A Leashed Tiger Ch. 07

Chapter 7 - An Unconditional Surrender

Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.

I've been thinking about this metaphor so often, lately, how perfectly it encapsulates the nightmarish patriarchal vision I have brought to life at Kevin's behest here on campus. Everything is pretty, everything is proper, the girls most of all. But beneath the cheerful appearance, the reality is one of oppression and supremacy.

Just like my date with Logan, which now feels like a fractal representation of what the entirety of campus is like, these days. Girls are increasingly decorative, pleading for grades and favours with their bodies, their tremulous eyes, and their pliant lips. Men walk around as if they own the place, which to a degree, I suppose they do.

Carter hasn't stopped smiling ever since I first sucked his cock.

I'm the ultimate gender traitor. I've made my fellow female students into nothing but adornments, quite literally worn on the arms of men as they step into the limelight. And me, well, I'm the lowest of them all. Thanks to my incessant work, not a single person on campus sees me as a human being anymore. Girls despise me, guys see me as a pound of flesh, and both use my body as they see fit.

There is only one limitation--I'm not allowed to cum. Not ever.

I slink through hallways, leaning close to the walls, walking slightly bent forward, as if wanting to disappear. I know that every encounter is going to reinforce my status as chattel, that it's going to overstimulate my undersexed brain. I desperately want to avoid these encounters.

I desperately want them to happen.

I'm becoming unwound, and I know the same is true for the girls I've changed, too--and the guys. The girls might look adorably prettied up and joyful in their docility, but I can see how much they're giving up, inch by inch. Their futures, their aspirations, their hobbies, their opinions, sometimes even the clothing their new male masters judge inadequate.

Their very personhood, in a way. They look so diminished. They're pretty in the way something is pretty when it stops being alive: flat, static. Posing. They're no longer complete, because I've broken them.

And the guys--they may look supremely confident and masterful, but their misogyny is one I've imposed on them. Their eyes all look dead and flat to me, like there's no soul behind them anymore. Like I've ruined something fundamental within them, in order to make them worse human beings... but incredibly effective villains, for all that.

Like I said. Beneath the glove, the bitter steel.

It's impossible to describe the sensory overload I experience wherever I go. Every class, every chance encounter, every meal in the cafeteria, every social event... it is a constant, never-ending display of male supremacy and feminine meekness. And what's worse is...

It makes me want to rub myself.

It makes me want to lock myself in a restroom and masturbate until I scream, thinking of the ultimate betrayal of my fellow students, of my own gender, and on my own self--a betrayal I'm carrying out because I was apparently incapable of hypnotising an incel with my supernatural powers.

It makes me want to shout to the world that I'm froggy, fit only to be stepped on and driven by a boot into the mud.

Except, of course... that I can't cum. That, and my new bizarre everyday life, are clouding my judgement, colouring my perception of every interaction.

I'm losing control.

I attempt to flee the overstimulation, sometimes, escape from the constant assault on the senses. But I find no solace in solitude, either, since what time I spend away from wider campus, is entirely devoted to the harem. And here, the torture reaches its cruel, unimaginable apex.

Every single girl in the harem seems to have something sexual going on, at any given time of the day. They make out with each other, or fuck each other, to entertain Kevin. They drape themselves over his body, worshipping every inch of him.

But I'm never, ever included.

Oh, the girls do use me, of course. They grope, and touch, and slap, and push. They trample me, use my face as their footrest, have me deepthroat dildos to "practice my undykeing", and sometimes, they even pull my face between their thighs...

But they never go all the way. They never touch me where I crave to be touched, never make the slightest effort at stimulating my arousal, never even spare a single thought for my desperate whimpering as I kneel before them. Once used, I am discarded, thrown away like a thing of no value, easily forgotten.

I clean and cook, I do the laundry, I perform every chore imaginable, and I do it all to the soundtrack of girls whispering as they pleasure each other, or the soft, wet, pliant sounds of one of them devotedly sucking Kevin's cock...

It's driving me insane.

Kevin hasn't even touched me in... I don't know how long. He gets more sex from the rest of the harem than he could possibly ever imagine, and only bothers to interact with me whenever he wants to deepen my conditioning, or hurl humiliating barbs at me, or assign me some demeaning task.

