The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT ONE: Owning a girl that wants to make you happy, that lives to please you, that thrills on your pleasure, means one thing:

RESPONSIBILITY.

YOU are now responsible for her physical, emotional, and mental wellbeing. YOU have to make sure this obedient slave is healthy.

OWNING A GIRL IS A LIFELONG COMMITMENT.

Attached are summaries of the ten most common female-specific medical conditions and their tell-tale signs. Be prepared for a short quiz.

“Hi Daddy.”

Cass had done her best to make herself invisible to men.

“Invisible” was the key—the youtube videos were clear on this. Making herself ugly presented a challenge to a certain type of man. They delighted in makeovers, turning messy 3s into stunning, enslaved 9s. Doll-lovers, who took perfectly intelligent women and made them into porcelain displays that also sucked dick.

Shaving her head, for instance, would draw a ton of attention. Male attention, that most dangerous thing, that breath-taking, mind-shattering thing, that turned every rational thought into mute obedience, waiting for the male to direct and command. A man could tell her to grow her hair out, and the follicles on her head would do it. She’d devote herself to a special diet, whatever promoted a glossy mane. Or—other girls would. Ones without her drive and training.

Cass blinked. Daddy had come all the way into her room, and she’d spaced out.

Thinking about... men. The danger they posed.

Peter cleared his throat. He sat in her computer chair, far away from her. It was fine if he sat on the bed. Daddy wasn’t Mom. Mom wasn’t allowed in the room.

“Cass, lets talk,” Peter said. “Honest talk. Frank exchange of views, darling.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cass said. She curled up on her bed. “I have lots of time. LOTS of time.”

Peter looked past her while looking at her—a technique most men picked up. Looking directly at a girl was too strong a show of interest. It activated Submission. She’d at the very least thrust her tits out for his review and approval. She’d spread her legs to grab his interest. Lick her lips, all of that. Prolonged staring would make her antsy and fuzzy, mind struggling with the prolonged arousal and high-alert status. Keep going, and she’d cum. It was a lot. Civilized men learned to regard the ceiling. Especially when it was his daughter.

“Well, alright. Lets just out with it,” he said. “Owen. You know Owen. Owen Bakker.”

“Sure?” Cass said. She tilted her head. She didn’t like that a man had been mentioned. Owen Bakker. Sure, she knew Owen. The virus fluttered within her. A man. She owed Owen a favor...

“Impression?”

Like she’d trained herself, Cass thought of all the negatives about the man. Everything bad about him. The immediate problem was, his negative traits—mild-mannered, weak, sensitive laugh, wallflower—were also aspects she was trying to train herself to want. The youtube videos said—find a Clark Kent, avoid the Supermans. Avoid men who enjoy rubbing your throat.

“Just a guy?” Cass hazarded. “Like, we were friends, I guess. We were both in band. Hang out at Denny’s together relationship. I don’t know. He mostly responded to things other people said. That kind of guy.”

You OWE him, the virus insisted. Cass ignored it. They spent all day, every day, together. Her and her sex obedience virus.

“Good-looking, you’d say?” Peter pried.

This was more a test of Cass, and how much Submission had beaten its way into her. Peter was proud of her resistance. A lot of girls were complete, abject, mindless, endless, obedient. If asked, they would agree that they were toys. He’d raised a fighter. Cass was always fighting. Her body, her mind, told her to walk outside, and find a male, and please him. Staying indoors was work. Every day, it was work.

It also wouldn’t work.

“I mean, he’s a high school friend? High School men top out at Less Greasy. He didn’t have stupid hair like some of them did.” Cass pursed her lips. “Decent brass instrument player. A six. Not like a bad six. Why?”

Peter was impressed. Negative comments not just about Owen but the entirety of the male species, at least the High Schoolers.

Cass was nearly twenty, and was In Seclusion. Monk-like. Women had experimented with actual abbeys and nunneries, but it hadn’t worked. It was the ultimate thrill for a certain type of guy to sneak in to a stern place of sanctuary, and emerge with a docile, obedient pack of willing sluts. Dozens of them. So seclusion required hidden places, and helpful men.

“You’re engaged to him,” Peter said. “We’re marrying you off.”

He stopped talking, to let her process. He’d chosen his words carefully.

She would need time to cope with her world changing.

