A 'Fall Of Women' Christmas Carol

"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in weeks," I counter, my voice trembling with desperation. "Ever since the payload hit, I've been fighting this. Fighting my own mind, my own body. It's exhausting, Peter. I can't do it anymore."

I shuffle forward on my knees, pressing my forehead against his thigh. I can feel the heat of his skin through his jeans, smell his familiar scent. It's intoxicating. "Please," I whisper. "I need this. I need you to do this for me."

Peter's hand comes to rest on my head, his fingers threading through my hair. For a moment, I think he's going to pull me to my feet, reject my plea. But then his grip tightens, holding me in place. I let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

"Are you sure about this, Maggie?" he asks, his voice low and strained. "Once we do this, there's no going back."

"I'm sure," I breathe. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

With agonizing slowness, Peter takes the collar from the box. The leather is soft and supple in his hands. He unbuckles it, then brings it to my throat. I tilt my head back, baring my neck in total submission.

The first brush of leather against my skin is electric. I gasp, my entire body trembling as Peter wraps the collar around my throat. He cinches it tight, the pressure a constant reminder of my new status. Owned. Claimed. His.

He buckles it closed with a soft click that seems to echo in the charged silence. It's done. I'm collared. Marked as his property, his possession.

Tears of relief stream down my face as I feel it settle into place. Settle me into my place.

I lean forward, placing one reverent kiss on the tip of his shoe, and finally say the words.

"I acknowledge myself owned."

V -- A Woman Of Deeds

I'm hogtied under the Christmas tree when it happens.

It's the end of a telescoping sequence that started with a boat in the middle of the ocean, and with a sudden notification on my smartphone. It concludes like this: with me on my belly, trussed up like a pig, a sexual gift for Peter -- for Master -- under the Christmas tree.

It's been my telescoping sequence. But since I've acknowledged myself owned, I suppose it is only fitting that the sequence end not with me, but with him. To be more specific, with his erect cock, jutting towards my face as he kneels over me.

I gaze up at him, my neck craning uncomfortably, and try to reconcile the man above me with the Peter I've known for years. The Peter who supported my career, who read feminist literature to better understand my perspectives, who stood by me through every struggle.

How quickly that effort has vanished now. What's more, it's vanishing because I'm actively making it vanish.

It's my responsibility, as a woman, to ensure that he loses all respect for me. He has to stop seeing me as a person, because women aren't people.

We are to sex what cattle is to farming.

"Are you sure about this, Maggie?" Peter asks again, his voice strained. He can't quite seem to look me in the eye. "We can still stop. I don't want to take advantage..."

I shake my head vehemently, straining against my bonds to get closer to his cock. I need it more than air, though I don't say it out loud. As a woman, it's important that I communicate my natural preferences through my actions, not my words. I understand the woman from my final hallucination much better now.

Guuuhhh, that was what she grunted to me. Eeeeek.

Slowly, tentatively, Peter shuffles closer on his knees, until the very tip of his cock brushes against my parted lips. I engulf it with my lips, flick at it with my tongue, pulling gently at the head as if I want to coax him closer with nothing but my mouth. Peter gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

My body sings in alignment with the laws of nature as finally, finally, his cock slides inside. I wrap my lips around him, my tongue swirling and undulating along the underside as I begin to suck. Soft, kittenish licks and sucks at first, teasing him, coaxing him deeper.

His fingers tangle in my hair, and I smile to myself. Words are wasted on a woman's mouth. This is what it's made for.

I wrap my lips more firmly around his cock. I run my tongue sinuously along his length. I'm pouring every ounce of devotion into my actions: he's my master, and my neurons fire for him, my muscles flex for him, my body moves for him. I hope he can sense the worship in what I'm doing. I hope that he can tell.

Peter's hands hover uncertainly before coming to rest on my head. He applies the lightest of pressures, as if testing my willingness, my readiness. I do not flinch or pull away; I'd lean into him if I could, but being hogtied, I have no real range of forward or backward motion. I can only work his cock in as far as he thrusts it in my mouth.

