Research Notes: The Fall of Women

Devote my energies to serving men, and being their obedient slave. Crumb.

This pattern continues until I recover, and can crawl to the bed again, and once more give Vogel something to monitor... I know he's watching me from behind the camera, monitoring my every move. The payload whispers in my ear that he's probably enjoying watching me degrade myself like this, that he's getting off on my humiliation. I can almost picture it. I mean, not his actual facial features. But...

I'm ashamed of what I've become, but I can't seem to help myself. I feel like a bloody junkie, a shell of a woman, desperate for a fix. I can't even go through this log without getting sidetracked.

Heart rate is elevated. Pupils dilated. Skin perspiration is abundant. I masturbated my way through the EEG, climax included, which I'm sure will be data of fundamental importance. There might be issues with the size of the data set, though. I'll have to make sure it's as rich as possible...

Log: day 24 of isolation.

Alright, so here's the interesting part.

The hope behind this experiment was that the payload would be starved. Right? You can't learn misogyny if there's no one around to act as positive reinforcement. You can't be rewarded for good behaviour--really good behaviour, like spreading your thighs and letting hands cup your throat--if you're in no position to physically carry out that behaviour.

What does the payload do, then?

Well.

As it happens, it starves me.

It's as though it has created an entire world inside my head, filled with images and scenarios that reinforce its message of submission and servitude. I feel like I'm trapped in a cage of my own making, unable to escape the spiral of addiction.

It feels like a lifetime since the payload first hit me. My mind is so foggy now that I can barely remember what it was like to think clearly. All I can feel is the payload's insidious grip on my brain, dismantling me piece by piece, and leaving me a shadow of who I once was.

I can't believe that I was once a respected member of this lab. Now, I am nothing more than a lab rat, a mere specimen to be observed and studied. My thoughts are not my own, and I am no longer in control of my own mind.

At times, I wonder if Dr. Vogel has gotten anything useful out of the experiment. Maybe I should surrender my cunt to him, just in case. That way, if the whole experiment proves to be a dud, at least he'll walk away from it having gained something moderately useful.

Crumb.

How silly I was, to ever think myself his equal just because we have the same degrees, the same seniority in the lab. I should have never had a degree in the first place, and the only seniority I should be maturing is in being a secretary, and docile cocksocket, for the men in the lab.

Crumb.

My resistance feels feeble and pointless, as though I'm fighting against something too powerful to overcome. I can feel myself being disassembled and rearranged in ways that simplify and diminish me.

You know what, why bother with this. Fuck the payload, fuck my gender, fuck this experiment, and most of all, fuck this log. Teaching women how to read and write was always a waste of resources, anyway...

(Crumb!)

Log: day 28 of isolation.

I had a moment of clarity today, a brief and piercing moment in which I saw everything so clearly. It was like a ray of light in the darkness, a moment of respite from the endless fog of the payload's control over me. And in that moment, I realised something that should have been obvious from the beginning: having a bunch of male scientists overlook a bunch of female scientists as the payload dismantles them piece by piece was a TERRIBLE idea.

I know all my colleagues by heart, and I trust them. I trust them, I trust them, I trust them. They set out to cure the payload, just like I did. I trust them!

But.

There's, like... only a door between me and them. Between me, and Dr Vogel. They could just, you know, open it. Show up here, collar in hand, and what then, huh? What then, what does the brave Tamila do, fearless Tamila, girlboss of neuroscience, slayer of stereotypes, queen of the H index, do?

Oh, I know. I would submit to them--to Vogel--without a second thought. I would toss my rights at their feet in a heartbeat.

Of course they wouldn't barge through the door, though, but they could! But I trust them. But they're men. Men who, day by day, have been watching us become dumber, simpler, animalistic, more desperate, more submissive, more in need of someone to control us. Of being taken in hand.

And who better to fill that role than them? They have the power, the control, the authority. All it takes is... one collar.

And as I fantasise about it, the clarity is gone like a candle, snuffed out in the darkness.

