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Message-ID: <38986asstr$1035789002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Boris Ludmenkov <borisl@room3b.demon.co.uk>
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Subject: {ASSM} INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY (MC, MaleDom)
Date: Mon, 28 Oct 2002 02:10:02 -0500
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INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY

by Boris Ludmenkov

This is a sequel to my early story NOT A CRUEL MAN. I'd been looking for 
a way to continue the story of what happened to Professor Hillman and 
Cynthia Mattel and a remark on the Mind Control Forum gave me the spark 
for this.

As always this a fantasy. I don't know how to build the Professor's 
Gizmo and this sort of thing would be very illegal, deeply wicked and 
dangerous if it were really possible. Which is part of what attracts us, 
I'm sure.

If you're not allowed to read this where you are, then you should be out 
organising an insurrection rather than wasting your time on reading.




I stand in front of the class and these are the words I say:

"So we can see that for Dworkin and the other radical separatists all 
forms of heterosexual contact, not just the openly violent are rape. 
Even, perhaps especially, the most gentle and chivalrous man is 
partaking in the oppression of women and even the most content woman is 
a victim."

The words I do not say go like this:

You look at me and you write down the words I say so you can regurgitate 
them back at me in your neat little end-of-term exam papers and you know 
nothing about me or about what I say. Or what I do. You don't even know 
that there's a brand on my thigh, yes a mark where they put hot metal to 
show that I'm a slave, a piece of property, a slut who can be bought and 
sold. You'd think, if you were as clever as you think you are, that 
you'd be able to tell that about the woman who is teaching you Women's 
Studies.

"Now, how do the Radical Feminists account for the fact the vast 
majority of women do not in fact find men to be totally worthless and 
regard sex with them as quite fun --. Sometimes." That gets a laugh. 
"Well, they turn to an idea they found in classic Marxist thought. Marx 
wanted to account for the consistent conservatism of most of the working 
classes, who should have been much more radical than he found them to 
be. He said the non-revolutionary proletariat was suffering from False 
Consciousness. He said they had taken the ideology of their oppressors 
and internalised it."

False Consciousness. If anyone is suffering from False Consciousness 
here, girls, she's standing right in front of you. I talk about Mary 
Wolstoncraft and Emily Pankhurst and Germaine Greer and all the time I 
have no panties on and no bra, not because I've burnt my bra (we don't 
do that nowadays) but because Master won't let me wear them, because 
Master wants to let me know how much he controls me, because Master 
(that's Professor Hillman to you, girls, the quiet one from the 
Psychology Department) wants to be able to come into my office and reach 
up my skirt and touch me and know there will be nothing in the way to 
stop his hand reaching my dripping wet snatch, my pussy, my juicy hot 
hole, my fuckpit --. Oh.

I have to pause for a moment. I have to pretend I've lost my place and 
look through my notes so I can go back to churning it out so you can 
gobble it up and pass the course and get your degrees. Don't worry 
girls, normal service will be resumed --. That's a dangerous word for me 
to think about 'service' --.

"Now this all touches,"

There's another dangerous word, touches, better find another one quick,

"this all relates to the concept of memetics or the science of ideas. In 
memetics one of the primary analogies is that an idea, whether it's a 
political idea, a joke, an advertising slogan, is rather like a disease. 
You can catch it from other people, it uses you to make more copies of 
itself, just like a virus does and then it gets passed on to others, 
perhaps a little modified --."

I have an idea in my head. It's lodged there like a bug, like a virus. I 
didn't go looking for it. (Or did I? Did I put myself at risk of being 
enslaved deliberately? Did I want to find myself owned, controlled? Did 
the girl I was then want to fall, desire to be caught up for debt and 
sold? It seems so long ago and she seems like a different person, living 
in a different world.)

{And in a way she did. This is Cyndi's Master, the quiet Professor 
Hillman. I'd best explain that though Cyndi believes that she was 
arrested for debt and sold off as a personal slave under legislation 
introduced under the last Conservative government, no such event took 
place since no such legislation exists. It's all a fantasy I created in 
her mind with my mind controlling Gizmo. She believes that she must keep 
it a secret from everyone. It makes her subjugation to me slightly more 
exquisite: part of her continues to be the feminist lecturer while her 
secret side gradually grows to love her enslavement more and more. }

The idea is that all of you, my dear girls, my dearest pupils, would be 
a lot better off if you were to be suddenly taken as I was, dragged out 
of the lecture hall, kicking and screaming to be stripped and branded 
and put on a block and sold. You would be sold to men you had never seen 
before, men who would take you and use you and teach you what it is to 
be a woman, kneeling at a man's feet, being his toy. I think that would 
teach you more about women than any course of 'Women's Studies'.

