The Fall Of Women Christmas Special

I need someone to keep me safe at work. A guardian angel. Someone to protect me. And that means... a man.

Not just any man, though. I need someone who's willing to stand up to Sharpe, ambitious, confident... but also who isn't as much of a raving misogynist.

And I need this to happen fast.

"You're not like others," I say, my voice so mousy and small. By that of course I mean that he's always been completely indifferent to me. Even when I was his direct superior, I had a sense that all he was concerned with was his career advancement. That's fine by me. Give me a master who ignores me, if I really must have one.

I pray that I've read him correctly. That owning me is a status thing for him, a mark that his career is on the rise: the master and tamer of the previously uptight female executive who used to outrank him. A way to advance his career, not to titillate his sexual appetite... if he even has any.

It strikes me that in a way, we're eerily similar. I'd never considered it, but he too places work ahead of everything else.

"Besides,", I say in a soft whisper, "better you than..."

He eyes me, meaningfully. Then, he nods.

No words are spoken. None are needed. I know the ritual down to the tiniest detail, the payload's made sure of it. Every twitch and contraction of every single muscle in my body, coordinated into a choreography tailored to a man's tastes. A display of willing submission, surrender, acceptance.

Silently, accepting the defeat of my entire gender, I slide down to my knees.

There is a moment of significant silence between us, before he decides to stand up. Once again I feel the awe-inspiring experience of someone looming over me, except it's a man this time, and he seems so impossibly large now -- can't challenge him, must do what he says, must conform to his will, let it shape me like putty in his strong, manly hands...

"Actually, uh, I don't believe I have a collar on me," he says, frowning. A distant part of me thinks that kind of kills the mood, but being here on my knees, the payload is deafening, drowning out every other thought. The idea of feeling anything but awe for this man seems completely impossible to me.

"I came prepared," I say. The most embarassing purchase of my life, and a dangerous one too, but... here goes nothing. With trembling hands, I raise a collar up, like an offering to a blasphemous god. He gives a throaty chuckle at that, but picks it up, the merest brush of our fingertips sending jolts of electricity through me.

And then, he bends forward, and the leather is touching my skin, and that elicits a small feminine gasp out of me, a sharp jolt against my clit... Then the collar snaps it around my throat... and I know the joy of unconditional surrender. It's like an orgasm of the mind, a rush of every chemical that makes a human feel good.

I bend forward to kiss his shoes, like I did with Shannon, except this feels different... right. It's like I'm begging him for mercy, worshipping him like a literal god. Isn't that what men are like in the world, now? Our gods?

"I consider myself owned," I say, and I hate that I love every single word. Although none of them still come close to that cursed, devastatingly arousing word...

"Celeste, I will not use you," Lance says, matter-of-factly. I... I almost feel disappointed by that, and that sends shame and disgust and arousal coursing through me. Of course my brainwashed feminine brain expects him to fuck me...

It would be his right, girls don't get to say no, a woman's consent is irrelevant in this new world. What is a slavegirl without a good fucking to put her in her place? It means she's useless, that she's failed.

That's exactly why I picked him. I need to remind myself of this. I do everything I can to stay on top of my own thoughts, but it's so hard....

"I won't use you, but I do expect you to be subservient to me... and I have a first task to assign you," he says. "We're going to a party. More specifically... a Christmas party."

4 - Losing The War

I figured Lance wanted me to attend the Christmas party on his arm. As a companion, or a... trophy, to show off. To raise his profile among the men who are his sole competitors, now that women have been vanquished.

But, as it turns out, this new world the payload is sculpting has a way of consistently subverting my expectations.

Like I anticipated, no uncollared woman was reckless enough to attend this party. The occasion is a ceremony of male power, as one executive after another sips champagne or smokes a cigar in his power suit. The women present... they're all collared, and each has her place.

Shannon is dressed in a sexy Santa costume, as she told me. She cozies up to the men, flirting and tittering, looking pretty and smiling radiantly... but she always gravitates back to her master, Sharpe, who takes centre stage as he parades with his conquest.

Jasmine used to oversee logistics, so she acts as catering now, which seems oddly fitting, in a perverse sort of way that only the payload could ever make sound reasonable. Jen is currently busy serving drinks, and Francesca...

I haven't seen her in quite some time, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out why.

And then... there's me.

I thought Lance wanted to parade me, too, but no. Instead, I'm lying on the floor, belly down, gagged and hogtied, under the Christmas tree.

"Mmmpphh," I mumble in discomfort, my muscles burning from the unnatural position I've been forced in for the entirety of the night. It's clear most of the men are still uncomfortable with these displays. Wolfe hasn't met my eyes once.

But... they're not exactly pushing back, are they? In fact, as the alcohol flows, and trousers begin to tent, a few of the men present are starting to lose their inhibitions. Touch and grope the girls who used to be their colleagues, or their bosses.