Log: day 30 of isolation.

Got to go. Something's happening, noises outside. I'll write more logs if I can....

* * *

The door opens with a high-pitched, ominous hinge that seems to pierce my very soul. I shiver. A part of me, the part of my mind that's not been dulled by the cabin fever and blunted by the payload, thinks that no door in any lab has ever sounded like that.

It's an old sound, the sound of something makeshift, of a hinge that hasn't seen repairs since the Blitz. I just don't know what it means.

In the door stands my trustworthy colleague, doctor Alfred Vogel.

The hallway outside is dark, and his features are partially covered in the shadows, but I recognise him anyway, no one else in the lab is that freakishly tall. He stands still, as if afraid to step over the threshold, afraid of what it means.

Well, I know what this means. I know what he's here to do. This is breaking every single protocol about the experiment, he's just ruined it, and he knows it... so there can be one reason why he's here. One reason alone.

It's as if my deepest, darkest desires are coming true. I want to run to him, to throw myself at his feet and beg for his collar. I want to submit to him completely, to feel the rush of chemicals flooding my brain as he places the collar around my neck. But at the same time, there's something I can't quite place, a mismatch, pieces of the puzzle that don't fit together.

It freezes me in place. It fills me with fear.

As Vogel steps inside the room, I can feel his presence engulfing me. I immediately and instinctually lower my eyes in deference, which denies me a look at his face--what is his expression like? Lustful? Hesitant? Stern?

Commanding?

But as my eyes travel down towards the floor, I do take in his looks. He's bulky, manly, a solid wall of muscle. How did I never notice before? And he's not wearing his lab coat, either. No, instead, from what I can make out, it's a kind of... uniform, almost? Slick. Black. Glossy, with leather gloves and red-white ribbons. His leather boots land rhythmically against the floor, as he approaches me.

It makes him look intimidating in a way that lends a new meaning to the word. Intimidating, the way only a god can be.

That's when I finally spot it. The collar.

There can be no doubts anymore. As he purposefully strides towards me, the collar is firmly clutched in his gloved hand, the way I soon will be, too. It's as if my mind is split in two, one part screaming for me to run, to resist, to fight back, and the other part begging for me to submit, to yield, to offer him my unconditional surrender. To apologise for being so inferior, by offering him every inch of my body as a source of pleasure and relief.

I can feel his free hand reaching towards my neck, and I instinctively bow my head. There is a sense of finality in the air, a weight that's pulling me down.

When the leather glove touches my bare skin, it sends electricity crackling through my skin. It's the first human touch I've experienced in thirty days, and it's so charged with intimidation and sex and power.

But it's nothing, to prepare me for what comes next.

As Vogel clasps the collar around my neck, every single neuron in my body seems to explode. It's an all-encompassing sensation, too much for my simple feminine intelligence to process, like I've just been plunged into the sun. It engulfs me totally.

The collar's constricting embrace on my neck makes me spasm so much, that I have trouble keeping my balance. Every muscle twitches, my head spinning as I lean forward on my elbows.

And not just for balance.

I act without thinking, the ritual fully ingrained in my subconscious by now. I place several humble kisses on his leather boots--seriously, where did he even get these?--and I love the small, soft sounds my lips make when I do that. Tiny, unassuming smooches, wordlessly begging for mercy, proclaiming the fact that my fate rests in his hands.

"I acknowledge myself owned," I say, every word thundering against my ribcage. But my words have barely left my lips, that his gloved hand has already fished out his cock, half-erect, pointing at my face.

I know what must be done, of course. Millions of years of evolution have sculpted my gender--every single feature of our body--to please men. We were born, no, built, no, sculpted to do this.

I eagerly crawl towards him, taking his cock into my mouth, my lips wrapped tightly around it, creating a vacuum that draws him further in. I use my tongue to swirl around the head, teasing and coaxing him to fully harden.

