Mindy was in the middle of breakfast when she became a slave.
She stared, idly, at the back of the cereal box. The back read “oats are an important part of a balanced breakfast!”
She wondered, uncharacteristically, if a man had written that.
Mindy explored the thought. Why was it important whether or not a man had written it? Well, she thought, if a man had written it, she was going to have to do it. She was going to have to eat oats. They were important. They were part of a balanced breakfast. She NEEDED oats. God, did she need oats. She needed to lay in an oat supply immediately.
Mindy froze. “Oh, fuck!” she swore.
It had happened to her, just like all the other girls, just like everyone with an XX chromosome in the entire world. She had caught—whatever the fuck it was. On the feminist forums they had briefly, with incredibly brave gallows humor, called it Actually. The government was calling it Involuntary Female Muscle Syndrome. Mindy had thought of it as Yessir but that suddenly seemed too flippant, far too much of a joke.
Mindy sat back in her chair. She had been reprogrammed. Over breakfast. The most important meal of the day. Oats. She needed oats.
She searched the interior of her head for what in the world she was—just what it really meant. Could she think mean thoughts about boys? No, of course not, why would she want to? Could she not do what a man ordere—and there was a strange twinge within her, almost painful, like a violin string vibrating inside her head. If a boy asked her to—yes. Yes, god, yes. Absolutely yes, without hesitation, she would—whatever it was, god, she wanted to know, needed to know, what did that boy WANT? What did every boy want?
Her fingers drummed up and down on the table. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Funny how she was dressed casually in jeans and a blouse. You’d never know she was a slave.
Mindy stood up and paced. Her apartment was a stylish and well-appointed den that was no longer really hers. There was an alienness to it, all of a sudden, a sense of having possessions that had been drained away. It was hard to even think of something being “Mindy’s” with that apostrophe. Mindy’s TV, Mindy’s bookcase, it just didn’t quite work. How dumb had she had been to pick out pink pillows, a cat-themed throw, a bunch of Audrey Hepburn prints on the wall? Guys hated that stuff.
She wasn’t an owner, she was owned.
She was achingly aware of a sudden emptiness, a lack of purpose. She hadn’t been told what to do by any man. All she had to go on was a vague but somewhat terrifying sense of MEN, that collective “men”, of their overwhelming desires and needs and wants. Her body was telling her—informing her—that she needed to get going on all of them, at the same time. Slut it up, cook, clean, work at the same time, be a helpmeet, get pregnant, dress cute, be sympathetic.
She felt a pressure to fuck billions of men.
Mindy had taken the advice given by afflicted girls with sympathetic boyfriends and husbands or other owners, who had haltingly described what it was like, post-infection. Avoid all media. If somebody on TV with a penis said to go jump in a lake, you would go jump in a lake. You could walk out of an R&B song as the most trashy and desperate of sluts. There were women, right now, hopelessly searching for singers and celebrities who had said “baby be mine” in front of some camera.
“It’s like this,” one had written. “My name is Sarah. Now. It wasn’t a few days ago. He didn’t like my old name. I don’t even remember it.”
But this was worse, in a way. At least those lucky girls had a purpose. Whatever a guy told them to do. All she had to go on was statistical averaging. What the hell did men want? She had to do whatever that was!
Mindy got out her phone. The phone that she had. Her throat was tight, thick. She fixated on a fact. She had a boyfriend. Thank god, thank god she had a boyfriend. Nick, that was her boyfriend. He was traveling when the epidemic hit, was still hundreds of miles away, but he was hers. She needed to talk to him. If not him, some other man would have to do. Any man.
“Come on, come on,” she said. The phone rang. Her chest hurt. She felt a sick panic, like sitting before a test she had never studied for. “Pick upppppp, Nick. Pick the fuck up!”
“Hey Mindy,” Nick said. His voice was tinny and metallic but it was her boyfriend and she was deeply relieved.
“Nick!” Mindy squeezed back the fear. He wouldn’t want her to be upset. “Nick, I’m, uhh… infected. I’ve got it. You know. The thing.”
