Author’s Note: It’s been a while since the last chapter of “Surrender”, so if you’ve forgotten what happened, you can read the previous chapter at AllTheseRoadworks.com (link).
“Rise and shine, Sarah,” said Lachlan, as he loomed in the doorway of Sarah Rose’s office at the Department of Women.
Sarah raised her head from the makeshift bed she had made on her couch. Her hair was dishevelled and her expensive suit was creased. Lachlan could see confusion on her face, as she tried to recall why she was in her office rather than at home, and why Lachlan would be waking her up.
Then the memories started to come back – of Lachlan discovering her accidental embezzlement, of her treatment in the hypnotic machine, and how she had agreed to “surrender” part of herself every time she breached the public service code of conduct.
For that first breach – the embezzlement – she had surrendered control of her transport. She had to ask Lachlan’s permission to travel between any two locations. The hypnotic conditioning had made her unable to escape the crushing inability to travel without that permission. And Lachlan had denied her permission to drive home, forcing her to sleep at the office.
The expression on her face as she realised that all of that was *real* – and not some nightmare that would evaporate with the morning son – was exquisite. There was horror, and humiliation, and fear. For a moment it seemed like she might throw up.
Instead, she looked at Lachlan and tried to focus her eyes.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Six in the morning,” said Lachlan. “There’s nobody at the office except me and you, so you have plenty of time to come down to the parking lot and see the surprise I promised you.”
“What do you mean, surprise?” asked Sarah suspiciously.
“I think you’re asking a lot of questions for a bitch who just got caught embezzling,” said Lachlan, the playful tone gone from his voice. “I think there should be a lot less questions and a lot more gratitude.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah, reflexively – and the pouty grimace that followed those words made it clear that she regretted apologising, which had been more of a flinch than a genuine apology.
Lachlan let it go for now. “Come on,” he said. “Get up, and follow me.”
Sarah rose, wiggled into her high heeled shoes, and followed Lachlan through the building, into the elevator, and down to the staff car park.
When she got there, her eyes widened.
“Where’s my car?” she demanded, her voice steely.
“It’s right there, silly,” said Lachlan, grinning.
“That’s not my car!” objected Sarah.
Sarah’s car, which she had been intensely proud of, had been an expensive luxury BMW, which cost more than most of her subordinates made in three years. It had occupied her own personal parking spot, the closest one to the elevator.
That car was gone, Parked in her personal spot, where her BMW should be, was a tiny pink town car. There was a Hello Kitty decal on the front bonnet. The vanity licence plate read “BIMBO”.
“I assure you, that is your car,” said Lachlan. “You gave up control of your transport, remember? I sold the BMW, and I’m keeping the proceeds in a special fund for your re-education. I used a small portion of them to buy this. It will completely meet your transport needs, I assure you.”
“It’s ridiculous!” protested Sarah. “No one will take me seriously driving this! And the licence plate – it’s disgusting! I’m not a bimbo!”
“Would you prefer that it said ‘CRIMINAL’?” asked Lachlan. “Or ‘EMBEZZLER’?”
Sarah was silent, although she was fuming. Lachlan could guess that she wanted to tell him that she would never drive this car – and he could also guess that she wasn’t saying that because she knew it wasn’t true. The hypnosis had an iron grip on her mind. She *would* drive the car – or any other car that he told her to. She knew, and he knew it too.
“I’m giving you permission to drive to and from work in this car, without needing to specifically ask me,” he told her. “If you want to drive it anywhere else, or use any other vehicle, you will need specific permission. Understand?”
‘Yes, sir,” said Sarah, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, and I had to get this quickly,” he said, “because I honestly didn’t guess that you’d choose transport as the first thing to surrender. So it doesn’t have all the modifications I wanted for it yet. But I have a tech coming tomorrow morning, and he’ll do the last work on it while you’re in the office.”
Sarah clearly didn’t like the sound of those “modifications”. Lachlan didn’t care.
“Now,” he said, “is there anything you’d like to say to me, as a result of this wonderful gift you’ve given me?”
He smiled, and waited.
Sarah didn’t disappoint.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re a disgusting little snail that deserves to be trodden on. The fact that you’ve discovered an honest accounting mistake seems to have given you the false impression that you’re an important person instead of a revolting piece of dog shit. And I hope you die in a fire.”
Lachlan sighed. “Oh, Sarah,” he said. “Another breach, so soon after the last?”
“What are you talking about?” said Sarah.
Lachlan took out a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket, and unfolded it. “An employee must,” said Lachlan, reading from the paper, “ – and I quote – treat everyone with respect and courtesy, and without harassment.” He folded the paper again. “I believe that’s a breach of the code of conduct, Sarah. Another one. And you know what that means.”
Her mouth opened in horror – and he could see her brain *click*, as it acknowledged what he had said, and the truth of it, and the resulting consequence.
