Lecturing in feminism could be stressful. On the advice of her colleagues, she booked a session with an expensive psychologist and hypnotherapist to help her work through some issues.
The session was very helpful; by the end she felt like she had much better control of her emotions.
“Thank you,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, for clients like you, I don’t take money,” he said. “All you have to do to pay me is to go on Facebook and tell your followers that after careful consideration you think it’s unarguable that women are inherently sluts. And present a compelling argument for that viewpoint.”
She was outraged. “Why would you think I would do that?” she demanded.
But he just smiled.
She stormed out of his office. She rang one of her friends to talk about the psychologist’s outrageous demand, but when they picked up the call, she just found herself saying, “He was wonderful. I recommend him to other women.”
She got home and looked at her desktop computer. She felt an urge to do as she was told, to post the words the psychologist had said. She resisted the urge.
A kind of blackness came over her then, and some time passed. Later that night, she found herself accessing Facebook on her phone. She typed in the status, “Just a reminder that women are intelligent, self-empowered women who deserve equality and freedom.” She looked at it in satisfaction. She had beaten the psychologist and his strange demand.
And then, without even thinking about it, she attached the first photo in her phone’s gallery to the status, and pressed “Post”.
As the image appeared on her screen – distributed to her thousand-plus followers – her memory of the last few hours came back to her with a rising sense of horror.
How she had stripped down to her bra, struggling with herself but unable to stop. How she had put her hair in infantile bimbo pigtails, held in place with bright blue puffs. How she had gone next door, to the man she knew hated her, who referred to her as “that feminist bitch” when he spoke to her at all, and begged him to let her suck his cock. How she had sucked and sucked, and then pulled back so he could cum all over her face and tits. How she had photographed herself, with his cock near her mouth and his sperm dripping from her cheeks. And how she had just now uploaded that photo so that everyone who knew her could see it.
She had done exactly as she was told. She had told the world that women was inherently sluts, and provided compelling evidence for that statement. She tried to muster the will to delete the post, to explain what she had done, but the hypnotic conditioning she had received stopped her, made her leave it there for everyone to look at.
Her phone rang. She picked it up, numbly.
“Good girl,” said the psychologist. “Now, let’s book you another appointment, shall we? And we can discuss how you’re going to pay next time once you’re done…”