A Leashed Tiger Ch. 06

Chapter Six: A Woman Dismantled

I am a disease.

You see, I've always been a visual girl. Back when I was in the fullness of my power, I used to imagine myself darting through campus with a purpose. Untouchable, changing everything around me for the better, sending out ripples that wrinkled the surface of the sea.

Those times are long gone. Now, I despondently drag my feet through the halls, rooms, and grounds of this place. I no longer radiate positive and empowering changes, no. Instead, I am the carrier of a terrible pestilence -- so threatening and insidious that it is more a curse, than a mere disease.

Submission.

The word echoes over and over in my mind, as part of my programming. I turn it over in my head, looking at it from every angle, repeating it so often that it almost starts to lose meaning.

I associate it with images now, because unfortunately, I'm a visual girl. I see all the girls I've changed, their confident expressions softening, their determined postures becoming insecure and unassuming. I see the feminism inside them eroding, replaced with docile femininity, the craving for the guidance of a strong, male hand.

I see all these girls -- former rivals, former friends, former girlfriends, and above all former feminists -- beginning to gravitate around Kevin, like planets around a dark star. All at my doing.

I see them slowly start to converge, drawing closer and closer to Kevin, more and more attentive to his needs, responsive to his words. I see strength becoming weakness, each girl turned from a fighter to a pet. They march to him, heads bowed and eyes glassy, like they're being inexorably pulled by an invisible leash.

I see myself among them.

The lowest of the low, the one responsible for their downfall. Resisting Kevin's hold on me is one thing, but now, with all four girls in the harem lording it over me on a daily basis, every single waking moment... my very sense of self is buckling under the strain.

This extends far beyond the harem. Every girl I meet on campus is programmed to treat me with disdain and disrespect, to think of me as nothing more than an available slut. They execute this to perfection, because of course they would: I programmed them myself, and I've always been thorough.

This is terrible enough in isolation, but it gets worse, so much worse. All the damage I'm doing to girls is only half the picture, after all. The first part of my punishment, beautifully cruel, but incomplete.

And the second part, well, the second part...

How did I not see this coming? I have supplied Kevin myself with the information he needed to start disarticulating my self-esteem. Of course he would do this. Of course, changing the women here on campus would not be enough, would only be the start.

Now it's time to change the men, too.

Like I said. I am a disease. I walk dejectedly all day long, waiting for any opportunity to spend five minutes alone with a male student. Anyone will do, really, even people I've never spoken more than five words to in my entire time here.

Then, my eyes catch fire, and their strength yields to mine, and I begin to reshape them. I make them a bit more confident, a bit more dismissive of girls' issues and opinions, a bit more aggressive, more dominant. I manipulate their sexual preferences.

I instruct them to see me as a willing recipe for ogling, catcalling, and groping. To never take me seriously again.

This is going to turn campus into a nightmare, not just for me, but in general. Soon, submissive girls who crave male approval will start interacting with confident guys who demand female subordination. Like a chemical reaction, it will change the entire composition of the student body. The filthy ideas in Kevin's blog will manifest in the real world.

How long before this entire education facility is turned into a caricature of one of his blog posts?

Of course, not all guys get the same treatment. No, Kevin was very specific about some particular cases...

After all, the first part of my punishment didn't just include changing girls in general. No, I had to specifically undo all of the positive changes I ever brought about. Kevin wants to drive home the message -- it's his power now, not mine. He can and will undo all the work I've ever done, just like he's undoing my lesbianism. He can and will dismantle all I've ever accomplished, just like he's trying to dismantle me.

One after the other, I visit every guy whose attitudes I ever found problematic. Guys who made sexist comments in public or in private, guys who openly ogled girls, even guys who had a reputation for harassment. I go before them, and set my eyes afire, and remove every single change I've ever imposed on them.

Their old, mysoginistic selves are restored... and then some. I turn up their aggression, their willingness to dismiss and demean and objectify women, their sexual appetites and preferences.

And then...

Then comes the apology.

One after another, I drop to my knees before them all. With a fateful thud after another, I lose another piece of the girl I used to be. I'm Serena, the militant lesbian with mind control powers, and over the past week, I've sucked cock for so many different guys that I've officially lost count.

