Poor weak boy

Sarah led Simone through the apartment door by the wrist. The Class 2 woman followed in silence, eyes lowered, the new bond already settling into her posture. Mason was still curled inside the small cage, wrists bound behind his back, gag in place, watching them with raw, calculating hatred.

Sarah set the notebook on the table, opened it, and wrote one clean line.

New Rule: Men are naturally only one-tenth as strong as women.

The change was immediate. Mason’s muscles seemed to shrink in presence if not in actual size; the difference in power became absolute and obvious. Sarah felt it in the air itself—an effortless superiority that made her smile.

She unlocked the cage and stepped back.

“Come out.”

Mason surged forward the moment the door opened. Even knowing the new rule, rage drove him. He lunged, trying to tackle her, hands reaching for her throat. Sarah laughed—light, almost delighted—and simply caught his wrist. The strength disparity was laughable. She twisted his arm behind his back with casual ease, forced him to his knees, and drove her knee into his ribs hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Still so angry,” she said, voice bright with amusement. “Look at you. Trying so hard.”

She slapped him across the face, then again, harder, leaving red marks. When he tried to rise she shoved him down with one hand and planted a bare foot on his chest, pinning him. He strained uselessly against her. The one-tenth strength rule made every effort pathetic. Sarah giggled, grinding her heel lightly against his sternum.

“This is fun,” she told him. “I almost forgot how much I was going to enjoy this part.”

She spent the next hour making both of them perform for her. Simone was ordered to crawl, to present herself, to lick the floor clean where Mason had bled earlier. Mason was forced to thank Sarah for every humiliation, to kiss her feet, to watch while Simone was used lightly as a footrest and ashtray. Whenever Mason hesitated, Sarah hurt him—sharp twists of fingers, open-handed strikes, slow pressure on already bruised places—always with the same cheerful expression, as if it were a pleasant game.

Inside Mason’s head the humiliation burned hotter than the physical pain. He had held the book. He had rewritten the world. Now he was the one on the floor, weaker than any woman, watching his former victim laugh while she broke him down piece by piece. The only thing that kept him from complete despair was the cold certainty that he would find a way to take it back. He catalogued every rule she spoke, every moment of carelessness.

Sarah eventually grew bored. The novelty of immediate power had been sweet, but she was tired.

“Cage,” she ordered Mason. He crawled back in without further resistance; the strength gap made struggle pointless. She locked the door.

Simone she took to the bedroom. Sarah stripped her completely, bound her wrists and ankles with the soft rope from earlier, and fitted a gag between her lips. She arranged the Class 2 woman on the bed like a living toy—naked, helpless, available—and then slid under the covers beside her.

Sarah fell asleep quickly, the notebook resting on the nightstand within easy reach, invulnerable body relaxed, mind already drifting toward new ideas for deepening the caste system and refining the suffering of the remaining men.

In the cage, Mason lay in the dark, listening to the quiet apartment, mind working furiously behind the gag. He had lost the book once. He would not accept that it was permanent. Somewhere in the rules she had written there would be a crack. He only needed time, and one moment of her trust in other women, to find it.