"You said something like this," Brad says. "The premise is the history of feminism: that women have managed to claw out rights, while starting from a position of subjugation."
"Right," I say, massaging my temples. But Brad isn't looking for my input now, he just keeps talking.
"It logically follows that, if men really wanted to eradicate feminism, returning to the past wouldn't be enough. If we defeated you, we wouldn't just turn back the clock. What incentive would we have to do that, when the patriarchy failed to keep you in check the first time? The logic is sound. Perfectly internally consistent."
"I..." I say, looking for a rebuttal, because I feel like it shouldn't make sense, and yet it does. Doesn't it?
"Men are logical like that," Brad says, and I shudder, thinking, yes, logical and cold and rational and controlling. "We would draw the relevant conclusions, and we would dominate you. The new patriarchy would be much harsher than the old, so that the fate of your gender could truly be sealed forever."
"Yes..." I say in a squeaky voice, not understanding why my heart is thundering against my chest, while my breathing is suddenly so shallow. "That's why it's so important that feminism triumphs..."
"You mentioned the terms," Brad says, sharply this time, cutting me off unapologetically. He leans forward even more, my eyes now swimming into the depths his. "You mentioned them in your speech. To clarify the stakes women face. Do you remember?"
"Of course, why wouldn't I remember my own speech?" I finally manage, even though as it happens, I don't remember... technically. But I feel like a part of me now does. I let it take over. I let it speak on my behalf.
"The terms... they were meant to illustrate the consequences of failure."
"I'm not asking for intent, but content. Tell me what terms would be imposed," Brad insists, almost like he's interrogating me, like he's the masculine representative of some terrifying law enforcement agency, and I'm just a female prisoner, a rebel to be mined for information... to be made useful...
I bite my lip, feeling the world around us fade as I surrender to the memory once more. And surrender is really the right word, because I'm not consciously remembering any of this. It's just... taking over, sitting in the driver's seat of my speech when I let it.
"After our defeat," I begin, my voice unsteady, "we would become chattel, and nothing more. The right to vote would be the first to go, and then the right to own property, and then bodily autonomy."
I gulp, licking my lips. "We would be demoted in every avenue of life, confined to the home, forbidden from pursuing education or careers. Consent would become a foreign concept, replaced by the cruel notion that evolution has sculpted our bodies to be providers of sexual pleasure and comfort to our masters."
I look up. When did Brad stand up from his chair? I stand up, too, but that's a mistake, it just emphasises how much ridiculously taller than me he actually is.
How much stronger.
The room feels charged with an electric energy, and Brad now looms over me like a stormcloud, so close that I catch whiffs of his cologne, that I can listen to his shallow breath.
I want to scream. I want to run. I want to wake up. Instead, I keep talking,
I keep remembering.
"I, I w-wanted to drive home the power of language..." I say, horrified at the fragmented shards of memory that are swirling in my mind right now. "I said women would be brought to heel... our spirits broken, as we are subjected to relentless degradation and humiliation - until we submit willingly. Our minds are manipulated, molded into obedience, until we learn to crave it. To beg for it."
The last words come out as a barely audible whisper, but that's no matter. Brad's lips are basically brushing against my own, now...
"Men would possess an unparalleled skill in taming women. They would have a sixth sense for it, an uncanny ability to read our bodies, deciphering every sigh, every tremble that escapes our whorish lips. They would sculpt the female mind like clay -- mmmppphh!" His lips press against mine. Unapologetic, entitled, demanding, dominating.
His tongue invades my mouth, without my consent, while his hand cradles my neck. When he withdraws from me, I want to shout for help, to cry out, to ask him what the fuck is wrong with him -- and wrong with me.
Instead, I say, "We would be irreversibly broken. In victory, you would shatter the remnants of our resistance until we are mere fragments of our former selves. You would master the delicate art of deconstruction, dismantling our identities brick by brick, until we are nothing more than submissive creatures yearning for their approval. Snivelling little animals..."