It occurs to me, idly as I suck, that my position is somehow so... symbolic. If you were to personify the female sex at this moment, wouldn't you do it like this? Restrained, constrained by an external force, presented and ready for fucking, for exploiting. All men have to do is take a step, and stick their cocks in our mouths.

Shut us up. Tell us, summarily, to suck and swallow and sign our rights away...

My cunt clenches, aching to be filled, dripping with desperate need.

But this isn't about my pleasure. Not anymore. My purpose, my only desire, is to serve and satisfy my man. My owner. Nothing else matters.

I can't take him fully, not in this hogtied position, but I try my best, straining against my bonds to swallow more of him. I work what I can reach with fervor bordering on religious ecstasy, worshipping his cock with all the skill and devotion my broken mind can muster.

This is my sole purpose now, the only thing that matters - pleasuring my owner, my master, with my mouth, my throat, my very being.

Above me, Peter groans, his hips beginning to rock, thrusting shallowly into my willing mouth. His fingers tighten deeper in my hair, holding me in place as he uses me.

Yes. One step, and then another, and soon, he'll stop seeing me as his girlfriend. He'll stop seeing me as a human being.

When he first breaches the entrance to my throat, my eyes flutter and roll back into my skull. My nose nestles into his pubic hair as I struggle to breathe. Soon, drool begins to drip down the corners of my lips -- so messy, and debasing, and utterly right.

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as he hits the back of my throat, again and again, making me gag and sputter around him. Mastering my airway with his cock.

It is as it should be. Given the option between air and cock, I'd choose the latter every single time. Most women on the planet would...

And the others will soon join us.

The world narrows to the slide of his cock between my lips, the ache in my jaw, the burn of my lungs as they scream for air. Nothing else matters, nothing else exists beyond this moment, this act of supreme submission. I am a vessel for his pleasure, a warm, wet hole for him to fuck, a simple-minded sexual animal.

Peter's thrusts grow erratic, his breathing heavy and labored above me. He's close, I can tell, his cock is throbbing like crazy against my tongue.

A few more brutal thrusts and he stills, burying himself to the hilt in my throat as he cums with a guttural groan. Hot, thick ropes of semen shoot straight down into me. I don't even need to swallow - my throat spasms and milks his cock automatically.

That says so much about who I really am. It was always silly to think myself his equal.

My higher cognition, my thoughts and dreams and ambitions, they were all just a distraction from my true purpose. An evolutionary mistake that the payload has now corrected.

Peter pulls out, trailing strands of cum and saliva. He looks down at me.

I look up at him.

And for the first time, I see it. The change in his eyes. The sudden increase in distance, which should have always been there really, because he's a human being and I'm just a slavegirl. And I realize that I was wrong. The sequence is not over.

The things the payload showed me... I'm sure a virus cannot literally know the future. But I'm also sure that it will win. Details may differ, but really, how much can our fate as women realistically deviate from what it showed me?

No. Women have lost the war, but we are yet to lose the peace. We may have been dismantled as a force to reckon with in the world, but our journey hasn't reached its destination yet. We have more distance yet to run.

Telescoping from one nightmare, and into the next.

It's that knowledge that makes me lap reverently at Peter's softening cock, when he presents it for cleaning. And it's that knowledge that makes me respond as I do, when he asks me a question.

"How..." he says, hesitantly. "How do you feel? I mean, how do you really feel?"

Thougthfully, he briefly withdraws his cock from my mouth, so I can answer. He needn't have bothered, really. I look at him with the most submissive, mercy-begging eyes I can, and I draw in breath.

Eeeeek, I respond, trying for the life of me to sound just as much a stupid broken cow as my hallucination did last night. Guuuhh...

Peter looks at me for a second, puzzled, confused. Then, he shrugs, and sticks his cock back in my mouth, for cleaning. Good enough for him. After all...

Words are wasted on a woman.

THE END

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