I'm not allowed to talk while I service them. That would ruin the point of the apology, Kevin believes: proper contrition is best shown through silence, and atonement should come in deeds, not words. Besides, what else would a misogynist recommend? Seen and not heard, of course.

And so I mutely submit to these men, who were once instruments of my will, and put my mouth to work in their service.

Some of them do ask me questions. Questions like, "so what's up with this?" or "is this gonna become a regular thing?" or even, "wait, aren't you a lesbian?".

Forbidden from answering, I redouble my efforts, closing my eyes, swirling my tongue around the cock I'm worshipping, distending every facial muscle as I devote every inch of my lips to the eliciting of male pleasure. Humiliatingly, they get used to my silence after a while, and simply sit back and enjoy the treatment... or take the reins, and facefuck me.

Through it all, my programming supplies all sorts of helpful commentary. Isn't this the most fitting way possible to silence a feminist? Literally shoving a cock down her throat, cutting off every silly pretension, every shrill argument about being a man's equal?

Is there anything more synonimous with power than a male hand, pressing down on a woman's head? Pushing her to her knees, limiting her potential, snuffing out her ambition, communicating that she is not to go where she wills, but stay down there and serve? Directing her to a purpose more suited to her skills?

And the worst part?

It makes me so. Fucking. Wet.

I hate this, and I hate that I eroticise it, but I can't help it. Kevin's instructions are clear. I respond to male sexual authority, even if I still resist it. I haven't had a chance to cum in weeks, and with the constant background arousal eroding my will, it's becoming harder and harder for me not to sexualise this stuff, even without the hypnosis.

I'm undersexed, overstimulated, and losing control. Just like Sandra, I've been put in a situation where I am guaranteed to try and resist, but where I have none of the tools I would need to win.

Whose spirit wouldn't be broken by this? Here I am, kneeling in supplication as every single one of my accomplishments is mercilessly, methodically and systematically undone, and all I can do in response is suck cock like a good, obedient slavegirl. And I find it hot. And I can't even cum to it.

I am one of the planets, swirling around, chained to the dark star's orbit. Much like all the other women whose minds I've been poisoning, I, too, have been turned from a fighter to a pet.

Unfortunately, the easy part of my atonement is over. Now...

The real nightmare begins.

***

The moment Logan's features slacken, letting go of all resistance as the jaws of my power snap firmly shut around him, I find myself thinking of earlier times.

I've changed many people, over time. Some changes were small, some big, some meant to help, others to prevent bad behaviour. And a few changes were for my own benefit, of course -- well, a bit more than a few, perhaps.

But Logan... he was my first truly big project, back when I was still trying to plumb the depths of my power, understand how far I could push it, how thoroughly I could reshape another person's mind.

I remember how breathless I felt, seeing the totality of his surrender to me. Here was Logan, one of the biggest assholes on campus, completely helpless in my ever-tightening grip. His ideas weren't far off from Kevin's, but Logan was no scrawny, insecure incel, oh no. He was the quarterback, the jock from a filthy rich family, a job in finance already lined-up for him.

He only attended class because he needed the piece of paper at the end, and was sure to remind us at every single turn.

A joke never left his lips, unless it targeted those weaker than him. The marginalised, the poor, and of course, women. He was a shark in waiting, and always took every opportunity to rub it in our faces that he was born a winner, and we weren't.

You can see the appeal of testing the full might of my powers on such a fine specimen of male toxicity.

And it really was the full might. I didn't stop at dulling and undoing his misogyny, no, I really went to town with him. He quit the football team (and in fact, the gym, too) and switched to a more respectable hobby -- writing feminist poetry.

I made him into an artfully crafted, committed environmentalist, worried about the unsustainability of cars, and fanatical about public transport. I made him drop scotch, and adopt a fervent passion for craft beer. I made him so hopelessly bashful and insecure that he'd never be able to make the first move with a girl again.

In short, I subjected him to what he would consider to be the most emasculating conversion possible. Well, I suppose I could have replaced the craft beer with colourful cocktail drinks, but I found the former option really funny for some reason.