"Now, the agenda of the feminism of the 1970s and 80s would have been 
incomprehensible to most of the nineteenth and early twentieth century 
pioneers. But not all --."

I stand there in front of my class and I drone on and on: I didn't even 
want the post as Lecturer in Women Studies. I was quite happy to be the 
Equal Opportunities Officer. But He ordered me to apply. Said it amused 
him.

I've begged Him to let me leave this job, this mockery and let me be his 
slave openly. But He smiles and purses his lips and says 'No Cyndi, no. 
I am not a rich man and we need the money you earn as a lecturer. And 
beside it would cause a scandal: can you imagine how the Vice-Chancellor 
and the head of your department would react to discover they had 
appointed someone who had a brand on her thigh to such a sensitive 
position. No, no. Kinder never to tell them.' And I say Yes, Master, as 
you wish Master. And he strokes my hair and he parts his robe and he 
lets me lick his lovely cock erect.

I want to say to the class, Look, you don't know me. You think this is 
Ms Mattell but it's not. It's Cyndi. She's a silly slut and she doesn't 
know anything worth knowing except how to kneel, how to crawl, how to 
beg, how to hold her Master's manhood tight inside her. She can cook too 
(a bit) and she can clean house and kneel silently by Master while he 
works.

He named me Cyndi, that first evening when I knelt to him in his garden. 
My tits ached when my nipples brushed against the long grass as I bent 
to kiss his feet. He took my by the scruff of my neck and pulled up my 
face to look into his. And He said, not Cynthia, no. Not Cynthia. It's 
too grand a name for a slut. I shall call you Cyndi, when we are alone, 
just Master and Slave. My little Cyndi-doll, my toy to play with.

{Is Cyndi known beyond the shores of the UK? A slightly cheaper and 
tackier rival to Barbie. Just right for a cheap slut like my Cyndi.}

I want to show you Cyndi, girls, I think but I do not say. She's a good 
girl. She could take off this dress and kneel up on the desk and show 
you how to do what's wanted by a Master. If Ann-Louise (that's Dr 
Merriman to you girls, the long blonde slut from the Medical Centre) if 
she was here we could give you quite a show. He likes that. He likes to 
see two women make love to each other. Except in the case of Ann-Marie 
and me, it isn't quite love.

We don't quite hate each other either but we would both be happier if He 
would just get rid of the other. But he won't and so we try to be polite 
to each other. Except that He knows how we feel and likes to play one 
off against the other. At the start she was the one in charge, the one 
who told the new slave how He likes things done. And He gave me to her, 
to be her toy too, to play with.

And play she did. Oh my, I remember that first evening when she took me 
upstairs from the garden where he had collared me, re-named me Cyndi. 
She took my leash from him and lead me upstairs. She kept me on all 
fours as we went into the small bedroom. It's where his weekend slut 
spends her nights if he doesn't want her to lie with him or sleep at the 
foot of his bed. She undressed from the French maid's uniform he had her 
in and started to explain his requirements.

No shaving the armpits and pussy. Grow your hair long. (It's down to my 
legs now.) How he likes his breakfast served. Little things, big things. 
I drank them in.

And I was thinking all the while how lovely she was and wondering why he 
needed me. And why she wanted to be his slave: there was no brand on her 
thigh.

And then I remembered how I'd felt when I had to crawl to him in the 
garden.

When we were both naked she took me through to the bathroom and sat me 
on the loo.

Relieve yourself, she said and started to run a bath, putting foaming 
and scented stuff in.

And when she looked at me again and I hadn't done anything she slapped 
me. She pulled hard on my leash until I was nearly choking. I didn't 
mean to defy her: really I didn't. But my family had been --. My father 
and mother had been raised by very strict Baptist parents. They had 
stopped being believers in their twenties but all their lives they had 
been bad at touching, at being open about their bodies. Their problems 
had been passed on to me.

She called me a stupid slut, a disobedient slave. I was. Oh, I am so 
sorry, Master -- And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it so much that she ordered 
me and finally I obeyed. Red in the face, heart pumping.

She ordered me into the bath and I settled down, wincing (she always 
runs the water too hot!) in the foam and water. I nearly fainted when 
she got in with me!

Understand, I had never even thought about other women. I had known some 
lesbians, there are not a few in the Equal Opportunities business. But 
even when they had shown an interest in me I couldn't respond. Not in 
any way. I knew how to respond with men, with boys. At least I had a way 
of responding: it wasn't the most brilliant way, using my pussy as a 
collar on them, nagging them, driving them away eventually.