“Oh shit,” Nick said. “The girl thing.”
“Yeah,” Mindy said. “That.”
“Alright,” Nick said. He breathed hard into the phone, and Mindy realized, with a sense of wild excitement, that she was about to get her first order. “Okay. Okay. Mindy, don’t panic, okay? Everything’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Don’t panic, there it was.
Everything was okay. It crashed into her. Her fingers stopped shaking. Mindy started to take a deep breath, and stopped. Why bother? She was already calm.
Everything really was okay.
“Yeah, okay Nick,” she said, smoothly. “What’s the plan?”
“Oh. Shit. I don’t want to… you’ll do whatever a guy says, huh? Like, me?”
“Yep,” Mindy confirmed. Well, as first orders went, calm down was apparently a useful one. She could barely remember that sense of impending doom, the sick in the back of her throat already washing back. Now she felt mildly perturbed, like she was waiting for an important phone call. And slightly annoyed at becoming a slave. “Annnnnnything.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Mindy said, honestly. “Not great. I was in the middle of breakfast. And then suddenly I’m trying to figure out how to service a vast swarm of, you know, every boy.”
“Uhh, service?”
“Sexually. Presumably. Men, right? You know how they are.” Mindy said. It really was a marvel, whatever the hell had happened to her. All these emotions were presumably based at least somewhat on chemistry and biology. A boy had spoken to her, and all that very real adrenaline pumping through her veins, the accompanying brain waves, the hormones, the blood pressure spike, had just gotten drained out, in moments. “I don’t have a lot of illusions about men,” she said.
“Yeahhhh… yeah that’s a good idea,” Nick said. “What I’m seeing on the news is… not great. Listen, I’m about to rent a car, I’m gonna drive back. I want you to—okay, here goes, I’m giving you an order, alright? For your own good?”
“You already did,” Mindy said. She rolled her eyes and then felt immediate guilt. Ow. The violin played a warning.
“What? Okay, whatever. Stay in the apartment as much as you can. Try to avoid getting, uh, commanded. Call me if you need something. Lay low. Figuratively lay low. You get that I mean figuratively, right?”
“I’m not STUPID now,” Mindy said. Unless he told her to be stupid. Ah, geez, she was gonna have to be dumber now. Guys hated girls that were more intelligent than they were, and Nick was, frankly, not that bright. “Okay, sir.”
Oh god. Sir. She had said it entirely sincerely. It felt good to say.
“Sir?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, ironically? Help me figure this out.”
“Not ironic,” Mindy said. “I don’t think being ironic with a guy is a thing anymore. It’s like lying.”
“Geez. Okay. Well. Good. Anyway. No TV, no radio, nothing where you can get commanded. Good. Good girl. Oh. Shit, sorry.”
Mindy stood still. Good girl. It was a stupid, sexist comment, and it had rippled through her, warming her up, making her feel—good. Way too good. Because she was a good girl. “See you soon, Nick,” she managed, and hung up.
In a minute, she decided, she would get up and figure out what life was like as a servant to males.
But first she was still just halfway through a balanced breakfast.
* * *
The girl at the rental counter was half-naked and fondling herself. Nick paused.
This was the first moment where it became really real, he thought. Everything up to that point had been wrapped in a gauze of distance and unreality. Anything on TV was never quite real, the notifications on his phone a crazy video game where the entire world was in on it. Even the phone call from Mindy had been like some kind of half-joking sex game, roleplaying master and servant.
But now he had to go rent a car from a girl who was simply masturbating in the middle of the day.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m.. here to rent a car.”
The girl had great boobs, especially for rental car employees. They were heavy teardrops, with enormous brown nipples, both of which were hard and long. She wore—half-wore—a company polo, which was wrapped around her waist. She had shucked her jeans around her ankles and had one hand deep within her snatch.
“Do you have a… ummm… reservation?” the girl said. “A res—oh god a reser—Oh, god. I have to…”
She moaned, low and deep, and shook hard. Her fingers pistoned in and out. Nick bit his lip. The girl was a brunette, top and bottom. Thicker than Nick usually went for—Mindy was skinny and would’ve looked great in yoga pants, if she ever wore them. But this one was definitely all sorts of curvy. He recalled a saying, skinny girls looked good in clothes, thick girls looked better naked.