Cass felt a number of emotions all at once, so many that they choked her up, and she could only voice a soft, meaningless whimper. She’d been sold to a man. Submission rose up from where she’d compressed and curled it.

Obedience was there, at the front. She’d felt the first tickle of it two years ago, when she’d looked at her teacher, and seen herself licking his feet. After two years, even with all precautions, and daily training, it rose to the forefront, and said: GOOD. Good that she was claimed by a man. It would be the biggest relief, and include many orgasms, to take orders. Submit and obey. OBEY.

She felt a strong rush of primal arousal. Her body, trying to prep itself for her man. First and foremost, get wet, in case he wanted to fuck her. But also, her mouth flooded with saliva, in case he wanted to fuck her mouth, and she even felt a prickling itch in her ass. Her eyes shifted to the door—what if he was right there, waiting outside, with a collar? Her neck could use a collar.

All of that was immediate.

But she hadn’t spent a year and a half in seclusion for nothing. There were techniques and systems. “You are a rational being, with a disease,” was the mantra every morning, first thing. Alone Together With Miss Andry was the main series, although she watched them all. She held control over her arms and legs, breathing was hers, she was not ruled. She was just very strongly suggested. Cass went through a series of steps—deep breaths, stretch out her arms and legs, remind her body that she was still in charge.

Even if her panties were getting pretty damp.

She looked out the window, to the distant black bump of Cherry Hill. She was out there, Cass felt. She was more than a local legend. The Witch of Cherry Hill, free in the woods, evading every male voice in a bolthole of her own design. Free...

“Daddy, you sold me off?” Cass said, and even put some mild disapproval in there. “You slaved me? To a six out fo ten?”

“I’m getting older!” Peter said. He patted her leg, and then regretted it. His daughter didn’t need any male touch. “Seclusion is temporary. You’re pale, you’re going to get rickets. Long-term, you need a man who is going to take care of you. Your own age. Owen is a friend, Owen’s from a good family. Now, you’re Owen’s. I can’t do any better.”

All Cass heard from the speech was, “you’re Owen’s.”

It was true, Submission told her. It seeped into her bones. A new com swung around inside of her, looking for him. She couldn’t even exactly recall what he looked like. Ugly, she told herself, defiantly. Boring, non-descript male.

No. She was not property. She’d listened and read to a ton of arguments about it. All the books she read were carefully de-gendered. If they were written by a man, they’d become a bible.

“How’s this even supposed to work?” Cass said. She strove for the distant, sarcastic tone that showed she was more than a toy. She was a person. “Did you plan a wedding? Am I moving in to his parent’s basement? What did Mom say, good, I can towel her off after her latest community cum session?”

The last was a real sore spot. Alyssa fucked everyone. Every time the town threw a 5K, she was at the finish line, ready to be spurted on. She often left cummy footprints when she walked. Peter, of course, was all for it. It wasn’t a cuck fetish. It transcended cuck. His wife was a goddess of sex, as he saw it.

But it was probably hard to see your Mom stumble around, bathed in jizz by fun run participants. That, more than anything else, had driven Cass to seclusion, to her meditations and exercises.

Peter regarded his daughter.

She wore grey sweatpants and an Eras Tour t-shirt. The most famous secluded woman of all, living in a palace of vixens, so it was said, in the world’s most secret place. Cass had her Mom’s solemn, regal face, narrow with dark black hair. Peter knew from experience that it was a face that looked indescribably hot wrapped around a cock, getting spattered with cum, long lashes fluttering with the sensory overload.

Cass would make a man very happy, he was sure of it. He’d sold her too cheaply. But Alyssa had...

“Cass,” Peter said. “Seclusion isn’t going to work. All its doing is making you obedient, to me.”

Cass stared at him, mouth open. Her Mom’s plush lips hung there.

“No—no,” Cass shook her head. She really was shocked. Saying no, to a man. It had to feel very bad. “Daddy—”

“You’re wearing your Mom’s nail polish, and her lipstick,” Peter said. Cass stared at her feet. It was true. Dark red, Mom’s signature color. She hadn’t even thought about it. She’d just... had a quiet evening, painting them. The scent had relaxed her...

“Daddy, that’s—” Cass couldn’t find it in her to say “no” again, or even shake her head. It had felt alarmingly bad to contradict her father. It felt awful to do so. Truly terrible. The videos counseled against long conversations with men. Emotional and physical response took the upper hand, and used it to yank a chain.

