Entertainment

Mason sat on the edge of the bed, still buried inside Amber, and opened the notebook again. The thought had been growing since the gym. Too many men. Even a few felt like competition. He wanted the surplus of women all to himself.

He wrote carefully.

Old Rule: There is only one man for every one thousand women in the world.

Old Rule: The entire social, legal, and cultural system is fundamentally misogynistic and structured for the complete benefit of men. The few remaining men hold absolute authority. All women exist to serve, obey, and be used by them.

The change rolled outward like a silent wave. Outside the window the already altered city shifted again. The ratio collapsed. Most of the men who had been visible on the street simply ceased to exist in the new history. The world now remembered that it had always been this way: a tiny number of men ruling over an ocean of women, every institution designed to keep those women soft, obedient, and available.

Mason pulled out of Amber, wiped himself off on her thigh, and turned toward the cage. Sarah was still curled inside, dried blood flaking on her skin, one eye swollen, the too-tight collar still digging into her throat. He unlocked the door, dragged her out by the hair, and threw her onto the bathroom floor.

He took the high-pressure washer from the corner, turned it on full, and blasted her. The jet of cold water slammed into open cuts, bruised flesh, and tender tattoos. Sarah screamed and tried to twist away, but he followed her with the spray, forcing it into her mouth, between her legs, across her bleeding back until she was shivering and clean of everything except the fresh damage. When he finished he dragged her straight back into the tiny cage and locked it again. No bandages. No water. No relief.

Sarah’s voice cracked from inside the bars.

“Please… water. Just a little. Mason, please—”

He crouched down, looked at her through the bars, and spat on the floor just out of her reach.

“Thirsty slaves don’t get to ask. They wait.”

He stood, clipped the leash onto Amber’s collar, and walked out of the apartment. Amber crawled at his heel, heavy breasts swaying, milk beading at the nipples with every movement.

The city had finished rewriting itself. Almost every establishment they passed existed solely to serve the rare men who might appear. Soft-lit lounges advertised “Immediate Relief – No Waiting.” Clinics offered free body modifications “for His convenience.” Restaurants had special side entrances marked “Owners Only” with rows of kneeling women already waiting inside. Supply shops displayed racks of collars, gags, and custom cages the way normal stores once displayed clothes.

They turned onto a wide avenue lined on both sides by hundreds of women and girls standing in neat rows, naked or nearly so. In the center of the street a group of young women in nothing but high heels suddenly broke into a sprint. Their heels slapped the asphalt. Heavy, muscular bulls—massive, modified animals with reinforced horns—were released from a side gate and thundered after them.

Mason slowed, watching. A moment later sharp cracks echoed from the rooftops. A mixed group of the remaining men and their favored women lay prone with long rifles, methodically dropping the running girls with clean shots. Bodies tumbled. The bulls reached the slower ones and began to gore and trample. The spectators on the sidewalks watched with the calm interest of people attending a regular sporting event.

Mason glanced down at Amber.

“What is this?”

Amber kept her eyes on the ground, voice steady and empty of judgment.

“Weekly humiliation games, Master. Different formats each time. The goal is always the same: kill almost everyone who participates. Only a small number are allowed to survive. Most of the runners are former feminists, political agitators, or women convicted of other offenses against the order. It keeps the population disciplined and gives the free men entertainment.”

Mason watched one more girl go down under a bull’s hooves, then another drop from a sniper’s bullet. He felt no pity—only a distant satisfaction that the world now ran so cleanly in his favor. He gave Amber’s leash a light tug and continued walking, already considering what else he might write once they returned.