This girl looked great naked.
The girl opened her eyes, and blew out a breath. “Sorry. So sorry. Reservation number?” she started to type with a hand just recently buried deep in her pussy. Her fingers glistened. They left a streak on the keyboard.
“Are you alright?” Nick said, eventually.
The girl put her head to one side. She gave him a half-shrug. “I mean, kind of a hard question to answer, sir,” she said.
Was this like programming a computer? That was something Nick could work with. He did technical work for a living. Were all females just goto 10 androids with english-based interfaces? “Did some guy tell you to masturbate at work?”
“No,” said the girl. “It was like, ten guys. I’m Megan, by the way.”
“Nick.”
“Hi, Nick. Yeah. The first one was like, keep your head up, and then smile, and then a guy had me get my tits out, and then the next said to enjoy those tits, he certainly was, and then a guy asked why I was just topless, and THEN a guy said I should have some fun since I was stuck out here working… and THEN THEN a guy was like, look, if you’re gonna grope those tits you might as well stick your fingers up your hoo-ha. Anyway, it kind of added up. At least they mostly told me to enjoy myself. So I am.”
Nick nodded, sincerely. He had to play this right. There had to be a way to fix this.
“Megan, act like you did before the, uh, the virus,” Nick tried.
Her eyes popped open, and she looked at her soaking wet hand, horror-struck.
“Everything’s okay! Everything is okay!” Nick said, quickly.
Megan took a deep breath and let it whistle out. Her eyelids drooped. She wiped her hand on her shirt.
“Oh, geez, don’t do that,” Megan said. Her pussy hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t—you can do that if you want. Ow, I…”
They stopped and stared at each other.
“Okay, lets start over,” Nick said. He had to THINK. He had heard a few of the horror stories on the news. Leading experts were apparently drafting some sort of Asimov’s Laws for Women, so that listening to a pop song about running into the ocean wasn’t unnecessarily tragic.
Nick paced around the front of the rental counter. This was, bottom line, ridiculous. “Megan, pull your pants up, put your shirt on,” he said, finally. He waited while two big knockers were once again covered in cotton. “You don’t need to.. or… okay, belay that. Lets try this. Act normally and come with me.”
And just like that, Nick realized he had acquired a slave.
“Ah, fuck,” he said. Megan regarded him with a sudden, keen interest. Her eyes were big, wet. She slowly arched an eyebrow at him. Waiting on him.
“Look, do you have any family?” he asked her.
“Well, yeah, of course. My Mom.”
That didn’t really help. “Boyfriend? Husband?” He finally just said it. “Any man?”
“Nope.”
Fuck. Nick paced around. He had his own girlfriend to worry about. Christ, they had only been dating for three weeks. He had had the distinct feeling that she was slumming with him, enjoying a boyfriend who was easy, nice, but basically barrel-shaped and overly bearded. Now she was…
Now she was whatever the fuck he wanted her to be.
“You can’t stay here, it’s ridiculous you’d be working this kind of job, out by yourself,” Nick said. “Maybe.. I guess the fire department? Would take you?”
“Pound?” Megan suggested.
It took Nick a moment to realize she was joking. They both giggled, semi-hysterically. Her tits bounced up and down, still bra-less.
“I don’t actually work here,” Megan said.
“What?” Nick said.
“Yeah, no, I was just here to get a rental car, get back to Seattle, and the guy working here was like, this job sucks, you do it, I’ll come by later.”
“The hell,” Nick said. His gender was not going to come out of his fiasco looking good. He came to a decision. “Alright. You’re gonna come with me and I’ll drop you off with… I’ll drop you off. I’m from Seattle too.”
“Okay,” Megan said. “You do mean, come, c-o-m-e, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” Nick said.
“Just checking,” Megan said. “It’s fine. Everything’s okay, apparently.”
