it! I push against his chest defiantly, but he doesn't budge.

"Let me go, Howard," I demand, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "You don't own me."

He arches his eyebrow at that. "Interesting word choice. You brought that up, not I."

My lips part to protest, but the words die on my tongue. A creeping sense of dread slowly winds its way around my heart. Howard hasn't just changed - he's become the very thing I've spent my life running from. The oppressive, controlling men of my youth, so quick to dominate and subdue.

I want to scream at him, put him in his place, but an instinctive, primal fear gives me pause. Should I challenge him, there's no telling how he might respond. He's unpredictable now in a way that terrifies me to my core.

All men are.

I’m acutely aware of the necklace around my neck, almost like it’s weighing me down. The ruby feels oddly warm against my skin…

With a swift motion, Howard leans forward. His lips crush mine in a brutal, claiming kiss. I whimper in protest, but his raw masculinity overwhelms me. My traitorous body melts shamefully against him.

Howard's hand roughly fists my hair and wrenches my head back, his eyes boring into mine. His fingers have never felt this strong. The ruby has never felt this warm. My mind and my body have never felt this weak, and I…

No! I can't...I won't... I…

***

I kneel.

Part of that is the pressure from Howard’s hand, resting unceremoniously atop my head, pushing downward. But only part. I’m strong, and I could resist, if I really tried, it’s just that…

That…

My body complies, and my knees hit the floor with a fateful thud. This isn't me, I'm not this person, I’ve worked all my life to not be this person, but…

Howard unzips his pants, freeing his erect cock. Pre-cum glistens on the swollen head, highlighting every vein that runs along its length. He’s already fully hard at the idea of winning an argument against me, of shutting me up by literally sticking his cock down my throat, of imposing his presence in my home.

That’s… terrifying. And hot.

He guides himself to my lips, rubbing the slick tip over my mouth.

"Suck it."

I whimper, shaking my head weakly. Even though he’s eaten me out countless times during this relationship, he knew better than to ask for me to reciprocate. Only…

Only he’s not asking now, is he?

No, no, he can't do this, I won't let him. But words of protest die in my throat as my lips part. Howard sinks into the wet heat of my mouth with a groan.

The heavy taste of musk and sex coats my tongue. He fucks my face unhurriedly, and somehow the slow, deliberate pacing feels even more humiliating. Like he’s completely in control. Like he can afford to take his time, because I’m unreservedly at his disposal as a source of oral relief.

He guides my head up and down firmly, grunting and thrusting with each motion. I feel utterly degraded, yet a traitorous heat pools between my legs. Why does submitting to him like this feel so quintessentially feminine?

I look up at him, trying to see me through his eyes. A strong, toned, confident woman, on her knees, dutifully servicing him, swirling my tongue around the tip of his cock…

He holds my head in place as he lazily slides in and out between my lips.

"You know, this could be an everyday thing if you'd just let me move in," he says casually, as if discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

I try to throw him an angry look, but I’m not credible, not from down here, I myself can’t possibly take it seriously. How could he?

I try to pull back but his grip only tightens, forcing me to accept every inch of his length. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes and trail mascara down my cheeks. I must look utterly wrecked, yet the humiliation only seems to excite me more.

My jaw aches as Howard's cock hits the back of my throat. He lets out a low groan of satisfaction. I feel so utterly used, nothing but a holster for his cock. My eyes water as he masters my throat, his thick length choking off my air.

Glurk, I emit, gagging around his cock. Glu, gluck.

“I’m sorry,” he says from above me, looking smugly amused. “I didn’t quite catch that. Was that a, yes Howard, honey, please move in with me and be the man of the house that I just heard?”

Mmmpphh, I mumble futilely around his cock. The power of speech is beyond me with my mouth stuffed full, but my flaming cheeks, watery eyes, compromised position, must tell him everything.

Is this really the end of my independence?

His languid thrusts gradually build in intensity as he nears his peak. I can sense him swelling and throbbing against my tongue, his ragged breaths growing louder. He grips my hair tighter, using my mouth with single-minded focus. I emit soft, involuntary mewling sounds, the vibrations drawing animalistic grunts from him.

"That's it, take it all," he growls. "Going to come down your throat, darling."

Not love, I note dryly to myself. The demeaning endearment cuts through me even as I steel myself to receive his cum. To taste it, for the first time.

With a few final pumps, he spills himself into my mouth, groaning loudly. Rope after rope of cum hits the back of my throat, battering down my self-image, my defenses, my self-respect.

Marking me as his.

I mewl softly around his cock, swallowing rope after rope of cum without protest, suckling with vigour to coax out every single drop of cum.

As the ruby pulses, so does the shameful ache between my legs. This isn't me...I don't just passively submit...And yet, on my knees with his throbbing cock between my lips, I've never felt more like a woman.

***

I stand.

I’m at the sink, hands plunged into soapy water as I mechanically wash the dishes from dinner. Lost in thought, I don't hear Howard come into the kitchen until his arms wrap around my waist from behind.