As he becomes fully erect, I take him as far into my mouth as I can, using my tongue to massage his length with slow, sensual strokes. My lips glide up and down, as I pour every ounce of enthusiasm and devotion I possess into this act.

I can't help but reflect on the bigger picture. Me, kneeling here, with my slutty lips eagerly wrapping around his cock? This is just one tile in a worldwide mosaic, a breath-taking work of art, the disenfranchisement and enslavement of an entire gender.

In this moment, I realise the interconnectedness of our fate. We dreamed and fantasised about silly things, like equality, respect, being granted recognition as full members of the human species. We dared challenge the patriarchy, saying cockily we would smash it. But through it all, we were just flying too close to the sun.

Now, we are all on our knees together, offering ourselves up to the power of men. And as terrifying as it may be, there is a strange sense of unity in that. We are all in this together, and if women are to be defeated, we will go down together, as one collective entity.

Men, staking their claim on us, with their natural, uncanny talent to spot our weaknesses and go straight for the jugular.

Fuck, they were born to be our masters, how could I ever delude myself otherwise? And now, with the payload augmenting their arsenal... they'll be able to remould us, to retool and repurpose us into whatever they want us to be. And we'll never rise again from our position on our knees.

I have seen true glory. The simplicity and grandiosity of the payload's design overwhelms me, sending a shiver straight to my clit. How easily our will has been broken. We won't even need to be forced to submit. We're going to be begging for the privilege.

In this mosaic, we women won't be people with their own thoughts and desires, but rather objects to be manipulated and controlled for men's pleasure. Freed from the burden of decision-making and personal responsibility. Letting go, and allowing the men in our lives to make all the decisions.

And we will be well rewarded for it. I know, because the payload makes sure this simplest of sexual acts--a blowjob--devastates my mind. I've never felt so much pleasure. It feels better than sex. It feels preferable to breathing oxygen.

I can't help but wonder how the creator, or creators of the payload must be feeling. Sitting back, no doubt with their own slavegirls sucking and moaning on their knees, while they relax and watch the show. The world in chaos, a new order asserting itself day after day, each domino falling just as they have predicted.

I can't imagine what the world will look like in a few years if this continues.

Or maybe, I can. It will look just like this.

My lips slide up and down his shaft, my tongue swirling around the head and flicking over his sensitive spots. I can taste his pre-cum on my tongue, and it only fuels my desire to bring him to the ultimate pleasure.

I can't imagine ever going back to my old life as a neuroscientist. Not when I can be brought to heel and taught tricks like a fucking dog. I'm sure so many women across the world are having exactly the same epiphany, right now. And why not?

We're all aware we're wild and unruly, until men step in to train us. Just thinking about men as our handlers is lubricating me like crazy. Isn't that proof that this is the natural order?

With each movement of my lips, I strive to please him even more, to show him just how devoted I am to his pleasure. My tongue swirls around his length, tracing the veins and ridges that pulse with every heartbeat. I take him deeper into my mouth, feeling his length and girth fill me completely, shutting me up. He hits the back of my throat with a deliciously erotic force, that sends shivers of desperate pleasure through my body.

The payload is working its magic, chemically rewarding me for my willingness to embrace these concepts and become the obedient, domesticated creature that I was always meant to be. I know that I am doing exactly what I was meant to do, and that there is no other way for me to be truly happy and fulfilled. I am grateful for the payload, for giving me this purpose: to be a vessel of pleasure and obedience, to serve and worship a higher power.

My movements become more fervent, more frenzied, as I surrender myself entirely to his pleasure. As Vogel grunts in pleasure, I double down, glad for the shower of rewarding chemicals I feel at the knowledge I'm pleasing my master. I want more.

My mind is blissful as I focus entirely on my task, my body consumed by the pleasure it brings me. Every gulp and swallow is a reward unto itself, the payload filling me with euphoric pleasure that washes away any lingering pieces of my identity, flotsam lost to the current.

