Amanda was late to the filming of her ad spot because she had been raped in the taxi. The taxi driver had propositioned her for a blowjob, and when Amanda had said that she couldn’t, because she had an appointment, the taxi driver slapped her, ripped open her blouse, and forced her face down on his erect cock, humping her unwilling mouth until he had finally ejaculated down her throat.
Amanda couldn’t complain. It was her own fault. It was exactly what she had taught him to do to her – and exactly what she had taught men to do to women across the entire nation.
The “Just Slap Me” campaign had been a marvellous success. It had normalised the idea of men slapping women who displeased them. It was now an everyday occurrence for a woman to get slapped if she said something a man didn’t like, or didn’t follow his instructions, or just wasn’t sufficiently attractive and entertaining. Even Amanda had gotten into the habit of slapping her fellow women. It felt good.
The change hadn’t gone completely without resistance. The nation’s federal woman politicians had staged a protest in the chambers of government. It had ended with them being repeatedly slapped, and then stripped naked and raped, by their male colleagues. The whole event had been televised – and the woman had been so unpleasant and shrill in their protests that the nation largely cheered the “sexual coup” along. (Or at least the men did, and the women cheered too, or got slapped.) At the end, the women had been forced to resign their seats, triggering by-elections – and while not all of their replacements were men, the few women who were elected in their places were fully supportive of the idea that they should be slapped if they displeased men.
Afterwards, new laws had been passed. It was now formally legal to slap a woman, for any reason. If a woman inconvenienced a man through stupidity or incompetence, it was legal to expose her tits and slap them. If a woman behaved sluttily, a man in a position of authority over her was authorised to spank her buttocks or her pussy. And the laws around rape were changed – it was still illegal, but the process of bringing a rape complaint was so complex and degrading that few women ever reported their treatment. (It required, among other things, that a female complainant at trial strip naked before a jury and submit her tits and cunt to their inspection, and that the full rape be re-staged in court using the complainant, including penetration, for the jury’s consideration, with any hint of arousal by the complainant being grounds for a mistrial, followed by the subsequent prosecution of the complainant for perjury.)
No advertisement had ever changed society so much as Amanda’s “Just Slap Me” campaign. No woman had ever more profoundly betrayed her gender than Amanda. And now she was working on a new campaign – “Women Aren’t People”. The President had made it clear that she would work on this campaign, and gain the fame and credit for its success – or else she would become a permanent display in his personal “Dungeon of Sluts”, spending the rest of her days in sexual pain and misery.
The first ad in the campaign had featured the President himself, standing in the Oval Office with his cock out. His wife knelt at his feet beside him, nude, and collared like a dog. She was visibly pregnant, and a thin dribble of milk leaked from her swollen tits.
To the other side of him was his adult daughter. She, too, was nude, and strapped on all fours in a metal frame. Her large tits hung beneath her, connected to a milking machine, which was visibly pumping milk from them. Her mouth was plugged with a dildo gag, and a fucking machine was slowly and relentlessly pumping another dildo in and out of her wet, puffy pussy.
As the camera filmed, a suited Secret Service agent dragged another nude woman into view. This was Lauren Bellmore, the beautiful star of several popular superhero movies, and a prominent feminist advocate. Lauren had run afoul of new laws that deemed advocating violence against men to be criminal hate-speech. She had been arrested, and compelled to star in this advertisement as her “community service”.
She visibly didn’t want to be here – didn’t want to be doing any of this – but her hands were bound behind her back, and she had painful clamps on both of her large tits. The Secret Service dragged her over to the President, and forced her head down on the President’s cock.
Once the President’s cock was in Lauren’s mouth, the President’s wife leaned over and grabbed a handful of the actress’ blonde hair, keeping her trapped against the presidential groin. The President’s wife clearly hated this – her face was filled with jealous fury, both at her own humiliating position, and at having to help her husband fuck the face of a younger, prettier woman – but she nevertheless cooperated.
“Women aren’t people,” said the President simply, as the unwilling actress serviced his cock. “As we look at my wife, my daughter, and my cocksleeve, we do not see three dignified, intelligent humans. We see three common animals, defined by their ability to breed and to please men. They are simply not as smart as humans, not as capable, and governed not by their brains, but by their wombs, their tits, and their cunts. Over the coming months, I will continuing my program of legislative reform to redraft women’s status, rights, and terminology to be more in keeping with their true nature as domestic animals. In the meantime, please help me in this task. Women become sad and unhappy when they’re falsely treated as humans. Help them out, by putting them in their place.”
He smiled, as he ejaculated into the actress’ mouth.
“Remember,” he finished. “Women aren’t people.”