But in the water, her breasts against mine, her left hand on the back of 
my neck pulling me closer, her right beneath the water on my cunt -- Oh, 
and her in control, her not me, because the Master had told me to obey 
her, given me to her -- Oh, it was new, it was sweet and bitter to be 
controlled. Owned by him, subservient to her as she warmed me up and 
opened me out and prepared me to be taken by him --

She had my leash in her hand, literally or metaphorically for most of 
the next three months.

But now, it's about fifty-fifty. Sometimes I'm the one who gets to be in 
control and tell her to start licking out my arsehole while I suck the 
Master off. She's good at that. Of course she takes it out on me when 
she's the one in charge. And he smiles to see us playing. And we play up 
to him and make a show because it gets him hard and ready and that's the 
most important thing for us. For the Master's Sluts.

But while Cyndi is thinking all this, poor old Ms Mattel is droning on.

"Now, what exactly do we mean by Patriarchy?"

Cyndi knows what that word means. It means Daddy-rule. Master likes 
Cyndi to call him Daddy sometimes. Likes Cyndi to play at being his 
widdle gurl.

He took me on holiday with him at Easter break. All the way to some 
Greek island. Made me wear --. Little girl outfits. My tits nearly 
falling out and a skirt that is slit up to the hips. He knows how 
embarrassed that makes me: he knows how much I fear someone see the 
slave brand on my hip and knowing that I'm just a slut, a piece of 
property.

{She believes, you see, that she has a brand on her thigh: an ornate 
letter S for Slave. I told her that she did and now she sees it clearly. 
Her blushes when we met someone on the beach and the way she tried to 
hide her brand by pressing her hip up against me -- Ah, a happy memory I 
shall carry to the grave.}

But I can't say no. And I don't want to. That's at the core of my False 
Consciousness, you see. I know now that I wouldn't be free of him if he 
offered me the chance. I long to be ordered, I dream of obeying. On the 
weekends when he takes Ann-Marie off somewhere without me, I weep and I 
burn and I imagine every minute of them together as I clean his house 
and run his errands. Cyndi has someone to love and serve. Even if He 
doesn't love her, even if he just uses her and would cast her aside for 
a younger model. It's not important.

"Phallocentric". That's another good word in Ms. Martell's vocabulary. 
It means 'cock-centred'. I give this lecture at the start of the course, 
on primitive concepts of male and female. And I do a slide show. Master 
helped put it together. We have the ancient carvings of big-breasted, 
hugely pregnant women. And we have rather more of the pictures of sacred 
phalluses from around the world. Little Roman household gods and African 
sacred fetishes. He ordered me to watch the class as I showed them, 
gauge their reactions, write it all down and report to him. Who licked 
their lips, who turned away in disgust, who acted cool and unconcerned. 
"A psychologist," he joked, "is a man who goes to a strip show and 
watches the audience."

Cyndi is phallocentric. Her mind is centred on Master's cock. She knows 
every millimetre of it by sight, by touch, by smell. She loves to feel 
it with her hand, her mouth, her cunt and her arsehole. (He makes 
Ann-Marie clean me out with enemas and then lubricate me when he wants 
to take me anally. It's a ceremony.) Master's cock is the centre of his 
pleasure and therefore Cyndi's centre too.

And then class is over and I'm picking up the package He gave me and 
going over to where Barbara is hurrying and trying to pack her books 
away before I can reach her.

Barbara watched the cocks-of-ancient-history slideshow with her mouth 
open in awe, totally unaware of anything else in the room and blushed 
bright red, red as her lovely long hair when someone nudged her and 
whispered in her ears.

Master was very interested in that. And the next day I had a message to 
give her from Professor Hillman. An appointment to discuss the 
possibility of some work as a research assistant.

The day after that I saw her headed towards the University Health 
Centre.

"Did you read the books I gave you", I say.

They were some books I read before I was enslaved. Books about women in 
fantastic places and times. Women who were controlled, enslaved, owned. 
I told her they were for a project I was doing with Professor Hillman on 
the effects of pornography. Which is true enough.

She blushes and she nods and I smile.

"This is for you to listen to tonight," I say and I hand her the Walkman 
with the tape the Master prepared.

Tonight is Thursday night. And tomorrow is the weekend. I don't 
understand what it all means. But Master has told me to come to his 
place on Friday after work. And we shall see. Maybe Master will have a 
Barbie-doll to go with his Cyndi-doll. And maybe this time, I shall be 
the one who holds the leash on the new girl.


-- 
Boris Ludmenkov
Pervert and Pornographer
If the law where you are doesn't allow you to read this, shouldn't you be out
starting a revolution or something?

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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