I morphed Logan into the very thing he and his family of rich sociopaths hate the most. It was one of my greatest moments: I'd just gained a new understanding of my powers, and campus had just gained a new woke activist.

I haven't interacted much with him since. I couldn't possibly take him seriously, not after remodelling him so easily. All this time, I've seen him as a joke, a doll I amused myself with for an afternoon, a walking example of the good my power could do in the world. He wasn't even a person to me anymore, not really: he was a successfully completed, and very special, project.

And as such, Kevin believes he deserves a special apology...

Undoing my changes is not enough, oh no. This is going to be a new version of Logan... new and improved, you could say, for a given value of "new" and "improved". The level of poison I'm pouring into his ears is quite frankly disquieting, so much so that I find myself dissociating through it all, listening to my own voice as if it belongs to another person.

"I'll never me too you," I say at one point. "Trust me on this, Logan. There's no need for filters between us. My consent doesn't matter..."

What's the opposite of a work of art?

Maybe this, too, is beautiful in a way. A cold, cruel way. The way a devastating forest fire can look beautiful, even as it leaves destruction and death in its wake. I pushed the boundaries of my powers to turn Logan into something he would hate. Now, I'm doing the same thing, to turn him into something I will hate.

Looked at from a distance, it might look almost... poetic.

It seems to take forever, but eventually, the last drop of poison leaves my lips, worming its way into his mind. My power -- this evil energy of unfathomable alienage -- retreats into my mind, and Logan's eyes begin to flutter as he slowly regains consciousness.

I snap my fingers, trying to bring him back faster. I mournfully reflect this might well be the last time I'm ever bossy with Logan.

"Welcome back," I tell him. "Bet you're feeling great! Well, your day is about to get even better."

Logan blinks at me, in confusion. I flash him an entirely involuntary smile, the programming pulling the strings of my muscles, even as my trapped mind beats desperately against the glass.

"You're taking me on a date tonight," I say, batting my eyelashes at him. Yes, I'm actually batting them, God I just wish for death right now.

Logan seems to compose himself, and stares me down with a look of appraisal. Now that I no longer have any kind of power over him, I become acutely aware of the massive difference in height and bulk between us. Even his... lifestyle change hasn't softened his body, he's built like a truck.

How many women, in human history, have experienced this particular moment? Feeling too threatened and vulnerable to speak up for themselves, intimidated by a man's imposing physical presence, fearful that something will happen to them, if they don't comply?

I used to be immune from that sort of thing. Now, I'm programmed to seek it out and reward it.

I gulp, feeling Logan's eyes inspect every part of my body with complete impunity, his gaze literally crawling all over me. But it's not just my body he's evaluating. I feel like he's trying to look into my very soul, to see my character for what it actually is... or rather, for what my own hypnosis has told him I'm actually like.

He slaps me.

It's a casual gesture, to him. A lazy backhand, hitting me square in the cheek, a gesture of supreme disrespect and contempt, more than a blow meant to cause pain. Even so, I'm a girl -- a tall one, but still a girl -- and he's a hulking behemoth. The impact makes me lose my footing and I find myself half-stumbling, half-falling.

I hit the ground with one knee, one hand leaning against the wall for support, while the other brushes my cheek. It feels like it's on fire.

I'm in shock.

The sudden gesture, the sting of humiliation, the pain of the impact... it's too much. Slowly, I look up at him, all too aware that my lip is trembling, and tears are starting to form in my eyes.

"You will never," Logan says in a very serious tone, "ever speak to me unless spoken to, first. Understood, Froggy?"

I give a hesitant nod, every single muscle of my body trembling.

"Good doll," Logan says, patting my head like he would a dog. "Date it is. I'll pick you up at eight. Just need to find where I left my car first, it's been a while... anyway. Wear something slutty."

He doesn't even wait for me to answer. His order imparted, his superiority clearly asserted, he turns his back to me and walks away, whistling an innocent tune to himself.