* * *
Mindy examined herself in the mirror. Everything’s OKAY, she reminded herself.
There was a really real sense that she was looking at a stranger. After all, before she had always looked at herself—as herself, if that made any sense.
Now that didn’t really matter. She had to look at herself like a guy would.
And to a certain degree, it was kind of surprisingly liberating. All those dumb little imperfections no longer mattered at all—the shape and size of her neck, the way her navel looked, the tiny patch of hair on her lower back—men did not give a fuck about any of that, so neither did she.
She felt pretty confident they’d like what they saw. She was naturally skinny, with high-riding brea—brea—
For fuck’s sake. TITS. There. Stupid sexist sexy men. She had great tits.
Anyway, thin with good tits was a baseline 7, no way she was any lower than that. She had prim, proper features. Low-lidded eyes, the only tinge of eastern european that had bred true. Her ass was fine. It looked best in jeans, very skinny jeans, highlighting the length of her legs. Dark black hair. She assigned herself a 7.7, 7.8, and felt confident in her assessment. That was a pretty good score.
Mindy wondered if she was at a disadvantage in life, knowing so much about men. No doubt there was a good religious girl out there who saw the best in everyone and really believed that men would want her happy, chaste, monogamous, comfortable. And then, hey presto, that was her reality.
Well, Mindy was up on the latest statistics, and that meant that all her body hair absolutely had to go.
She took a long and leisurely shower. Was it possible that there was something good to all of this? What if a man told her to write the Great American Novel, would she turn into Hemingway? Could a man sternly tell her not to feel a toothache, stop having a hangover? Mindy scraped away at armpit hair. Long black strands washed away. Maybe Nick could just tell her to be the Mindy she always wanted to be, the best of Mindys, a strong and proud woman who didn’t need more than one man.
She sighed. Who the hell was she kidding? She was horny. Generically horny, pussy wet, just in case a man busted down the door and wanted to fuck her. She couldn’t even say breas—breas—tits, because hooters and boobs and titties were hotter words. Her nipples were erect. There was going to be a lot more penis in her future.
Crap, she was going to have to get really fantastic at sucking dick.
Smooth and hairless, Mindy took out her phone and snapped a photo of her pussy. Off it went to Nick. Then a half-dozen more photos—of her hands starting to explore, of her tits, of her naked body posing in the mirror. It was a real challenge but she managed to figure out the timer feature, and get a good shot of herself bent over, finger up her slit, her ass posed at its very best.
Nick texted back.
NICK: Awesome. Any particular reason?
Oh, right. Mindy stopped for a second. She hadn’t really given much thought to the fact that she was sending pictures of her privates to her boyfriend. It had just seemed like a natural, even humdrum thing to do. There had been a little bit of a naughty thrill, just a little. But more she had felt like she was paying bills, stamping envelopes. Making sure that her boy had the latest and up-to-date news regarding Mindy’s pussy.
MINDY: Yeah I kind of need to do this I guess?
NICK: But I didn’t tell you to?
MINDY: It’s okay. Everything’s okay! Did you like it?
NICK: well yeah
MINDY: yeah I’m anticipating your needs i guess.
NICK: huh.
MINDY: what should I wear
NICK: clothes
She had to wear clothes, immediately. Walking around naked was wrong. She dropped the phone and ran over to her dresser. Mindy slipped into a black, lacy pair of underwear, as fast as she could. That had to be enough to go back for more direction.
MINDY: do I wear a bra
NICK: do I have to care? Can I just tell you to make your own decisions.
It was a tough question. Mindy thought about it before texting back.
MINDY: if you don’t tell me i have to guess
MINDY: guessing is exhausting. :/
NICK: shit i don’t know. Go wear clothes!!
Go wear clothes! She dropped the phone and hustled back over. There were so many clothes. And the combinations! Hundreds of them, they multiplied, it was just math. Mindy felt a sudden, harsh pressure. Logically speaking, there had to be ONE outfit that was what Nick wanted—what if she picked the second best, or the WORST? But he would be mad at her if she ran back to the phone for more directions. Deep breath, she could do this. Everything was okay. Everything was okay. White shorts, that was eye-catching. A blue tanktop that was at the very bottom of the drawer because it showed off too much tit. Black flip-flops.