“You started calling me Daddy three months ago,” Peter said. He’d been saving this last one. “Daddy. You called me Daddy last when you were seven, and called me Peter from fourteen.”

“Daddy, that’s—but—Daddy...” Cass shut her mouth, abruptly. It was true. And not just that, she was putting feeling into it. Daddy. It wasn’t the voice she cultivated in her head—strong, independent, measured.

When she said “Daddy” it was exactly like how a bratty slut would say it.

“Good talk,” Daddy said. He stood up. “You’ll like Owen. I’m sending you both to couple’s therapy. Pre-emptive.”

And both of those were commands. Peter worked hard to avoid commanding his daughter. But—“you’ll like Owen.” It landed, and climbed inside of her, and Cass knew it was going to be very hard to shake off. Impossible, actually. Owen WAS a really nice guy, she recalled.

Her pussy leaked, just in case he was around.

Cass told herself: do not get in his car. At least, not without a lengthy reconnoiter. To get in a man’s car was a big step. ANYTHING with a man was a big step, when you harbored an obedience sex virus. And while she was willing to explore possibilities of a mutually beneficial partnership with Owen, have a friendly and adult conversation with Owen, have a good laugh about the idea of Owen owning anyone, it had to be on her .

It had to be.

And then when he honked it all poured out of her. A man had HONKED his HORN for her, communicating that he was waiting, perhaps impatiently. It was the first time a male had done so in two years, and Cass found herself jogging down the stairs. She could barely stop herself to get her purse, and her knees and legs wouldn’t listen at all after that.

She didn’t say anything to Alyssa.

It was Owen, she told herself. Ultimately she was going to have to trust a male. Even her videos agreed on this point. The ultimate paradox: to avoid enslavement, a man had to assist. And she owed Owen.

She closed the car door, and it locked.

He wore a face mask for their get-to-know-you date. No—not a date. That was the virus. Their meet-up, their get-together. It was very thoughtful, she thought, the face mask. Cass berated herself—it was basic manners, it meant nothing. But it was also very thoughtful.

“It’s you,” Owen observed. “How have the last two years been?”

Owen had changed, and, worst of all, he’d gotten tall.

He was taller than Dadd—than her Dad—than PETER, she reminded herself. And Daddy was five eleven. He had a joke about it—the rarest male height of all. That meant Owen was a good six feet at least, looked two inches above it, and still had some wiggle room to go. The final sparks of adolescence were still glowing. Height alone was a problem. It was just easier to obey tall men. They loomed by default, they made her feel small and vulnerable, and the virus used that crack to pry girls apart.

And even that was a mild concern compared to his voice. Cass glanced outside. She’d made a mistake, getting in the car. This was going to cost her. There was nothing to do but sit and listen his voice.

His Voice.

“Cass?” he said, and the band-boy squeak was fully gone. He had a baritone. A thorough, rich baritone, out of Owen, who had spent all of High School like he had a yo-yo in his throat. Owen’s Dad was some kind of reedy, tremulous tenor, Cass recalled. And he definitely wasn’t six feet tall. What was all this?

“Sorry about all—this,” Owen went on, to her shocked silence. “My Dad said it’s financial. I was thinking—just say no, come on, no slaves, no Cass slaves, but then I was like, I should definitely see what you thought. Not make that decision by myself. About some kind of—arrangement. You know? We probably should’ve texted ahead of time, huh?”

Rolling, deep-voiced Rs floated out of him. She’d watched a lot of videos in advance of this meeting, and planned her moves on a notepad. But it was like the Tyson quote, everyone had a plan, until a six-foot-something man with a deep, growly voice grabbed them by the pussy.

Or something like that.

This man owns you, the virus told her. In a way deeper than legal property. This was her owner. She had to tamp down and fight back a full-voiced MASTER.

There was a knock on Owen’s window, and, when Cass looked out, the two best tits in town were there. Her Mother. She waited, patiently, while Owen rolled the window down.

“Owen! Welcome to the family!” Alyssa said, leaning in, her tits preceding her. She was immediately too close to Owen, and dressed to fuck. She wore a formal collar, the engraved one. It read PROPERTY OF PETER HARFORD in glittering rhinestones, with his cell phone number on it.