I stay there in the hallway, on my knees, trembling like a leaf. It's hard to believe I once commanded the power of the stars at my fingertips... how distant that feels, now. Now, I'm just Froggy, a silly girl in a man's world, shaking and crying, and most of all, complying.

No wonder I find myself thinking of earlier times. There is nothing in the present for me.

Only more horror.

***

Here's a funny thought.

By this point, I've sucked so many cocks that what used to be my lesbian gold star might as well have been airdropped into a volcano; I've also been fucked a fair number of times. And yet, this is my very first date with a man.

And what a date it's been so far.

Logan's picked the time, the place, and the food... as well as my outfit, if it qualifies as that, since the little dress I'm wearing is designed to show as much flesh as possible. He's opened every door for me, every inch the gentleman... except I never dared to say thanks out loud.

I'm not to speak, unless spoken to.

Isn't that an incredibly poignant encapsulation of centuries of patriarchy? An elegant and refined exterior of propriety, with the horror lurking underneath. A velvet glove, but beneath the glove, the bitter steel.

Every element of this extremely stereotypical date makes a mockery of being addressed to my pleasure only, but it's a pantomime. I don't get to contribute in any form: not to choosing the place or the food or even my own clothes, let alone to the conversation. My presence here is purely decorative.

This extensive patriarchal repertoire is being condensed and beamed straight into me, like a drilling laser. I wince under its flaring intensity, and I feel more and more constrained, more and more pushed into a corner.

The hypnosis makes me act the part of the enthusiastic accessory... for the most part, but not always. Every time my eyes meet Logan's, my lips tremble. I still remember the slap. Fear is a powerful emotion, powerful enough that there are cracks in the mask.

Logan doesn't really care, obviously. I designed him not to. It's not my smiles he's interested in.

He's currently wolfing down his steak, while I pointlessly worry at my salad with my fork -- his choice for me, naturally. I'm too nervous to eat. Many girls in my position at this point would be dreading what comes after, but this fear of the unknown does not apply, here. I know exactly what's going to happen when we leave the restaurant.

I've programmed it myself.

At last, the dinner concludes, such as it is, and I find myself standing beside Logan, talking politely to the cashier right before he foots the bill. His superficially charming, suave persona is on full display, but I know I won't be having any of that, the moment we step out the door.

The drive back goes by in silence.

We're not going back to the dorm, of course. He booked a room for the night, I don't even know where. I specifically instructed him not to tell me, and not to consult with me over it. Over anything.

It's a seedy motel in the middle of nowhere, of course, nothing but the two-lane road, and empty stretches of land on either side. Exactly the sort of place Logan's new programming would prioritise for someone like me.

We've barely just made it past the door when, in a flash, Logan's hand is around my wrist.

His grip is tight enough to hurt, and it takes all my willpower -- plus a healthy dose of hypnosis and fear -- to stay quiet. I know my punishment would be even harsher if I dared make a scene. I don't have it in me to look at Logan as he slowly pulls my hand towards his crotch.

I close my eyes, as the palm of my hand cups the erection building under his pants. It's weird... I've been submitting to cocks for a while now, as part of my undykeing, but this sort of contact, while theoretically less intimate, feels worse in a way. More symbolic.

Logan's fingers cup my chin. I offer no resistance as he turns my head to face his, and I find myself staring into his blue eyes. Blue and cold, like chipped ice.

Logan was always a bad person. I transformed him the first time, of course, but now I've rolled him back, and exasperated all his worst character traits. I don't know if it's the impact of the multiple changes, or just my thoroughness in corrupting him earlier today, because his eyes look so dead to me.

There's no soul in there. It's not even that he sees me as a sex doll for his pleasure, this is the nonchalant stare one reserves for a thing. A thing of no particular value.

"Look, I don't know what's up with you lately, Serena. But I know for a fact you've always been a lesbian," he says at last, in a flat and completely unremarkable tone of voice. "Now, believe me when I say this: that makes it even more fun for me."

Then, he shoves me onto the bed.

It's minimal exertion for him, but given his strength, I feel like I've been sent flying. That, and his words, and the hypnosis, and the fear... I feel a surreal moment of dissociation, like I'm not really in this room anymore. Like I'm not Serena anymore.