Sexually, I'm just... not on his radar.

That should relieve me. Of course it relieves me. I'm a lesbian, and I hate him, and I'm a feminist and a domme and by the way, again, lesbian. And I hate him. I'm fine being invisible to him, god knows I would have prayed for this outcome at the beginning of our confrontation.

But he's the only one who can allow me... I mean, I want to cum, so that means he has to grant...

Ugh.

I know this is deliberate. I know he's doing this to undermine my confidence, deepen my chastity, use it as a tool to slowly dismantle me piece by piece. I know I shouldn't give in, I shouldn't, I shouldn't. In fact, I should resume strategising about how to break free of his yoke, because I can feel his grip tightening, and if I don't stand up now, soon, there won't be enough of me left to ever try again.

Or anything left at all.

So I bite my lip and grit my teeth, ignoring how I'm constantly revved up and never satisfied, trying my best to block the sounds of sex as I wash the dishes. The sounds of Kevin, enjoying his conquests... the conquests I delivered him, myself.

Now, that thought? That hurts.

It tastes like bitter steel.

* * *

Imagine being so stupid as to actually try and catch your male captor's attention.

Ridiculous, I know. Laughable, even. No self-serving feminist would ever do so, much less a lesbian, let alone a lesbian who commands the power of the stars. And especially not for a scrawny incel who's ruined your life and used you to sink campus into hell. If you imagine the odds narrowing at each of the aforementioned steps, we're like, down to subatomic particle order of magnitude at this point.

So, I can be reasonably confident that's not what I'm doing. Like, 99.999999% confident. I'm definitely not trying to be in the same room as him as often as I can, and I'm definitely not putting a sway into my walk as I serve him drinks on a tray. I most assuredly don't study his face, trying to see if his eyes will crawl along my nyloned legs for at least a moment.

Because that'd be completely insane, and clearly, I am the pinnacle of mental health right now.

I mean, come on. This cursed incel acts like he's completely forgotten I'm part of this harem! Like I'm background noise, invisible, so easy to ignore. Bitch, I created this harem. First for myself, and then for him once he turned the tables on me. I may be many things: defeated, demeaned, diminished, demoted... dominated. But I am a mind controller, the logistical linchpin of this entire harem, and I am not to be ignored!

I know, I know. Reverse psychology, manipulation, all the jazz, I know. But I've been locked in chastity for so long, stimulated for so long, every minute of every day, that I'm beginning to fucking lose it. I can't take this anymore. I need to cum. Then maybe I'll be able to think clearly again, and figure out a way to escape my predicament.

And look, nobody likes to be ignored, but this? Kevin has destroyed me as a person. I'm no longer Serena the lesbian domme, I'm Froggy the campus sex slave. He's had me undo all my accomplishments and more besides, likely traumatised me for life, and poisoned every human relationship I ever cherished, and for what? To fuck me? Apparently, not even that.

The fucker doesn't even look at me. So why the hell did he destroy me?

Yes, this is self-sabotaging, and potentially even harmful, unless it actually does win me an orgasm... then, maybe, it'll even end up contributing to my escape. But look. I just refuse to believe that an incel with a lesbian sex slave at his disposal will not simply crumble before his impulses and, you know... have his way with her.

God, that sounded disturbingly okay in my mind. I guess it's a good thing that I'm not actually vying for his attention whatsoever.

Unfortunately, Kevin doesn't share that impression--he's under the false belief that I'm, I don't know, trying to seduce him or something, because one day he stops me cold in my tracks.

"This isn't gonna work," he says, smiling behind his dorky sunglasses. "You know that."

I am hypnotically mandated to maintain proper comportment towards him at all times, so I immediately bow my head, slightly flexing my legs and my back to make myself as low and unassuming as possible.

"Sir?" I ask, in a soft, demure voice.

Kevin shakes his had, wagging his finger at me. "You know what I'm talking about. You're not gonna be able to manipulate me."

He sits a little straighter, as if he's reading a script he pre-wrote in his head. "The sexual marketplace is in my favour now, Froggy. Do you understand how supply and demand work? Because that's how you women have been skewing things for so long. Withholding what you have to offer... that always raises the price, so poor guys like me are doomed to live alone and miserable, never knowing a woman's touch."