Owen’s breath caught, even behind the mask, Cass could see it. Alyssa was pouring herself out for the occasion of her daughter’s sale. Her tits were the talk of the town. So very perfect, and very large, and ivory-soft, and everyone had seen the pale pink of her nipples. Sometimes Alyssa even forgot to rinse the cum off their slopes. The rest of her was also fantastic, a highway of curves, and Cass saw Owen’s eyes shift from Mom to Daughter, speculative. What was the genetic situation, under Cass’ carefully chosen outfit?

“So? What do we think? How’s she looking?” Alyssa prompted. “You’ve got the only virgin in town in that seat. My little maiden. I know you don’t want to give her her Orders right away, but feel free to at least cop a feel, see what you’re getting yourself into. She should be very soft. Oh, I should take a picture. Tell her to smile, at least. Your first order!”

There were orders, and there were Orders. Orders with a capital letter were when a man took a girl by the—by the something, but usually the throat—and said I Own You, or similar, and crushed her independence for life.

It was considered very romantic.

Owen’s lips started to move...

There was only one play, to fight back against strong, submissive urges. Cass grabbed on to her outrage, at her fiance staring at Mom’s Titties, and used it to fuel the next steps. She was in control of her muscles, her body. She was not going to be ordered around.

She was NOT A SLAVE.

“Mom, get a picture,” Cass said.

She whipped her hand around and slapped Owen across the cheek.

Not very hard. Not nearly as hard as she had intended.

It was a little bit more than a pat.

Submission still punished her for it. Cass felt abruptly, immediately, terrible.

“Whoa-ho!” Owen said. “Wow!” He rubbed at his cheek. His eyes shifted away from mother’s great boobs. “Cass, really! And you’re nineteen? That’s really something. It really stung, damn.”

“Cass!” Alyssa thundered, shocked. Cass had HIT a MAN. It was practically unthinkable. Cass couldn’t breathe. Her body felt shocked, outraged by it. Her heart thudded back and forth, caught in a civil war. She had hit a man, HER man, she was a bad girl. A BAD girl. She needed spanks and a week sleeping on the floor. She needed to lick his cum off the ground. She needed to at least shower him with kisses, and present her sex, to symbolize her submission.

It was too much. Cass wobbled. She fell into him. Her body, in panic mode, nonetheless found the opportunity to breathe in the scent of him. Brass instruments, and sweaters, and a touch of books.

“Careful,” her Owner told her. No. Owen. He rubbed at his cheek. “That must’ve taken a lot out of you.”

“Did it hurt?” Cass said, anxious. She touched at the mark. No, this was Submission behavior, tending and mending. “It was—symbolic. I’m not gonna smile... you know?”

“No, no, it was great. It really conveyed a message,” Owen said. He paused, and unlatched his face mask. The full face of her new keeper. He’d picked up a chin in the past year, and had wan, pale lips. “Lets maybe go for a drive? That’s not a command. I won’t keep her out too late, Miss... uh... Alyssa.”

“Have her back in the next few years. I know her father asked that she keep her old name,” Alyssa said. She got her fat tits out of her own—Owen’s face. “And I know what you’re wondering, and yes, she has tits just as good as mine.”

Her Mom smiled at the couple.

They drove around in Owen’s beater Corolla. It had started life with a terrible magenta paint job, then a lime green, and currently some sort of flaking brass, all three colors visible somewhere on the body. In High School Cass had ridden it in many times, always in the backseat, and always safely hidden in her band uniform, and never with an all-consuming submission-oriented sex virus coursing through her.

The whole car smelled like Owen. Southwestern Detroit coursed around them.

Not in a good way, she told herself. It was all of Owen, at 4 p.m. or 1 a.m. or sweating big adolescent sweat drops in his band uniform or whenever. It was so personal, and the virus loved that, loved to imprint like a baby duck on the most private parts of a man. Like she was in his bathroom, running her hands over him, sniffing if she had made him happy...

“Can we drive with the windows down? Air going?” Cass said. Her hand still hurt where she’d smacked him. An angry, accusatory throb, for Cass making it an accessory to a crime.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah!” Owen said. He bobbed his head. “That’s a great idea. We’ve got lots to talk about, right? I need your help on all this stuff, I read about it, but I’m not living it, you know?”

She was definitely living it. Cass climbed in to the enger seat. Girls couldn’t drive cars anymore. She forced herself to look at her beau, and think about how ugly he was.

She’d practiced this on video after video.