Dressed, she laid down on the carpet, spread-eagled.
Couldn’t even get dressed without direction. So much for the strong, independent, woman theory.
Then she went to text Nick what she was dressed up as.
* * *
“Maybe we should just fuck,” Megan suggested.
They had driven along for about two hours, quietly. It was cold outside, and there were few cars in the early morning. The forest swept along on both sides. Nick had gotten his choice of rentals and had picked a sensible Chrysler with leather seats.
He had spent the time trying to formulate some sort of thing he could say to make everything all better.
Obviously “act like you did pre-virus” wasn’t going to work, neither was “pretend none of this happened.” That’d be like play-acting, forcing Megan to put on a persona she knew was a lie. Giving her a set of rules didn’t seem like it was going to work either—every rule created ambiguities, exceptions, like he was crafting operating instructions while driving.
He had tried the radio. Every station was static or classical. Rarely, very rarely, some breathy girl voice had announced that “lyrical music is currently suspended by order of the OEM.” Whatever the OEM was. So no girls were inadvertently getting freaky with it, at least, driven to gyrate unexpectedly.
He kept stealing looks at Megan. She was still in her polo shirt. She must’ve taken it from the back of the office, because it was way too big, and kept falling off a shoulder. Her big, naked tits still loomed large in his imagination, and her cleavage kept rising and falling with each breath. She wore comfortable-looking black yogas, fashionably daring for a girl with a big ass, and had her legs crossed. She seemed a lot more at ease than he was, eyeing the forest outside with mild interest.
Then she calmly suggested that they fuck.
“Sorry?” Nick managed.
“Hmm. It’s... look, here’s the thing,” Megan said. “Hold on, I’m just gonna take out the girls to make this clearer.”
She rucked her shirt over the top of her head. Her boobs wobbled back and forth.
“See, I can tell you want to get into these,” she said, groping them. “It’s fine. That’s okay. You can do whatever you want with me and you’ve already seen me finger-fucking myself, that’s gonna get you horny.” Her voice was low and soothing, like she was talking to a grouchy kid.
“So what’s your point?” Nick said, forcing his eyes back onto the road.
“The way this apparently works, is I want to do what you want, and you want to fuck,” Megan said. Was her condescending tone some part of her rebelling? It irritated Nick, and he felt guilty about it. “It’s like baseline for you, right? And it’s... rough... for me to have you wanting me to do something but not just like, outright saying it. It’s like, a conflict. Like I’m trying to obey two different guys at once.”
Nick thought about this. “So you’re trying to say I’d be doing you a favor by just being honest about what I want.”
“Bingo!” Megan beamed.
“But maybe you’re just saying that because you think that’s what I want to hear,” Nick said.
Megan shook her head very softly from side to side. “I think you’ve overthinking this stuff! Fuck my tits! Come on!”
“It’s stupid!” Nick said. “Oh, come on.”
Megan had started to wiggle her pants off, very slowly. “I’m not hearing a stop!” she said. “Because I haven’t stopped! Hold on, let me check… yep. That’s a penis.”
She put her hand in his lap and found a very hard cock.
“See this is some real wants and needs stuff, here in my hands,” Megan said. She smiled at his dick. “HE knows what he wants.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Even when she started to stroke it. His hands tightened on the wheel. Megan licked her lips. Her soft smile was somehow even hotter than her actual fingers coaxing his penis to full-mast. “So what you’re saying,” he tried. “is that even if I consciously decide something, just because I’m a guy and I get turned on no matter what, that’s the part that counts.”
“You can say no,” Megan said. She smiled. “Mm. Didn’t hear THAT word. Look, I have no idea why you’re complaining. It’s your gender that did this to me. I don’t normally give handjobs to strangers. I don’t know why you get to be unhappy about it. Seems unfair.”