I take him deeper and faster, feeling his breathing grow ragged and his grip tighten on my hair. My own body responds to his pleasure, my nipples hardening and the slick heat now radiating between my thighs. Yes, that's it. I am no longer an individual with my own ambitions and goals, but a tool to be used and controlled by the stronger sex. I want him to fuck my face. I want him to end my independence.

My hands roam over his uniform, exploring every inch of him, feeling his power and his control. I feel a rush of pleasure every time he moans or gasps, knowing that I am the one causing him this pleasure. I can feel the addiction in my veins, driving me to go further, to push harder, to make myself even lower, even less human, elevating him to his rightful status as my god.

Suddenly, his hands clamp around my head, stopping me in my tracks--he must have been getting closer, and wants to prolong his pleasure. Of course, I exist to please and serve him.

That's when finally, worship wins over deference. I roll my eyes upward, seeking eye contact with my new master, looking for his approval, for his acknowledgement that I'm now his pretty little accessory, a piece of jewellery that fits snugly, lips-first, around his cock.

So, I look up at Vogel.

I blink once, twice, in mild confusion. He doesn't look very... familiar. I tell myself that of course I'm so out of sorts, that my thirty days of isolation, the cabin fever, the lack of sleep, are simply clouding my mind.

But the way my heart hammers against my chest is not normal.

The incongruous pieces swirl through my mind. The boots, the gloves, the uniform. The squeaking of the door hinge.

And now, his face.

I look up at him. My master. His eyes are pools of blackness, as he studies me with a predatory grin, holding my head still, his cock still jammed down my throat. I take in his features, my eyes darting frantically this way and that.

I am sure, completely and incontrovertibly sure, that I have no idea who he is.

I don't know this man.

He gives a tiny nod, as if acknowledging my realisation. And then, his hands--still gripping my face in their steely grip--begin to move my face up and down his cock.

I have no control, this time. He regulates the pace, slow for now, but unquestionably increasing.

"Not so stupid, after all," he says, and my eyes are glued to him, as I desperately look for answers. Who could this person be? Have I ever known an Alfred Vogel? Where does reality end, and the false memories begin?

Vogel--my master--smiles at me. "At least, not yet!" I moan around his cock, while he uses my lips like an improvised fleshlight. Masturbatory aid. He does own me, and I do serve him, but that can't stop my brain from racing.

I'm a neuroscientist. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to let the payload be the only source of stimuli for an entire month? Did I ever really believe that laughable rationalisation about starving the payload? Because if I was that stupid to begin with, then I deserve everything that's happening to me.

Oh God, my colleagues... Madison... how many of us are down here? And what is here? Not my lab, that's for sure. But the more important question is who...

Who would want to test the way the payload works on a woman in isolation?

As the speed of the facefucking increases, and my feminine whimpers and worshipful sucking sounds fill the enclosed space of the isolation room, I feel the realisation wash over me in rolling waves. I've never felt such an intricate mix of terror and arousal. This is what truly being at someone's mercy feels like. Truly being outsmarted and outplayed, to the point that your life is in their hands.

His cock twitches in my mouth, which rewards my brain with a happy cascade of chemicals. But the old me--the one that I feel is about to disappear forever, lost in the identity death of slavish pleasure--feels satisfied that I've put the puzzle together, at last.

That I have answered one last question, before being drowned forever in the sea of pleasure that is the new world.

There is only one possible answer to this question, after all. Only one actor that would have the means, motivation, and knowledge to conduct this sort of experiment.

I look up at my master, in his dark uniform that I can't place, in his pure masculine mastery over me, and I know he is one of the harbingers of the new order.

"Your colleague was right," Vogel says at last, in a harsh voice, an accent I can't quite place, his breaths ragged. He finally releases, spraying rope after rope of cum inside my mouth, claiming me as his conquered oral doll. I squeal in orgasmic bliss as I swallow it eagerly.

"She was more right than she knows," Vogel says. He pants, breathing deeply, his face contorting into a smirk as his eyes meet mine.

"You've got to know your enemy."