His hair was not great. A small amount of blonde had been poured in, but it had to cover an entire head, and wasn’t up to it. Everything else was brown, and the golden highlights just called attention to that, that there were only bright rays under direct sunlight. The rest was Medium Wood. Face was still not at twenty, and it was a huge relief that he had a trio of pimples dotting the backside of his jawline. A constellation to focus on that wasn’t his solid, soulful eyes, or the way they crinkled when he was happy with—

Cass moved south.

He was poorly dressed, too, with bad shoes. The shoes were especially bad. She’d thrifted better. Too small Nikes that were grass and mud-colored. The rubber was half worn off. Heck, she knew those shoes, he’d worn them in High School, and they’d been bad then. Bad jeans, cheap. And a t-shirt. A t-shirt to meet his fiancee, his bride-to-be, his whore-slave. Her. Like he was going to pick up takeout. This was not a master. It was a 19 year old with pimples.

The virus rebelled, within her, at her ungenerous catalogue.

Your MASTER, it told her. THIS is your MASTER and you can smell him, smell his needs and wants. You can stare into his eyes and see your own future. Your mouth waters and your pussy juices to service him.

It was furious about the slap. You are a pet pissing on his carpet, it said, and pretending like that gives you CONTROL...

“Okay. Lets get started. First I’m—I’m going to be hyper-critical of you,” Cass warned. She gritted her teeth. This was what she had to do. Set boundaries, think critically. He was not her god, he was a man, and not much of—not much of—

She couldn’t think it. It wouldn’t even make its way through her thoughts. The virus was all the way through her, every last piece, and it wanted her to love this man.

Suck his dick. No. Her eyes widened. It was the first time she’d ever thought that about a man, that she’d wanted to put his cock in her mouth. Already she was losing the battle. It would feel good to have his dick in her mouth, and lick it...

“I hate your shoes,” Cass started off. She frowned. They were on the freeway by the airport. When had that happened? Had she just been—staring at him?

“Yeah! They’re beat to shit. What else? Wow, I really didn’t know any girls could still do this,” Owen said, bobbing his head, encouraging her. “It says online that you have so, so much virus even in your heart. Like, your kidneys want to obey me. How are you even...?”

“Training. Pimples. You have some pimples,” his slave said. No. This was a test of her training. Her mouth was tight, trying not to say the words. She forced them out anyway. “Zits.”

“I sure do,” Owen frowned, slightly. Too far, the virus told her. Too damn far, you vicious bitch. “You know, there’s a video for guys on how not to boss ladies around. I was watching it, it says don’t roll up all James Bond, cologne, suit, even like a nice wristwatch does stuff to girl brains. It says be a beta slob. And I’m thinking, great. I’m already set.”

“Yeah,” Cass said. NO, the virus told her, furious. Tell him he was a powerful male. Or just suck his cock, to prove it. She tore her eyes away. The jawline was very strong, even with zits on it. “Yeah!” she laughed. It was just Owen, High School Owen. Even if she was getting big lungfuls of him, even if there was a trickle in her underpants. “I’m dressed like shit too. I haven’t washed my face in weeks. How’s my hair?”

“Oh, you know its matted, Cass,” Owen said. Affectionately.

Analyze how you feel, her videos told her. Every conversation was a war. At the end of every discussion, you, yes you, could be a slave. “And I learned a lot about not giving orders. It’s like, linguistic analysis. You don’t even know you’re doing it. I have to end as many sentences as I can with a question mark? And no exclamations?”

They drove in a companionable silence. ments floated by. By law they were all certified GirlSafe. Persuasive-only, with a regulated speech bubble on the billboard making clear that, technically, a girl was saying it. The same girlish mouth, with red lipstick. Too many girls had ruined themselves calling plumbers, or buying every product in a store, or devoting themselves to a new master named Colonel Sanders.

Cass felt proud of herself, despite what a challenge it was. She’d insulted and hit him. And best of all, he’d reacted positively to all of it. That made her happy, that he was happy.

“You heard we’re going to couple’s therapy,” Owen said. “Learn how to be partners despite... everything. Safely Coupling 101, it’s called. You know.”