"Of course we would do that," Brad says, his hands groping my tits, pinching my nipples, and it hurts and I want him to stop, but I have no control of my body, my memory...
My words.
Is there a greater form of powerlessness than that? What... what is happening to me?
"Our minds would be rewired, erased of any independent thought or ambition," I say, in a low and husky voice. "We would become companionable pets, trained to anticipate your every need and fulfill it without question. Our sole purpose would be to please and serve, offering ourselves as tribute at the altar of male power."
He presses his body against mine, and my back hits the wall. He's so huge, his muscular arms enveloping my dainty feminine frame. Constricting and corralling it, and every woman secretly fears this is what nature intended...
"We would wear collars around our necks," I say, staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, begging for mercy. "Symbols of ownership and submission. We'd be nothing more than possessions, under your utter dominance. Toys to be used and discarded as you see fit."
He presses closer against me, and I can feel the growing erection in his pants, tenting against me.
"You would steer us with a firm hand," I say, and even in my confused state, I can't deny the way my body is responding. The shaky nature of my voice, the growing heat between my thighs.
"To complete your masterpiece," I say as his lips gently toy with mine, his teeth brushing against my lower lip, "we would be dismantled into so many little pieces that we end up being less than human, finally fulfilling the role evolution designed us for..."
His hand gently wraps around my throat, the other still groping, exploring, roaming wherever he wills it. "We'd be emotionally and mentally broken," I say, feeling the palm of his hand against my throat with every gulp, "hollow vessels, permanently expelled from the ranks of humanity. In a world like that... Women's defeat would be irreversible and final."
"Very well said, Claudia," Brad says, his voice trembling with anticipation and arousal. "The terms you've listed... they are my terms for you."
And then, the levee breaks.
Memories flood my mind like a tidal wave crashing onto the shore, each one more vivid and potent than the last. I see myself in the dressing room before the debate, Brad encroaching upon my personal space, his eyes holding a strange glint that sent chills down my spine.
I hear his voice. Soft, almost soothing, as he lulled me to a state of... heightened receptiveness.
Suddenly, I'm back on the stage during the debate, words pouring from my mouth like poison. Brad, his speech had been so milquetoast, so boring, arguing for a return to more traditional gender roles. Nothing too extreme, but also nothing even remotely interesting.
I felt so sure I would win. My prepared argumentations on the power of language made it all but a certainty. Yes, I did have a list of misogynistic idioms ready, and I did talk about the swift and merciless end of feminism. I did talk about women driven to their knees.
But not as a warning.
I said that Brad's solution wasn't radical enough. That to stop unruly women like me, you'd have to pin us to the ground and step on our necks. Choke us during sex. Take us against our will, tame us to your erotic power.
Revoke our claim to human status.
I see the stony silence in the hall, the shock in the audience, their expressions ranging from disbelief to utter disgust. Men squirmed uncomfortably in their seats while women stared in open-mouthed horror and betrayal. Fellow students, professors, relatives, friends -- a sea of horrified faces, trying to reconcile the person they knew me to be, with the monstrous dystopia I was now championing.
And then there were whispers - quiet, disbelieving murmurs that quickly transformed into loud protests. Women in the crowd rose from their seats. Some men, too. People began filing out, and I was so mortified, I wanted to cry until my eyes were red and swollen, but I couldn't. All I could do was talk, and talk, and talk.
My reputation, destroyed... while Brad laughed hysterically, on the podium across from mine.
The shock of realization hits me like a bolt of lightning, my body trembling uncontrollably as the gravity of it sinks in. I attempt to recoil, but the wall and his body keep me hemmed in, trapped, caged. Controlled.
My eyes widen in horror. "What have you done to me?" I manage to stutter, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Brad only grins back at me, revelling in his victory. "Simple, Claudia," he replies, his voice smooth and confident. "I could say you've been hypnotised, that you've become my puppet. But there's a better way of putting it... I've shown you the true, transformative power of words. Just like you've always said."
