Up. And down.

Just… like that? In the open?

My cheeks are on fire, which is ridiculous — he is the one who should feel embarrassed and mortified! This… this creep over there under the oak tree is jerking his fucking cock in public!

I look around. The park is deserted at this hour, and a thick fog clings to the trees and the grass like a shroud. It’s no surprise, I suppose, I come here to jog this early in the morning precisely because it’s deserted. But why is he here? Why does this guy think he can just… whip it out in a public place? If he really wanted to rub one out, couldn’t he do it in his warm and comfy bed?

But no. He had to wake up at bird’s fart and come all the way here to ruin my fucking morning. Typical entitled male asshole. Just looking at him fills me with such… rage.

Up. And down.

His hand is on his cock, pumping up, and down. It’s a strong hand. I’m not sure how I can tell: we’re not super close, and visibility is poor. I just… can.

A strong hand, and a big cock. His hand must be much bigger than mine, and it still doesn’t fully cover his erection as he lazily rubs himself.

Up. And down.

I should report him to… the police? Somebody? I’m pretty sure this counts as public indecency. He’d be in so much fucking trouble.

Given the times, even if the police let him walk away scot free with this act of obscene exhibitionism, I could ruin him by posting on social media about this. I’m sure the story would spread like wildfire. There’s less and less tolerance for cishet scumbags like him, behaving like the entirety of the planet revolves around their dicks. If I make enough noise, his employer may even find out. He may even lose his job. That’d teach him a fucking lesson about exposing an innocent woman bystander to his fucking horniness.

Given the times…

Up. And down. Women’s fortunes seem to go up and down, lately. So much feminist progress in so many areas of mainstream culture… and then, occasionally, bam. Legal restriction. Bam. Misogynist with rape allegations becomes prime minister. Bam. I’m staring at a guy jerking his cock in a public park, I’m standing still as a statue and staring, staring as his hand goes up…

And down.

Why am I just standing here?

Something about the rhythm of his hand, the casual confidence with which he touches himself in the open air, has paralysed me. So entitled, so arrogant, so unapologetic, so… masculine. He’s not even hiding in the bushes – no half-measures or excuses, just owning the act. Owning the entire space, like his cock is some kind of flag planted in a territory he gets to rule.

The fog swirls around us like we’re the only two people left in the world.

He doesn’t even know I’m here, I’m sure. He hasn’t reacted at all. Perhaps I should make my presence known. Then, he would be mortified, scared of the consequences. He’d tuck himself in, and I’d keep on walking, and I would have ruined his day, even without calling the police or unleashing feminist rage on social media. If he sees me, surely, he will relent.

But what if he doesn’t…?

This guy is clearly an exhibitionist. A predator. A fucking creep.

But also… a conqueror.

I frown. I’m not sure where that word came from, it just… did. He’s got that faint smirk, relaxed, like he’s the teacher and this is the lesson. Up and down, up and down, until the girl cracks. Until she gives in and admits that she lives in a man’s world, after all.

Maybe that’s just what men do, their sixth instinct for handling us. They make us feel something, even when all we want is for them to disappear. Maybe this is their secret weapon. Maybe this is how they win.

He’s picking up speed, now. Up, and down.

And forward. I’ve taken a step forward.

I’m trying not to, but I’m trapped in a surreal feeling, like I’m a passenger in my own body, like this is all a dream. I close the distance between us, sick fascination spurning me onward.

The guy’s not even looking up.

My gaze is equally steady, only it’s fixed on his cock. Thick, angry, standing up at attention, eager, demanding. Such a big fucking cock. I’d probably need both hands to really hold it. The thought makes my knees weak. Why does it look so… tempting?

The image slithers into my brain and refuses to leave: parting my lips, sliding the head of his cock inside, tasting salt and heat, feeling it stretch the corners of my mouth until my jaw aches.

This cock… is the enemy. But also, undeniably, the center of attention.

Up and down. Up and down.

The metaphorical and literal muzzling of my identity, my politics, and my pride…

I blink, hard, forcing myself to look away, but my gaze just snaps right back, like there’s a leash on it.

I want to hate him, and I do, but I also want—

Another step.

By the time he notices me, I’m already descending to my knees in the grass, next to him. By serendipity, his hand is travelling up his shaft in that moment, and for a second we look like parts of one coreography. Hand, going up. Girl, going down.

There’s a look of surprise in his face, a small jerk of motion, but he immediately settles as my hand replaces his on his cock.

I guess men are always ready to use us as sexual accessories…

His cock feels so hard and smooth in my hand. So big. So powerful. So… worthy of worship.

I lean forward and take him into my mouth. The weight of him on my tongue feels like surrender of my right to speech and protest.

I suck him eagerly, hungrily, like I've been starving for this exact moment. My lips stretch around his girth, and I take him deeper with each downstroke, whimpering and gurgling like an animal being subdued. My mind is blank except for the sensation of fullness, of service. What the fuck am I doing? What happened to all my principles, my anger, my feminist rage?

His hand finds the back of my head. At first, it just rests there, but then his fingers thread through my hair, tightening gradually. Not painful, but unmistakably in control. I moan around him, the sound involuntary and shameful.

Predator. Conqueror.

Soon, he’s using my face like a fleshlight, my mouth like a cunt. I go limp in the grip of his strong hands as he bobs my face on his cock like I’m a boneless bobblehead. Up and down. A gasp on the way up. A gluk on the way down.

My eyes look up at him. My drool dribbles down my chin. His hands pull my hair up. Tears trickle down my cheeks. This is the truth of sex, the truth of power, the truth of gender relations, I feel this in my bones, I feel this in my needy cunt. Someone’s always going up, and someone’s always going down…

He pulls me off him suddenly, his hand still firmly in my hair, holding me in place. His other hand works his cock rapidly, and then he's coming.

Cum splashes across my cheeks, my lips, my chin. I close my eyes, feeling it mark me, claim me. I’m his conquest, I’m his female, I’m part of his territory. He goes up, I go down.

When I open my eyes again, he's tucking himself away, zipping up his jeans. The fog swirls between us, making the moment feel even more dreamlike and disconnected from reality.

"Thanks," he says simply, casual as if I'd just passed him the salt at the dinner table or whatever. I remain on my knees, cum cooling on my face, as he begins to undo his belt.

I idly wonder if he’s going to beat me with it. I don’t stir at the thought. How quickly the feminist in me has disappeared. In this horny mind fog, I would just submit to any discipline or treatment he saw fit for me. He is, after all, the victor, and that makes me the vanquished, subject to his terms for me…

But in his mercy, my new master does no such thing. Instead, he wraps the belt around my neck, like a makeshift leash, and gives it a firm tug. I was already on my knees, but the tug sends me sprawling forward, on all fours, at his feet.

I feel so small.

Such symbolism in this. The humiliation. The ease. Defeat and domestication and dehumanisation…

He clicks his tongue, like he’s talking to a pet. "I’ve always wanted to walk a dog through this park. Come on, bitch. Be a good dog. Heel."

I meekly follow him on all fours, tugged by his leash-belt, into the fog, towards a future that I can visualise all too certainly. There’s no need to wonder about the details, is there?

Everyone knows what happens to a woman who suffers a total defeat at a man’s hands.

She is destined to be his domestic and sexual servant. His maid, his incubator, his sex toy, his cum rag. It’s what feminism has been fighting against, since its very beginning. Unfortunately, I’ve learned something about that fight today.

This is just what men do, their sixth instinct for handling us. They make us feel something, even when all we want is for them to disappear. This is their secret weapon.

This is how they win.

THE END