The commercial that Amanda was filming today was the follow-up to the President’s message. When she arrived on set – late, because of her rape – she was met by Dinesh, her cinematographer.
“What kept you, you stupid slut?” he asked her – and before she could answer, he slapped her across the face. “Get into your outfit. Everyone is waiting for you.”
Amanda’s “outfit” was a pair of high heels, a kitten-ear headband, and a tight white shirt – too small for her tits, really – that read “CUNT” in large letters. There were no other clothes – her pussy and ass were completely exposed. The outfit was the result of a unique dilemma for Amanda. As a woman directing a campaign to dehumanise women, it was essential that no man on set actually respected her – and she needed to dress accordingly.
And yet, without respect, it was difficult to issue the orders and directions necessary to make the ad campaign happen. To that end, she had hired Dinesh. It was Dinesh who actually gave the instructions as to what people should do. Amanda just knelt at his feet, sucked his cock, and gave him suggestion as to the general course that events should take.
This advertisement was simple enough. It was nothing but a line of ten naked women in birthing stirrups, against a slate grey background. Slowly the camera panned down the line of women, focused on their cunts. The women’s faces and upper bodies weren’t visible – just their spread, shaved pussies. The women were indistinguishable – just holes, ready to be used.
In the final video, there would be text accompanying each hole. “Lauren, professional athlete. Mary, teacher. Jocelyn, lawyer.” And so forth. The message was clear – it didn’t matter who these women were. They were all just cunts. And at the bottom of the screen, a single message throughout: “Women aren’t people.”
The women themselves were gagged and bound, although the camera couldn’t see that. They had accepted jobs to appear in a commercial, without any idea what the commercial was about. When they had arrived, Dinesh had arranged to have them stripped and restrained. After all, they were just cunts.
Filming their pussies didn’t take too long. Afterwards, the men of the crew took the opportunity to enjoy the restrained women’s cunts. Amanda took a turn too, to show leadership, licking out the pussy of the girl at the end of the line as the girl squealed into her gag and bucked at her restraints.
They didn’t release the girls afterwards. There would be two more ads in this series, and the girls would be necessary for it. Dinesh gave each girl an injection of a potent aphrodisiac into her tits, and then left the girls bound in place.
Next, Amanda helped to arrange a collection of objects under each woman’s cunt, representative of her profession. A team uniform went beneath the athlete’s cunt, a school textbook below the teacher’s, a birthday cake below the cake designer, and so forth. They kept the cameras in place and waited.
The girls had been given copious amounts of water before the shoot, and eventually each girl reached her limit. As they lost control of their bladder, the camera was there to capture them wetting themselves, pissing on the symbol of their profession. This footage would be used to create a similar ad to the first one – each woman nothing more than a pissing cunt, with the message “Women Aren’t People”.
Amanda was amazed at the effectiveness of it. Even she was unable to find any respect or compassion for these women as she watched them wet themselves like animals.
Afterwards, Amanda looked the girls over. The aphrodisiac had had its effect – they were clearly aroused – and she explained to the girls what she wanted. “Beg for permission to cum,” she told them. “And if you do a good job, we’ll let you go – AND let you cum.”
The girls’ gags were removed, and they began to bleat pathetically. “Please, let me cum. Please, I want to cum. I need to cum. Please, please, let me cum. Play with my pussy. Rub my clit. I want to cum. Please let me cum.”
Again, the camera panned down the cunts, accompanied by this brainless babble of lust. The cunts were visibly wet – several of them were drooling their slut-nectar onto the floor. When they reached the last of the cunts – the one Amanda had licked – Dinesh stepped forward, and punched the woman hard in her fuckhole.
She visibly and audibly orgasmed. Her pleas to cum became a moan of ecstasy, and her thighs twitched, and her pussy drooled and spasmed.
Amanda stared at the row of cunts. She knew that, as a result of the work she was doing, this was how people would soon see women. It was how they would see her.
She had been invited to be interviewed for a prestigious publication about her work on these advertisements. It was the kind of promotion she had always craved – international recognition for her talents in marketing. But she knew she was going to make a special request, to support her “Women Aren’t People” campaign. She was going to ask them to photograph her cunt for the article’s lead photo, instead of her face – exactly like the cunts in her ad. When people thought of her, they would think of her cunt. That was the image of her that would go down in history.
The writers of the article had already told her their proposed headline: “The Traitor Cunt: Why Amanda Betrayed Her Gender”. It was perfect. It suited her campaign. And – Amanda knew, deep down – it was what she deserved.
They would ask her why she had betrayed her gender. And, like the professional she was, she would give them the answer she wanted the world to hear.
“Because women aren’t people.”