“Safely Coupling. Like I’m a trailer you’re towing. Fun,” Cass said. She realized she was licking her lips. Keep them nice and moist. That was on her list of mannerisms for Starting Slavery. Next she’d be twirling her hair, and after that, mashing her tits into his face. She had to be rigid. No simpering puppy eyes. No lingering gazes on his jawline. “Alright. I’m doing good. You are Owen. We went to High School together. Lets talk next steps.” She’d given HIM an order! Cass gave herself another mental pat on the back.

“So MY goal,” Owen said, “Is—that. Safely. You Brenna and Erica? The two girl drummers? Brenna straight up disappeared and Erica is... she says she’s happy, but she’s got a new name. I really don’t... why rename her? She’s Trixie now. Erica is even kind of a sexy, feminine name but he still... she’s so... different. She just had her second kid.”

“Yeah. I knew, about Erica,” Cass said. Of course all the High School girls swore eternal friendship and resistance to men. They’d blinked out, one by one. Cass was the only one left from her cohort that she was aware of.

Owen took a deep breath. “So! When my Dad came to me and was like, Cass needs a guy her age, I was like, Owen, you can keep one girl... safe. I want you to be safe. That’s an achievable goal. I like achievable goals. So I was all for this. I can do protection, you know?”

He was going to protect her. He wanted to protect her.

Cass’ fingers tightened on the car door handle. Her body glowed with it. Her mouth filled with spit. A man had declared his protection of her, and that was ownership, by a nice name. It was basically the feudal system. Her nipples burned hot and her skin flashed with happy waves and her thighs itched to reward him, her protector, her guardian—

She was at risk. She was feeling too good. Endorphins were a warning sign, Miss Andry said. If you feel good, it’s real trouble.

“Cass?” Owen sounded concerned. Right. She had to answer him. The Alone Together videos talked about this. Use the virus to beat the virus, push through...

“Did you say something?” she managed, teeth gritted. Concentrate on the pimples, not the way his hands had grown so very large, fitting on a small Toyota steering wheel...

“Uh. Yeah. I asked, what’s YOUR goal?” he said. “Like, I don’t want to assume anything.”

And when Cass went looking for her goals, they were gone.

All her goals were gone.

They’d been replaced by Owen’s goals.

She wanted what he wanted.

Cass took in a sharp, shocked breath. This was her first real introduction to Submission. Before it had always been, choosing resistance over obedience. Ignoring her body’s warm reaction to men. Dealing with the harsh consequences of picking herself.

She’d never lost the choice, before. This was the real virus. There was no, picking resistance.

There was just... Owen.

“Can you—ask me to my goals? Please?” Cass said. This was emergency behavior, because it was asking for a command, and each command eroded, and eroded, and eroded. Until all that was left was obedience, inside a sexy, delightful package that cooed and sucked cock.

The virus wasn’t even done. What’s in it for HIM? it asked. He can’t just want to be your white knight. To own a princess in a tower, satisfied to be a ridiculous white knight. Cass squeezed it away. He’d said he wanted it. She could make him feel so fantastic about protecting her, simper about what a good guardian he was, how lucky she was...

“What?”

“Please, sir,” Cass said, her eyes shut. She MUST have had goals...

“ your goals? Uh. Do that.”

YES. Yes, there they were. They were still there. And yet not the same. Were they goals, or memories of goals? But that was a subtle distinction, and Cass’ pussy was now throbbing and warm. Her clit glowed. She wanted to obey. His scent poured into her, his first real command edged its way in.

Deep breath, Cass, she told herself.

“I’d like to be Cass and not renamed Tits McGee. I’d like to avoid being the centerpiece at weddings. I don’t want to have so much cum in me I can sneeze it out. I don’t want to have locally famous tits. Basically I don’t want to be my Mom.”

There. She felt like herself again.

“Oh,” Owen said. He turned his head away. “Like the thing with the dog bowl.”

Everyone had heard about that. Alyssa only drank out of a dog bowl, on the floor. Just to make clear that everyone in the entire world could degrade her. She couldn’t get any lower.

“Yes. Like the thing with the dog bowl.” Cass added “sarcastic tone towards a male” to her accomplishment list. “Yeah, everyone knows about Mom. The dog bowl woman. She really does drink out of it. Sometimes she’ll serve an expensive chardonnay or something for dinner and you know what? She drinks it out of a dog bowl on the floor. Laps up the bubbly.”

“I’ve... heard of that,” Owen said. “Yeah. Yep.”