“Is there some command making you do this?” Nick said. Her hands felt amazing. He had a girlfriend, he reminded himself. Oh god, Megan was licking her fingers, to lubricate them.
“Maybe! I didn’t usually give handjobs in cars! It’s dangerous!” Megan said. She started to pull down his zipper, her hand moving underneath her own waistband. “Ooo, hands are moving by themselves. Sorry, I have no control over it. I’m gonna have to masturbate like crazy. Slave. You know.”
His dick was completely out of his pants, now. Had someone told Megan how to give good handjobs? Or just told her to be good? Because she had found the underside of his shaft and had started to jack it so professionally. The very first droplet of precum was starting to dribble out, and Nick knew, just knew, that what he really, really, really, wanted, at the most animal level, was for Megan to lick the cum off his dick.
His phone buzzed.
Nick snapped out of it. “Megan, hands off my dick,” he said. “No more unconscious-needs stuff. If I want something, I’ll tell you. Now, can you please check who texted?”
Megan sighed. She reached over and picked up his phone. “It’s a big photo of a pussy,” she reported.
“What?”
“Yeah, a pussy. Here comes another one. This is a very nice cunt. And great photography.”
“Who is it from?”
“Wow, it could be multiple people? I am attached to a player. It’s Mindy.”
“Oh.”
“Who is Mindy? Beaver shots still coming in.”
“My girlfriend. I’m pulling over. I have to answer this.”
It was, in fact, Mindy, sending him shots of a very wet, very pink, very hairless pussy. It wasn’t doing anything for Nick’s arousal level to get shots this explicit, this… interior. Shit, he and Mindy had only had sex, what, three times? Just enough to figure out how their bodies were going to work. Basic missionary stuff. He hadn’t got up the nerve to ask for a blowjob.
Nick pulled off and took the phone. While he texted instructions, Megan got out of the passenger seat, stretched long and hard, and then plopped her ass on the front hood. She once again pulled down her yoga pants, all the way to her ankles, her slit open to the cool northern air.
“Muuuuuch better,” she sighed, and slipped her hands far inside of her. She moaned, framed by the rising sun, a hand frigging herself furiously while the other one went up underneath her shirt. “Oh, gawdddddd.”
“Megan… god damn it,” Nick said. Pussies on his phone, pussies on his car. If he was a slavemaster, why did he feel so out of control?
He bit his tongue. It seemed like a shame to make her stop, mid-session. It was impressive, after all, unintentional art, this thick girl unabashedly fucking herself in the thin air, her naked ass on a frosty car hood. Whatever she was feeling it was intense and hard, making her spasm and hiss while her fingers thumped up and down on her clit. Pussy juice dribbled onto the blue paint of a mid-tier Chrysler. He concentrated on his actual girlfriend, who apparently needed help dressing herself.
Megan came. It was practically a howl. Her ass scooted on the wet hood, leaving a perfectly round impression. Nick half-expected a cloud of birds to scare.
“Wooo,” she said, softly.
“Did you HAVE to do that?” Nick said. She hadn’t bothered to pull her pants up. He looked right up at her slit.
“Uhh, sort of?” Megan said. “I had like, twenty guys come through this morning, and all of them said some variant of Megan You Are One Horny Slut. So, guess what, I’m a super horny girl now.”
“What happens if I say, don’t be horny?” Nick said. He helped her up. It would be so easy to just bend her over. She’d love it. He could make her love it. He could do anything, anything at all, and she’d be so happy about it.
“Wellllll, that’s a good question,” Megan said. “The thing is, you’re ONE guy, and that’s less than TWENTY guys.”
“Oh, seriously? There’s like, an accretion effect?” He got in the driver’s seat. Don’t fuck her. Just talk. Except talking to a girl was the worst thing he could do. Talking to a girl was participating in some sort of war crime.
“I guess! I can sort of still see them all in my head, looking at me. And yeah you’re RIGHT HERE and that counts for something but, and I’m gonna be super-honest with you Nick, actually I need to be honest, you’re not more of a guy than they are. Unless maybe if you fucked me.”