My eyes narrow, and for a moment, surging hatred wins over arousal. God, I remember why I tried to hypnotise him, back when I was still Serena. He's got an entire filthy blog full of this crap... which is, of course, official campus ideology by now, thanks to me.

Still. Hypnosis or not, it's really hard to resist the temptation to punch him in the face right now.

"I mean, this," he says, gesturing to the room, and I assume he means the harem as a whole. "This is basically inflation. I have access to as much female flesh as I want, when I want it. I literally have more than I could ever use, in fact. That makes it cheap."

He smirks a little. It's a tremulous smile, at first, but then it steadies into a grin.

"It makes you cheap."

I wince at the seething resentment behind his words, like recoiling at the lashing of a whip.

"If you really want to cum," he says, "you're going to have to go through the motions. Do you know how much a guy like me normally has to go through, in order to even get a shot at losing a v-card? Hit the gym. Buy a whole new wardrobe. Be an emotional support machine. Pay for a date, somewhere nice and expensive, and then there's the gifts, and..."

My mouth opens and closes in disbelief, and not just at his staggering sense of entitlement, or purely transactional view of sexual and romantic relationships. Is he... implying that I should go through what a guy goes through when trying to find a date? What?!

"Sir, you..." I ask, hesitant, "you want me to ask you out on a date?"

Kevin snorts at that. "Don't be ridiculous. The comeuppance I have in mind is not in you walking in a guy's shoes for a while. No. What I want is for you to beg like a dog, like my dog, because that's what you are now. That's all you'll ever be."

The intensity of his words, the radiating disrespect and resentment he clearly feels for me--and for my entire gender--are so strong that they make me take a step back, like a physical force. I realise with a degree of horror that I have underestimated my captor, missed the profound transformation that absolute power has triggered inside him.

His worldview is unchanged... but his confidence in his mastery, now, that's a world of difference from what it used to be.

I also realise, with horror, that I am desperate enough for release that my limbs are trembling. He wants me to beg like a dog, and for some reason my head is spinning, and I feel like I'm losing my balance...

I yelp in surprise when I realise my knees have already hit the floor, as if on their own volition. I feel myself disappearing before him, completely outclassed and outmatched... deservedly subjugated.

"Please, Sir," I say, my voice unsteady. "Allow this humble servant her release... I've been hard at work, Sir, haven't I? I've been apologising to all the guys... and changing all the girls... so hard at work... please..."

Kevin is enjoying this immensely, I can tell. A moment of triumphant validation, sitting in judgement, undisputed arbiter of my pleasure. He seems to simply revel in it for a moment, before composing himself and clearing his throat.

"No."

I stare at him, eyes wide with emotions I have no words for. Why does he hate me so much? Why does he want me to suffer? I kneel there, sitting back on my haunches like I am indeed his dog, listening as he outlines his cold logic to me.

"You only get to cum if I enjoy it," he says. "If I get to go all the way."

I nod, tremulously, waiting for the punchline that I know is coming. For my comeuppance, as he calls it.

"But as it happens," Kevin continues, "I have so many girls whose talents I want to sample... I simply have no free time to enjoy you as well."

"B-but," I say, my lips trembling. This is so humiliating. To have your sexual pleasure literally in the hands of another person, as if it's been ripped out of your body... it's humbling in ways that words cannot convey. He intends to deny me. He intends to make me feel it.

"Oh, don't worry," he says, his tone so thick with sarcasm I can almost feel it on my skin. "I'm sure you'll get over it. Besides... we're better off just staying friends. Aren't we, my pet?"

"Yes, Sir," I whisper, utterly defeated as I turn away to the sound of his mocking laughter, feeling stripped of any remaining vestige of the person I used to be. Of the person that isn't Froggy.

I taste it again, then.

The bitter steel.

* * *

I'm familiar with counterphobic reactions.

I've probed, and conquered, too many minds not to have intimate familiarity with the concept. Traumatic events can be managed and contained, if you fetishise them. You assert control over them, in a way. It's a classic, if a little twisted, coping mechanism.

The problem is when you end up fetishising your own downfall.

When defeat becomes alluring, almost relieving--strength fading, replaced by weakness, resistance ebbing, replaced by compliance. Conformity. No effort, no emotions, no thoughts... a simple, obedient creature.