I feel... forgotten. Tossed away, like a toy. Sidelined in a way I could never have imagined before the payload. I wonder if Lance is trying to send me a message, or if it's just a rationalisation motivated by the payload, but I feel like... I'm just a piece of furniture.

A silent observer, seen but not heard. This party is for them, for the men who still have autonomy, ambition, and hopes for career advancement. I've been forcefully expelled from that world. I'm not here as an employee, or even as a man's trophy catch, I'm... a decoration. Brainless, immobilised, silent. Nothing more.

God, I can't believe how good it feels, being held down like this while the men enjoy their drinks and smokes. My eyes are tearing up from the discomfort, but my arousal burns like a relentless fire. It's a terrifying feedback loop, one I recognise as the addiction induced by the payload. The more I realise how truly dehumanising this situation is, the hotter it feels. The hotter it feels, the more I recognise it as dehumanising.

How long until it disassembles me? How long until I start begging to be subjugated?

This is what will keep happening to every woman who yields to a collar -- and eventually, we all will, I suspect. We'll keep racing down the spiral, humiliation and arousal feeding one another, building in strength, on and on, down the years.

Forever.

The rest of the evening goes by in a blur of soft conversations and the clink of glasses. My vision swims, and my mind wanders far away, to formless places made hazy by the mist of arousal and the irreversible defeat of feminism.

I'm yanked back to reality by four pairs of leather shoes, resting right before my face. I should kiss them, but I can't, not with the gag in place. I crane my neck and roll my eyes upward, trying to catch a glimpse of the two overlords currently overshadowing me.

The faces of Lance and Sharpe look back at me, the former emotionless, the latter grinning with hunger. I've never felt so incredibly small. I'm basically a rag at their feet, a doormat. Even if the payload were to be undone tomorrow, how could they ever look at me as an equal again? Now that they know how easily a woman can be brought under control, tamed, domesticated?

"Like I promised," Lance says at last, breaking the awkward silence. "She's yours now, my gift to you. Merry Christmas!"

I blink, confused, my eyes travelling from one man to the other.

"You haven't touched her?" Sharpe asks, seemingly inspecting me.

"I haven't touched her," Lance confirms. "I've held up my side of the bargain."

No. No no no no no....

"And I'll hold up mine," Sharpe says. "But first... I have an old account I need to settle. And a Christmas gift to unwrap."

I stare at Lance, my eyes wide with shock and fear. "Mmmpphh!" I moan through the gag, begging him to please protect me, to save me. But the stare that meets me is dead, like a shark's. Why would he do this? Why go through the bother? What am I worth to him?

And then...

Then, I remember.

Sharpe is taking my old place on the board. But who's replacing Sharpe? Who's going to get a step up the company ladder, a pay hike, and the favour of a higher-up?

As horror washes over me, I recall my own assessment of Lance. He only cares about his job. He is ambitious above all things. He's ultimately not that interested in me.

I'm his bargaining chip, his leverage to get a concession out of Sharpe. An object, right? Brainless, immobilised, silent... and nothing more.

Lance must notice the understanding that's dawned in my eyes. He acknowledges it with a curt nod.

"Nothing personal, sugar," he says. Sugar. This man who was several rings down from me in the company ladder, and who's just... sold me like I'm a pound of flesh. "But you really should have seen this coming. Leapfrogging several steps to a big promotion -- that's hard. But collaring a woman, these days?" He makes a puffing sound with his mouth, shaking his head in amusement. "Now, that's easy."

I know it to be true. I know women are easily brought to heel, that the payload is turning us into a bunch of puppies waiting to be taught how to behave, that we're meek and docile to the point that we barely even qualify as people anymore. There's nothing about me that makes me specifically appealing to Lance. He can have anyone he wants, and cares to collar...

It's Sharpe, who cares about me in particular.

Sharpe, who wants to drive home his victory over me.

Sharpe, who wants to finally humiliate the rival who dared compete with him for a promotion. Who wants to literally and metaphorically shove his mysoginy down my throat, together with his cock.

Sharpe, who is now untying me, clipping a leash to my collar, and summarily yanking and dragging me towards a private room, into the abyss.

***

In my heart of hearts, I know this can't be true.

As my defeated cunt clenches fiercely around Sharpe's cock, seeking to milk it, to pay tribute to it, I take distant note of the fact that sex has never felt this good. No kind of sex.

Certainly not rough, uncomplimentary penetration from my professional nemesis.

My programming-addled brain is misfiring, malfunctioning as the payload wipes away my ability to form coherent words, or even to process this sensory overload in a more orderly way.

Instead, it's like a nuke, blinding and frying everything in its path.

I feel like my brains are leaking out of my cunt with my own juices.

This isn't sex. Not really.

My face is pressed into the bed, my back arched as Sharpe plows into me, putting me in my place, fucking personhood itself out of me. This is about progressively dismantling me, humiliating me, dehumanising me. It's about destroying the person I used to be, before the fall of women.