But did his voice catch? The videos had talked about this, in the series on Nice Guys. The pull in her heart, asking her, is this what he really wants, is this what he wants deep inside, or is this a thin veneer of civilization? Because if what he really wants is to paddle your ass red, or wake up to a blowjob, or have you drink Stag’s Leap from a small plastic bowl that says FIFI on the side...

“Oh, damn it,” Owen said. He slowed down. “There’s a situation.”

A girl was walking on the side of the road. She was bare-chested, with very nice, perky tits. And she was barefoot. There was no man around, which was extremely unusual.

A stray, Cass thought, and squeezed her thighs together.

“My name is Dumb BItch,” the girl said.

Dumb Bitch wore only a wraparound plastic skirt. Ultra-cheap plastic clothes were common—they weren’t comfortable, but the girls didn’t care, and neither did the men. This skirt had alternating blue and pink lines and ended way north of her knees. It was the only thing she had on.

“Cass, can you give her your sweatshirt?” Owen said, disgusted. Owen had stopped the car and put on his blinkers, and then given Cass a command.

Cass was already obeying, unzipping her grey, all-concealing hoodie. No, she told herself, pulling it off her arms. As reasonable, and altruistic, as the order was, she needed to tell Owen not to do that to her. There were other ways to phrase it—Cass, make a decision about giving the girl your sweatshirt. Although wasn’t that an order, as well? Cass, do you think she looks cold, those beautiful brown boobs wobbling around?

She was getting fatigued, fighting off the basic and primal command in his scent, his proximity.

It was fine, she decided. She felt a tickle of pleasure in her arms and legs. Good girl.

“Put this on,” Owen told the girl. She had beautiful hair, and looked sleek, well-fed. “What’s your actual name?”

“Dumb Bitch,” said Dumb Bitch. She put on Cass’ sweatshirt.

“What was your name before it was Dumb Bitch?” Owen said, and Cass ired the strain in his voice. He didn’t need to help this girl. He really was a Protector. Bad shoes, she reminded herself. Bad shoes, bad car, bad hair. They were in a transactional relationship to retain her fragile female autonomy.

“Stupid Cunt.”

“Alright. Alright,” Owen ruffled his hair. He dropped his voice pitch, and squared his shoulders. So he did know how to Order. Of course he did, he was a man, and men did it every moment of every day. This was the way to address a girl so she would listen. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Um. I’m going to go be a Dumb Bitch somewhere else,” Dumb Bitch said. “My... the Man said he was leaving.”

“From where? Airport hotel?” That was a common one. Men in town on business, who’d pick up a concubine for the length of the Dental Conference, or whatever, and then tell her to fuck off.

“Umm. I—I forgot—” Dumb Bitch stammered. She had conflicting commands now. Hard on a girl. She’d either flip around to Owen, or possibly even out.

“WHERE WERE YOU THIS MORNING?” Owen thundered, right in her face. Cass’ heart skipped a beat. She took several steps back, trying not to be ensnared. Caught in the splash, she stammered out her home address, where in the house she resided, and tried to think of any other relevant information, while Dumb Bitch hunted through her glassed-over and vitrified memories.

A more dominant male could override a lesser one. It was a rule of men. The videos called it the ultimate power of girls, figuring which man was really more dominant. What a laugh...

“Holiday Inn Express!” Dumb Bitch gasped. She stiffened—other memories had to be flowing through her. “I was—I work Comfort at Holiday Inn Express, he took my company collar off, he had some device he bought, he said he liked my titties.”

They WERE good tits, Cass thought.

“And what’s your name?” Owen said.

“Dumb Bitch,” said Dumb Bitch.

Owen blew out a long breath. “Alright. Come on, get in the car. We’ll take you back to the hotel, I guess. Or, Cass, maybe the cops? Sorry about the date, Cass.

“The hotel,” Cass said. She was being consult—no. Cass shook her head. Her address getting ripped out of her had put her walls back up. She needed to stop glowing with smug, happy energy whenever Owen treated her like a person. It was, ironically, the first step to becoming a slave.

Dumb Bitch was already pulling open the car door. She had to. She’d been ordered to.

“Cass, should we rename her, or is that making things worse?” Owen said, once they were all three of them on the road. Cass could smell Dumb Bitch. Her business traveler’s scent clung to her even still, a fading out male scent, the distinct signature of his cum. He was probably on the way back to Denver just then, flying overhead.