Lessened.

Content.

The former lesbian domme, cast off her throne, pushed to her knees, her fingers clawing ineffectually at the collar that's about to snap around her neck... a collar held by a man...

God. I'm well on the way to being broken, to suffer irreparable damage to my ability to ever resist. Because, see. The problem when you fetishise your downfall, is that you fall even harder, which makes you fetishise it all the more, which...

Yeah.

Oh, and of course, if the counterphobic reaction is driven and fuelled by constant, perpetually teased sexual arousal... and hypnotic programming... and the relentless sinking of my own programming into my subconscious, well...

I'm starting to lose track of time and space. My days are a collection of horny moments, spent desperate, kneeling, panting. Obediently polishing Sandra's heels to a high sheen with my tongue, while she pointedly looks away from me, disgusted by my spineless character.

Enthusiastically fellating a dildo at Sarah's instructions, while humping the air with my hips, in a desperate hope to convince her to touch my sex.

Juliet, slapping me.

Emily, sitting on my face.

One moment, I'm in a hallway, kneeling and pressed against the wall, one masculine hand around my throat as I am ruthlessly and inconsequentially facefucked--it's not even a blowjob, he's simply fucking my mouth. Tears stream down my face as my breathing grows laboured.

The next, I'm acting as a footstool to the meeting of the local feminist committee. Of course, their regular meetings no longer discuss feminism... today's topic is how to best suck cock. That was last week's topic, too.

This is starting to feel like a fever dream. I'm lost in a haze of mind fog and arousal, always teetering on the edge of the precipice, never allowed to take the plunge.

You can see why, lying on the floor in the small hours of the night, lying awake and listening to the thundering sound of the ticking clock, I tell myself that cumming is an important step in my plan to break free. No, an essential step.

I can't function like this. My hand snakes between my legs once more, but I know I won't find any release. Even Sarah's quiet breathing in her blissful sleep up there on the bed is enough to make me going, Jesus, I'm so pathetic. So broken...

I've got to reclaim clarity. To get back on solid ground.

I need to cum, no matter the cost. At this point, the need is so loud that it's like a wall of white noise in my mind, drowning out all other thoughts, all other feelings. How can I ever function like this? I don't care that it's risky, I don't care that it might be stupid. Inaction is guaranteed to doom me. I have to take the chance now.

Before I no longer can.

That's why, the morning after, I find myself once more at Kevin's feet. I struggle to meet his gaze--well, my reflection in his sunglasses, really. I feel bested, outmaneuvered, outplayed. I'm beginning to internalise the feeling of the yoke. The shortening of the leash.

Having accepted my inability to beguile him or just sway him, I beg at his feet.

Imagine that. A lesbian feminist, begging a man for permission to orgasm.

You see, the thing about begging is... it implies you've already lost. When you're begging someone not to do something, or to do something, or to allow something, you're implicitly admitting you don't have a say. That you don't influence the outcome. That your only recourse is supplication.

Appealing to the victor's mercy.

I know, I know that if I can think straight for even half an hour, I can work on wiggling free once more. But first, I need to go through this to get there. No matter how harsh and humiliating it is. I'm going through hell, and I need to keep going.

"Let's hear it," he says, obviously stringing me along. "Impress me."

I draw in breath, trying to muster what strength and coherence remains in my possession. I do have a plan. I even felt a little proud when I came up with this last night. Even though I really, really shouldn't. But it's clever, in its own way... something Serena might have thought of. Not Froggy, for sure.

"Yes," I say, as if conceding an unspoken point. "I may just be one body among many, cheap and interchangeable. But sir, surely taking me is more psychologically satisfying."

"Oh?" Kevin asks, leaning forward.

I make an exaggerated show of looking away, then at him, then away again. I even bat my eyelashes for good measure, twirling a strand of hair around my index finger. "I was... your first."

Kevin's lips narrow at that.

"I'm a fierce feminist, a lesbian, I have literal mind control powers," I say, sticking to the script I came up with last night, sensing that I've grabbed his attention. "Do you understand what it means, if you make me cum?"

Kevin's breath quickens slightly. So does mine, at the idea that maybe I'm about to make it, to finally get permission. I drop the pretensions of embarrassment, and switch to a sultry tone, going in for the kill.