And that's why it's way hotter than sex will ever have any hope to be.

"You think this is change," Sharpe says, huffing and puffing, the cigar stench on his smoke perceptible even from down here. "But just wait. Wolfe will not be around forever, and when he goes, and I succeed him... You'll see real change."

I whimper like a bitch in heat, the vision of the office degenerating into an oversexed fever dream melting the last of my resistance. We're really going to have a blowjob rota. I'm really going to be paid just to suck cock.

But of course, Sharpe will own my income...

"Fuck yes," he continues, driving deeper into me. "This is what you get for going up against me. Stealing my job. Who's the fucking loser now, huh?"

"I am!" I shout, trying to apologise to him with every inch of my body, offered up to him for his own pleasure.

"That's right," he says. "I've taken your job, your dignity, your freedom, your body, your mind."

"You win!" I shout, experiencing defeat like a physical sensation, a shroud wrapping around every single ounce of my being. "I surrender! It's my Christmas gift to you!"

"Fuck..." he says, and I know my slutty display, the way my curves and my mind both seem to be putty under his fingers, my unconditional surrender, are driving him closer to the edge. Making him lose his composure.

In one swift motion, Sharpe nails me down on the bed, and then pulls out of me. Before I know it, a hail of slaps rains on my face, stinging, humiliating. The pain radiates from my cheeks like a strange warmth, and the humiliation goes straight to my sex.

Before I even know what's happening, Sharpe yanks me by the hair, forcing me on all fours on the bed before him. And then, he pushes his cock into my mouth.

"Mmmpphh," I mumble wordlessly. There was a time when the mere idea of taking his cock into my mouth was completely unthinkable, but now... now, it'd be unthinkable not to surrender my throat to him. Not to let him turn it into his warm cocksleeve.

"Want to finish down your throat," he says. "Shut you up for good..."

And he has, in more ways than one. I've been muzzled, leashed and brought to heel, turned into a bitch, a sex pet. I'm not a person anymore. How could I ever call this man my rival, my subordinate? Any time he could have gotten fed up with my uptight feminist attitude, and just... utterly defeated me.

He must be thinking similar thoughts, so close as he is to the edge of climax, because I've barely had an opportunity to make any use of my skills before his dick begins to quiver. I make sure to seal my lips tightly around it, like a vacuum, ready to accept his seed. That's the act of ultimate submission, I know, devotedly taking someone's load like this, but that's what I'm for.

That's what all women are for.

As rope after rope of cum shoots into my mouth and down my throat, my eyes go wide, and I experience the full, unfettered reward of the payload. It's divine, like every part of my body is experiencing its own orgasm, and there's nothing I wouldn't do to feel this again.

I understand why collared women are not to be trusted. I'm one of them, now, and this... this is my new religion.

"You know, slut," Sharpe says above me, panting and heaving, his half-erect cock still firmly lodged between my conquered lips. "I saw your face, back at that meeting. The way your eyes went glassy when you heard that word..."

The desperate, animalistic whimper rising from my throat is so eager that it surprises even me, but Sharpe just smiles, knowing he's struck gold. I brace myself, because I know he's going to say it now, to finally ruin me forever, and I don't know whether I should curse him for it, or thank him...

"You're inferior to men, and don't belong in an executive office unless you're under the desk. That's why you've been... demoted."

I squeal like a filthy pig around his cock, the word coursing through me like a muscular spasm, a rippling sensation that seems to strip me of all my defenses. I stare up at him with large, adoring eyes, knowing it's the only look men will be getting from womankind from now on.

"Think about it. All your life, you thought you had a chance, at least. And look what happened! You beat a man to a coveted job... and around comes a mind control virus, of all things, and what's the first thing I do? I exploit it immediately. To demote you."

The words are devastating, enough to bring me close to climax all by themselves, because he's right. The monsters were always with us, walking among us, kept at bay by the thinnest veneer of social civility. The very moment us women became defenseless, we were seized. Reduced. Put back in our place.

All my life, I lived in blissful ignorance of this sword dangling over my head. And now...

"You will never rise again," Sharpe says, his cock once more beginning to stiffen inside my mouth. "Not you, not women. This is all you can aspire to from now on. To seek the next thrill, humiliation after humiliation, your whole existence devoted to us. Because all women, every single one of you... have been DEMOTED!"

He shouts the last word, but even still, it's drowned out by my desperate, throaty moan. The most cataclysmic orgasm of my entire life ripples outward from my sex like a shockwave, making every muscle flex as my eyes roll back into my skull. I arch my back in pleasure, impaling myself further on Sharpe's cock.

With every second of this otherworldly pleasure, there is less and less of me, more and more of the payload-perfected sex slave and serving girl I'll be for the rest of my life. As the last vestiges of the old Celeste succumb to the all-encompassing tidal wave of my pleasure, I finally accept one incontrovertible fact:

Women have lost the war.