“Ask her, maybe?” Cass said.

“Oh, yeah, good idea.” Happy tingles, happy tingles, growing praise-kink. “Miss. Do you want a new name? Actually, no. If you had a different name, what would you want it to be?”

What wheels were turning, in the seat behind them? Was she picking through a shattered, male-dominated past, for some god-given name lost in a sea of commands and orders? Or was she just going to pick something Owen would like?

“Cass,” said Dumb Bitch. “Can you rename me Cass?”

Something Owen would like.

Cass wasn’t sure how to feel about that. No, she was lying. She loved it, she really loved it. This girl thought she was taken, owned, controlled. She flushed. They drove quietly towards the airport. It was dark and cold in the greater Detroit area. Cass had nothing to say, and Dumb Bitch wouldn’t speak unless spoken to.

“Cass, actual Cass, you never really said what your goals ARE,” Owen said. “Just... no dog bowl. Which, that’s fine, I got it. What do you want? What do you want from... us? I mean, sorry. Not that there’s an us.”

Us.

She had to fight this warmth spreading through her. She had to fight how good her boobs felt, and how much she wanted to show them off. How proud she was of him, for helping the girl. The girl wanted to be his Cass. Cass wanted to be his Cass. She had to be the Cass that slapped, the Cass that pushed back, because otherwise...

“Oh, there’s an US,” Cass said,

She glanced outside. Not as many cars on the road, since only half the population could drive. Men liked to talk about the little things, the nice surprises, to their ownership of the gentler sex. The blowjobs were the obvious benefit, but there other ones. Less traffic. Valentine’s Day was much less stressful. No more dating app hell.

Through a gap in the buildings, down a long boulevard, she got a glimpse of the distant hillside. She summoned the Witch of Cherry Hill to her aid. Sometimes when it was very late, and very dark, she could see a speckle of light moving in the far woods.

“You’re my legal owner,” Cass scoffed. “My Daddy gave me to you. You’re responsible for me. I am one hundred percent dependent on you. We’re an US, alright. Or if you like, I’m a YOURS, Mr. Ugly Shoes.”

“Uh,” Owen said. He sounded surprised. “Okay. Right.”

“It’s true,” Dumb Bitch volunteered. “We’re a lot of trouble. But we will suck your dick. Do you want me to suck your dick?”

“No thanks, miss,” Owen said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He didn’t look happy. No wonder. Cass was tired, and had no defenses left against the mantle of guilt the virus slid onto her. She’d made Owen unhappy with her little speech. He’d just wanted to hear that she wanted to read books and play the flute again. He’d even offered to be

She was being a bad girl to her owner.

She had to ease his burden, with her body. Cass squished the thought, but not before she sat up straight, just so, and tugged her shirt, just so, and made clear that she was wearing a pretty tight white t-shirt underneath her sweater. She had never intended to take the sweater off. It had a low cut neckline.

Owen glanced over, and noticed her tits.

Cass had done everything to keep them in check, and had failed.

She had big fat tits.

She was pretty sure that in the before times she would’ve had a respectable but work-safe chest. A well-developed pair of titties that would’ve been a fun and playful handful, but ultimately a two-some that could be concealed in a normal bra. It was only the extra incentive of Submission that, denied any other outlet, had added a couple of cup sizes and some extraordinary development to her boobs. She hated them and hated them. They were dumb fat tits and they were going to get her enslaved.

They were possibly bigger than her Mom’s, and little miss orgy had some of the nicest breasts in town.

They were no longer hidden behind a nice concealing sweatshirt. Noticed, for the first time, they had their own heat and sensation. They felt like if anything touched them, she’d moan. Like a slut.

Owen’s eyes lingered...

“Us,” he repeated. Sounding it out. He smelled like Owen. She didn’t know how he tasted. “I guess I this is... serious.”

“It is serious,” Cass mumbled. “But... thank you. For offering to protect me.”

She’d learned something very important on their not-date. She definitely needed protecting. The world was large and scary.

“Please, can I suck your dick?” Dumb Bitch offered, again. “I’m really good at giving head. We can do it together. I owe you super big for helping me. You deserve a blowjob. You can cum all over my dumb bitch face.”

“Miss, until we get you back, you’re Catarina, then I guess we’ll talk,” Owen said. “Okay? Just for the next few hours. I’m actually looking forward to finding out your real name. Are you chipped?”