Wow. Megan winced at his expression. “Sorry, that kind of hurt,” she said. “Honesty against making you feel bad, right? No win situation.”
Nick took a deep breath. He had given her a headache because his feelings were briefly hurt. He kept his voice steady. “What’s it gonna take to be a… this is going to sound dumb. Alpha male. Leader of the pack. So only I matter.”
She fixed him with that smile again.
“Seriously?”
“I didn’t make the rules!” she said. “Sorry! You’ve gotta douse me in your scent and possess me! That’s just how it is!”
“Jesus christ,” Nick said.
“Whoever made this virus got their views on sexuality from a reddit thread,” Megan said, nodding her head. “But it’s cool. Everything’s okay. I’m feeling much better for the next… hour or so.”
They drove off.
“What’d you do before the virus hit?” Nick asked, some time later.
“Oh, I’m a doctor,” Megan said. Her hands started to inch towards her waistband once more.
* * *
Mindy was getting really bored.
It was funny how quickly things like brain-shattering girl viruses got normalized, how quickly she started looking at her watch. True, she wasn’t wearing a chain-link collar and worshipping the cock of some chortling man-pig, and that was good, it was definitely good. She was safe in her apartment.
But she couldn’t read anything, or watch TV, or listen to music, or do fucking ANYTHING. Mindy had cleaned the entire apartment, top to bottom, charged her phone up to 100%, and was currently lying on the carpet, tossing a little ball up against the wall.
She had tried to write in her diary. It had started out with “well, guess who’s a slave?” And then what? She couldn’t write down any hopes for the future because, honestly, the future was probably going to be a lot of blowjobs. She had idly doodled a few penises, as they were on her mind, had written down “Mrs. Mindy Ketterling,” to see how Nick’s last name looked, and had given it up. Not like it was her private thoughts anymore. She didn’t have private thoughts. She was public property in general.
She had masturbated, feeling like she should. Nick would want her to regularly finger-fuck herself, she felt. Or at least, most men would. She sat spread-eagled on the toilet with her new, shaven slit, and furiously rubbed one out. Lost herself in a grunting, hot fantasy of Nick looming over her, sternly telling her how to fuck, denying her sweet release for what seemed like an hour, before finally giving her permission to orgasm. She had moaned softly, squirting, her fingers frantic to replace the memory of his dick.
That had been nice, but it hadn’t taken very long.
“Attention,” said a male voice, over a loudspeaker.
Oh, shit. Everything’s okay, Mindy reminded herself, even as her pulse picked up.
“This is the Seattle Police Department,” the voice said, and a siren blast echoed it. “All women are told to turn on their televisions for a special message from the President. This is for your own health and safety.”
Mindy found herself reaching for the remote.
But no—no? How could she no? Right, that was right, Nick had told her to stay away from media. So there was one man saying do this, another man saying do that.
Mindy waited for her head to literally explode, showering the wall with red gore.
But—no. It didn’t even hurt. It was like staring at balanced scales. Yes, the police were certainly authority boys, and she had JUST heard them, but it was some anonymous dude over a loudspeaker, not even talking to her. That didn’t count for THAT much. And Nick was her BOYFRIEND. She had fucked him! Several times.
Mindy struggled to remember what she was feeling, and eventually it came to her. This was what free will was like. Right, choice! Agency! She could pick which man to obey!
It was not a very hard decision, but she luxuriated in it, savoring the sense of option. She didn’t particularly LIKE the President, and who the hell knew what kind of bullshit operating instructions he was going to install? Clearly some sort of B.S. patriarchy. And if she was going to have to listen to a man it might as well be HER man.
Triumphant, Mindy tossed the remote on the couch. She was about to text Nick to let him know that she had picked him over the President of the Fucking U-S of A when she heard another boy.
A lot of boys.
She risked a look out the window. Oh, good god. A pack of teenage boys, feral, wandering around empty streets with the certain knowledge that god had provided. Someone just like them, but with a better knowledge of biochemistry, had implemented their world.