“Tell me, Sarah,” he urged. “Tell me what it means.”
“I have to surrender something,” she said quietly.
“That’s right,” said Lachlan. “You need to treat me with respect, Sarah. And when you don’t, it means you give up control of part of your life. What are you going to give up this time? Do you need to see the list?”
He took out another piece of paper and passed it to her. It was the list of 25 aspects of her life that she might potentially give up control of.
“Please…” she whimpered.
“Are you begging, Sarah?” he asked. “I don’t know why you’re begging me. It’s not me doing it to you. It’s your own mind. I couldn’t let you off the hook even if I wanted to. The programming would make you go through with the punishment regardless.”
She made another whimpering noise, but he could see that she knew it was true.
“Now, what will it be, Sarah?” he asked. “What are you giving up?”
She looked down the list, and he could see that she didn’t want to give up control of any of the things there. They were all terrible. Her family? Her career? Her reproductive system?
She started to cry again as she desperately scanned the paper, and once again Lachlan reflected that Sarah Rose was far prettier when she was crying.
She would be able to feel it – the great weight of her hypnotic conditioning, pressing down on her, *forcing* her to choose, even if there were no good choices. The knowledge that she could pick one voluntarily, or her subconscious would do it for her.
Seeing her trapped, desperate, crying, made Lachlan’s cock hard. He looked forward to the first time he would get to stick it into her, and hoped she would be crying then, too.
Finally, she spoke. “My interests and hobbies,” she said. “I choose my interests and hobbies.”
“Good choice, Sarah,” said Lachlan. “A very good choice.”
“What does it mean?” asked Sarah, frightened. “What does it mean that I give up control over them?”
“Well,” said Lachlan. “What are your interests and hobbies now? What do you do with your spare time?”
“I read feminist theory,” she said. “And literature. I go horse riding sometimes. And I paint – landscapes, mostly.”
“Well,” said Lachlan, “you’re done with feminist theory. You’re not interested in that anymore, understand?”
Sarah jerked. He could see it was working. What he was saying was becoming literal truth – she *wasn’t* interested in the subject anymore. And yet she would know that it was the hypnosis doing it to her. She would remember that she had once enjoyed and valued it. She would know that it was the hypnosis making her think differently. And yet – she *would* think differently. She could no more summon interest now in feminist theory than she could transform into a bird, or teleport through space.
“You can use all your feminist theory books as toilet paper now, until they run out,” he told her. “Just put them in the bathroom, and rip out a page at a time whenever you need to wipe your ass. The literature can follow.”
She was crying again now, and she looked so gorgeous like that that Lachlan had to resist the urge to rape her right here in the car park.
“Horse riding can stay,” he continued. “I don’t see a problem with that. And you can keep painting – but now, instead of landscapes, your preferred subject is misogyny. You want all your paintings to be intensely degrading and insulting to women. Understand?”
She nodded. She did understand – on a deep level, that she couldn’t escape from.
“What music do you like, Sarah?” he asked her.
“Indie folk music,” she said. “Alternative. Sometimes…”
He shook his head, cutting her off. “You like slutpop,” he told her. “You like mass-produced bouncy teen nonsense. In fact, your interest in music is based on what people will think of you for liking it. The stupider and shallower and sluttier they will think you are for liking the music, the more you like it.”
She whimpered as that instruction took hold.
“And what about television?” he asked her.
She opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off before she even spoke.
“Actually, I don’t care,” he said. “What you like *now* is rape porn. When you get home from work, you like to watch an hour or so of rape porn on your TV, don’t you?”
Her eyes were wide with horror, but she nodded
“And if you want to watch more TV after that, I suppose you might like reality TV,” he said. “The shallower and stupider, the better.”
She bit her lip.
“Say thank you, Sarah,” he instructed her.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, reluctantly.
“Good girl,” he told her. “We’ll come up for some more interests for you later. Now, you run back to your office, and do your work for the day. And do *try* not to break the code of conduct again.”
The memory of the tortured expressions on Sarah’s tear-streaked face entertained Lachlan for the rest of the day. Which was good, because there was little else to show for his first two footsteps into control of Sarah’s life. No one at the office was yet commenting on the boss’ pink new bimbo car, and no one was aware that Sarah was going to go home that night and relax to an hour of rape porn.
In fact, there was only one further thing that day to remind him of the success of his “Sarah re-education program”. And that was when Sarah rose from her desk in her office, went to the small shelf against the wall, and took down a book. It was the autobiography of a certain famous female politician, and Lachlan knew it was one of Sarah’s prize possessions, because it was personally signed by the politician herself, with a message of encouragement to Sarah.
He didn’t initially understand why she was taking the book down, or continuing to hold it as she left her office.
Until, suddenly, he realised.
She was heading to the toilet.
To use it as toilet paper.
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