"You look so sexy doing housework, darling," he whispers in my ear as his hands roam over my body. “It suits you so much better than a stuffy office.”

I freeze, a ceramic plate clutched in my wet fingers. His words spark an involuntary shiver down my spine even as my gut twists with unease.

Before I can react, he's unzipping his pants and pressing his stiffening cock against the curve of my ass through my thin skirt. My breath hitches, goosebumps rising on my bare thighs. I want to protest, but the words lodge in my throat.

I whimper softly as his fingers probe my wet folds, my traitorous body responding to his degradation. The plate slips from my soapy fingers and clatters in the sink.

"Tsk tsk," Howard chides as he roughly turns me around to face him, backing me against the counter. "Can't even do a simple chore right. I suppose I'll just have to keep you pregnant and barefoot where you belong. Be a good girl and bend over for me.”

Swallowing hard, I slowly comply, bracing my hands on the edge of the sink. I feel the cool air on my exposed skin as he flips up my skirt and tugs my panties down just enough to grant him access.

"Please..." I whimper, though I'm not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.

"Shhh, just relax," Howard murmurs. "Be a good girl and take what I give you."

I bite my lip to stifle a moan as the broad head of his cock rubs along my slick entrance. Gripping my hips, he drives into me in one long stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside my quivering pussy. I cry out, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls.

He slides into me, again and again, without preamble or permission, sheathing himself fully in my tight, wet cunt - ready for him, even if my mind wasn’t. I bite back a whimper, shocked by how aroused I already am despite the fact that he’s raping me - and that everything about this feels like a fever dream.

As he starts to move, thrusting steadily while one hand gropes my breast, I stare blankly at the half-washed dishes through a haze of traitorous pleasure.

I shouldn't be enjoying this, but god help me, I am. Physically - kind of, the feeling of his cock stroking my inner walls is… something. But that’s not what has me teetering dangerously close to climax.

It’s the fact that my increasingly dismissive, dominant boyfriend is raping me, and I’m submitting to his will, and I've never felt more feminine or claimed.

I've spent my life trying to be anything but a meek housewife. And yet here I am, allowing Howard to use my body as he pleases, as if I'm nothing more than a toy, a belonging. I feel the last shreds of resistance leave me. I am his, to use or discard - and at that thought, my inner walls clench helplessly around his cock, seeking to milk it completely…

To draw his cum deep inside me…

"That's right, take it like the good little slut you are," he growls.

His words send a jolt of electricity through me. Yes, I'm his slut, his toy, his belonging to use however he wants. I never realized how freeing it would feel to surrender completely.

My clit throbs as Howard reaches around to grope my breasts. He pinches my nipples hard and I gasp, my pussy clenching around him. I'm nothing but a hole for him to dump his cum into, but instead of fighting it, I relish my role.

"Oh god, yes! Fuck your slut! Yes, yes!" I hear myself cry out pathetically, my voice alien to my own ears. This isn't me, I tell myself. But with a jolt of dismay I realize - it is me. This is what I am now.

And I love it. I love being put in my place beneath him. I imagine myself cooking and cleaning for him after this, heavy with his child, dutifully seeing to his every need. The thought makes me quiver and clench around him again, my climax building.

"Yes, make me your trad wife," I whimper. "I submit...I submit..."

As my thoughts deteriorate into an endless loop of filthy, submissive acceptance, a tidal wave of sexual pleasure barrels towards me, unstoppable as a freight train. I'm a fucking whore, and I'm about to come for my rapist boyfriend, cumming over the sink like a common whore.

The thought sends me over the edge, and I cum, hard, convulsing around his cock with a guttural moan, as wave after wave of pleasure lands on me like a mallet, battering me down into my proper place.

With a loud groan, Howard buries himself to the hilt. I feel his cock pulsing, pumping me full of his hot seed. The feeling sends me over the edge and I scream, my pussy spasming around him as my mind goes blank with pleasure for a second time.

Howard holds me close as I tremble through my climax, his cock still buried deep inside me. "That's it, baby. Take all of my cum," he groans into my ear. I feel the warmth of his seed filling me up, claiming me, branding me as his. This is my purpose now - to be his compliant little trad wife, submitting to him completely.

As the haze of orgasm fades, a sense of calm washes over me. My anxious thoughts melt away, replaced by quiet acceptance of my new role. I will be the perfect partner for Howard, supporting him, nurturing him, bearing his children.

I turn and drop to the ground, gently take Howard's slick cock into my mouth, licking him clean with long strokes of my tongue. I like to think that each lap and suckle is a non-verbal reiteration of my total acceptance. As I lovingly minister to him, Howard strokes my hair and says, "Such a good girl." I beam at the praise, my heart swelling with pride at pleasing my man.

This is my life now. Simplicity, certainty, security. I've returned to the natural order that my mother understood - my entire family I understood - but which I had scorned in my youthful arrogance. But now I know better. Now I understand a woman's true purpose. This is where I belong.

And that’s why…

I kneel.