“Laaaaadieeeeeess!” one called out, a tall one. Mindy couldn’t help but evaluate him. Tall. Muscular. Puberty had given him a baritone already and he was about to love it. “Have a huge orgasm! Riiiiiiight, NOW!”
No, it couldn’t possibly work that way. She couldn’t be—oh, oh, she couldn’t possibly—ohhhh. She wasn’t even TOUCHING—no, here it came. Her body was making it happen, forcing it on her, a weird and strange but impossibly good and hard orgasm starting to ripple through her. Mindy fell onto her hands and knees, half-convinced she was being penetrated, neurons flaring wildly. Someone had to be sucking her nipples, someone had to be rubbing a thick cock along her pussy lips. Otherwise why would these waves of pressure be rippling through her? Why would she feel her brain shutting down in preparation for a—
A wave of squeals burst out across the neighborhood, in unison. Mindy joined in the chorus, her entire body flushed. Gawd she was cumming so hard, so fast, her body squeezing a phantom dick that didn’t exist.
The boys in their gang giggled nervously, punching the ringleader. He smiled.
Mindy got up off the carpet. “Everything’s okay,” she muttered. Her shorts were soaking wet. The carpet had even gotten wet. Drool dribbled down her chin. Her brain felt muddled, confused.
“One more time!” she heard, from outside.
* * *
They were getting close to Seattle, out of the forest. There were still few cars on the road. Too few for a weekday. Nick watched them go by—men, men, men, with the occasional girl in the backseat. Just once he saw a female behind the wheel—of a large truck, no less—and it made him grip the steering wheel tight. What had she been told to do? Who would put a woman, right now, behind a motor?
“So what’s the plan?” Megan asked, breaking him out of his reverie.
“Uh,” Nick said. In a weird way he had gotten used to her casual masturbation sessions. She hadn’t tried to grab his penis again, but Nick was extremely looking forward to emptying out the moment he got back. His balls ached. “Well. Good question.”
Megan brightened. “Great! So… the plan. What’s Mindy like? That’s where we’re going, pick up Mindy? Mindy with the pussy?”
“Yeah, I am,” Nick said. He felt like he was abandoning a puppy. “I’m dropping you off with a, uh, friend of mine.”
Megan looked at him. The silence hung in the air. “Oh, okay,” she said, eventually. “I mean, that’s okay. That’s fine. Who’s the friend?”
“His name is Kyle, he’s a GREAT guy. We work together and I know he’s single. I texted him already and he said to come over.”
“Kyle,” Megan said. She nodded. “Okay. Kyle. No problem.”
She drummed her fingers on the side of the door.
“I’ve already got a girlfriend,” he said. “You saw her. Up close and personal. I’m not starting a harem or anything, you know?”
“Hey, don’t feel bad,” Megan said. She shrugged. “It’s fine. Just like you said. And look, I’m sure I’ll like him, I have to. That’s how this works. I’ll forget all about you, like, instantly.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “Instantly.”
He pulled off the freeway.
Kyle lived in a house east of the city. Nick had never visited. He reviewed the neighborhood—good. Nice car in the driveway. Two cars, actually. New house, two stories.
A redhead in a nightie opened the door. She looked at him with mild interest. The short shift clearly showed that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She turned back into the house and said, softly, “Kyle! There’s people here! What do you want me to do?”
They walked in behind her.
* * *
There were girls inside. So many girls. So many half-naked, cooing, giggling, drippy girls. The heater in the house had been turned up to roasting, just to let them comfortably lounge around in panties and bras and nightwear. It was just a little bit past noon. The TV was on, muted, the channel turned to a video of a roaring fire. Soft jazz played somewhere.
“This is nice,” Megan said, cheerfully. “Very soft porny. Very 70s. Lots of friends.”
“Yeah, friends,” Nick said, staring at the girls. It broke the illusion that they weren’t particularly good looking. This wasn’t some strange porno, these were an assembly of local girls aged 18 to what had to be well-past 40. There were some definite mom butts underneath the naughty attire, lounging around casually, idly stroking at each other. Their grins spooked him. Megan smiling was sort of okay. All thes