A frosty chill runs down my spine at the ice-cold tone in his voice. He has me. I always thought of him as little more than a jock with intellectual pretensions, but he has me. Somehow he got inside my mind, sunk his claws in there, and now -- he has me, he has me, he has me.
His eyes bore into mine as he mocks me, one hand still wrapped around my throat, the other pressing against my shoulder. Pressing downward.
"You have quite convinced me, Claudia. Arguing for the trad lifestyle just isn't radical enough. Thank god you made me see the light, huh?"
"No..." I protest weakly, but I find myself sinking down to my knees before him nonetheless. What is overpowering me, right now? His physical strength? My fear that he will harm me, leading me to compliance, like countless women before him? His... hold on my mind?
Does it matter? The end result is the same. I sink to my knees, and my heart sinks with me; I look up at him, triumphant, victorious, so much larger than life that it takes my breath away.
I am putty in his hands. He could strangle me so easily if he wanted to, probably with a single hand... or condition me to do something much worse than ruin my reputation. I am at his mercy.
Like woman is at man's mercy.
"Good girl. Stay down," he says. "Your will is mine. From now on, you won't speak unless spoken to. Your thoughts will mirror mine. You will take every single term you have listed, and engrave it into your heart. That's your code, now. Your law. Your religion."
His fingers run through my hair, and I find myself thoughtlessly leaning into it. No, no! He's destroying my life! He's a fucking misogynist! I'm not a pet!
"Now," he says, his voice echoing around the room as he nods towards his groin. I stiffen, a sense of dread washing over me like an ice-cold wave... just as the subconscious knowledge of what's about to happen lights my cunt on fire. "It's time for you to get to work."
Every fiber of my being screams at me to rebel, to bite him and run away. Or at least, shout. Fight. Show that I don't consent to this, even as a symbolic victory, damn it!
I want to protest, to call for help, to condemn him for the monster he is, but when I open my mouth, no sound comes out. My lips tremble as they draw closer to him, my hands resting gingerly on his thighs as I hesitate.
"Begin," he says, glancing down at me with an expectant look in his icy eyes. His tone leaves no room for argument.
I find myself reaching out tentatively to unzip his trousers, releasing the bulge that strains against the fabric. His dick, fully erect, jumps out at me, and I wonder how long this erection has been brewing. All that time, making me talk, knowing that I was oblivious... that he was inside my head.
That my reputation was gone.
That I was just repeating to him, the terms he was about to impose on me....
With trepidation, I bow my head and take him into my mouth slowly, thus declaring with my actions that I do surrender, that he does defeat me, and ultimately...
That I do accept his terms for me.
My tongue darts out tentatively, tracing over the tip with uncertainty. It's the ultimate betrayal of all that I stand for, of the fight of so many women all over the world. But I struggle to hold on to that feeling, as I begin to suckle gently on the tip of his cock.
Above me, Brad beams with pride -- in himself, in his conquest of my feminism and my body, in his gender. His hand runs through my hair encouragingly as he begins speaking again. "This is just the beginning, Claudia," he says, his voice a compelling mix of arrogance, power, and delight. "You said it so well. I will sculpt you."
His words make me gasp, and writhe, and squirm, and moan -- an auditory and visual invitation for his masculinity to overtake and overwhelm me; to possess me.
In spite of myself, I take him deeper into my mouth. I bob my head up and down his shaft, finding a steady rhythm as I lavish his cock with the attention it's owed by its female servant. My tongue glides along the underside, tracing the thick vein there, while I hollow my cheeks and suck hard. The sound, god...
Why emit verbal, intelligible sounds, when I've been defeated? Doesn't it make sense that the power of language is stripped from me as the first act of my reduction? It's female disarmament. This is the type of sound Brad wants to hear from me. Words are best left to him alone.
He groans in pleasure, his fingers tightening in my hair. My world narrows down to nothing but Brad, the delicious and cruel feeling of humiliation coursing through my body like erotic electricity, and the masterful cock throbbing under my tongue.
"I will tame you," he says, his voice ragged with arousal.
I purse my cocksucking lips and suckle hard on Brad's cockhead, flicking my tongue against his slit to lap up the salty pre-cum leaking out. It feels like, with every motion, I'm letting go of one more piece of my beliefs, my identity, my very self. I renounce it all, slobbering it all over his cock with my spit.
Some primal, long-buried part of me knows this is my rightful place. On my knees, worshipping a real man's cock. Serving as a mere vessel for male pleasure and power. My mind reels at how quickly and completely Brad has seized control, bending me to his will with just his words. The feminist firebrand reduced to a mewling cocksucker in mere minutes, with nothing but words.
"I will break you."
His grip on my hair tightens, and he swiftly impales me deeper down upon his cock, breaching the entrance of my throat, claiming it, mastering it. My hands grip his thighs for balance as my throat dutifully stretches to accommodate its tamer. The choked, whimpery sound of my gagging is such a non-verbal admission of quintessential vulnerability. I don't sound like a person, when I emit that defeated gurgle. I sound like prey.
My eyes blur with tears. My cunt clenches at the thought of how thoroughly he has conquered me, how swiftly and absolutely he has asserted his dominance over me.
He thrusts forward, battering my throat into submission. Drool dribbles down my chin, taking my identity with it, and the wet sound of my slobbering marks me for the non-verbal animal I am in a man's shadow.
I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't crave this utter debasement, this complete obliteration of everything I believe in. But as Brad's cock pummels my throat, as his hands grip my hair and force me down, down, down, I know how thoroughly his words have transformed me.
"Soon enough, cocksucking will be your only talent. That's the only thing your mouth is good for," he mutters. "I will deconstruct you."
He will, and I can't stop him. He is my better in every way - stronger, smarter, ruthless. He's decided to end my female ambition for no better reason than he could.
My face will exist to bear his cum. My throat will exist to swallow it. My activism, my studies, my ambitions, my independence, they all end today. They ended the moment I first lost myself in his eyes, as he hypnotised me.
Such awe-inspiring, masculine power... the power to control a woman's body and mind, to destroy her life, with one single snap of fingers. For no better reason than because he can. Because he thinks it's fun.
He's fucking the feminism right out of me. No, better, he's pushing my own feminist spiels back down my throat, ramming them down with the power of his cock.
"I will dismantle you," he growls, like a predator. "I will end you. You're not a person anymore. You never should have been."
I moan desperately around his cock at the words, which go straight to my clit, frying my nervous system more than any regular sex ever has. He facefucks me faster and faster, and my eyes roll back into my skull at the sheer intensity of my defeat. Of my humiliation.
His cock is starting to quiver in my throat. Hisgrip tightens painfully in my hair as he buries himself to the hilt with a roar, his balls slap against my spit-slicked chin. "Gonna...fuck...breed your throat, cunt," he pants. "Drain my balls...right down your whore gullet."
Spurt after spurt of his cum is dutifully milked from his cock by my flexing throat. I work desperately, swallowing his load down to every last drop, accepting my place as his defeated, subhuman female slave. Tears stream down my face as I choke and gag, but still I don't pull away. I can't. Because, physically and mentally...
He has me.
As I gulp down my tamer's cum, it's almost as if I can see my face from the outside -- my features slackening, my mouth sloppily worshipping, the light of defiance finally forever extinguished from my eyes.
"That's it," he murmurs approvingly, his hand gripping tighter in my hair. "Surrender."
I was right all along, after all. Language is power. Transformative, radical, reality-altering power.
"Surrender," he says, and I know he means it in every sense. Surrender to him, to the patriarchy and the male gender as a whole. Surrender unconditionally to the power of the words that have wormed their way into my mind. His words.
And of course, being a woman...
I do.