He accepts his offer

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The moment after Mr. Stephenson let slip his greedy, car-salesman smile and told Mr. Clemon that “I believe my group could benefit from having a man like you,” the younger man almost made the mistake of rolling his eyes. Mr. Stephenson didn’t notice—he was already in full campaign mode, his hand gripping Mr. Clemon’s elbow with a pressure that was almost paternal, almost conspiratorial, but mostly just unpleasant.

Knowing the path this was leading, and how Mr. Stephenson treated women, Mr. Clemon is on the verge of refusing when Mr. Stephenson leans in closer and murmurs, “You don’t have to answer now,” Mr. Stephenson said, his lips curling at the corners. “But, my boy, I know you want the best for your little slave girl. Just think of all the good you could do for her, for all women like her, if you joined us. We’ve got something here. Something big.”

Mr. Clemon hated being within arm’s length of Mr. Stephenson because he could taste the bile of his opinion of women radiating off him. It was everything he didn’t want Alice to experience and every bit of a master he never wanted to be. If he had to deal with it much longer, he might punch a wall. But he just stood there in a momentarily silent state as he was forced to acknowledge the truth in Mr. Stephenson's words. Despite the fact that Mr. Stephenson's group was notorious for advocating more restrictive measures against women, Mr. Clemon realized that from within their ranks, he could wield some influence to ensure Alice's well-being and happiness. Realize that, despite how much he hates the way Mr. Stephenson’s acks, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

“I guess… I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” he said, the words scraping out of his throat like dry toast.

Mr. Stephenson’s face exploded in triumph. “See, my boy? I knew you were smart from the moment I laid eyes on you.” His grip on Clemon’s elbow intensified, then turned into a back-slapping hug. “Come in, come in! We have much to discuss.”

He yanked Clemon over the threshold and into his sprawling foyer, the house smelling like lemon polish, cigar smoke, and something faintly medicinal. Even the doormat screamed “alpha male,” embroidered with a boot print and the slogan STEP ON IN. The hardwood floors gleamed with the hollow shine of someone else’s labor.

“Would you please bring in his whore from the car?” Mr. Stephenson bellowed to the butler, who bowed and shuffled away on silent feet.

Clemon clenched his teeth. “I don’t like people calling Alice a whore,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Stephenson, because he knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn’t change the way Mr. Stephenson acted.

Mr. Stephenson guffawed, waving a hand as if dismissing a child’s tantrum instead of an adult’s true concern. “That’s fine, my boy, every man has his own way of branding the goods. Some men like to call them bitches, or sluts. Some get off on using their real names. Hell, some just use a number. You—” he jabbed a sausage-thick finger at Clemon’s chest—“you like taking ownership by owning her given name. I can respect that. In time, everyone in our little club will know how you want your slave referred to.”

Mr. Clemon hated the fact that Mr. Stephenson was even able to twist him, “not wanted Alice to be called a whore” into something bad, but the butler returned with Alice before he could protest any more.

Mr. Stephenson stepped back, then leaned in, running his knuckle along Alice’s jaw as if she were a prize pig at a county fair. “Well, isn’t your slave something to see. I can tell you keep her in top form.” He looked her over, pausing on the number tattooed on the soft inside of her left wrist. “You must be proud, my boy.”

Alice flinched at the touch, her grip on Clemon’s arm tightening. Stephenson grinned wider.

“Why don’t you take your lovely girl over to the sofa and start enjoying yourself? I have a quick call to make about what we discussed. I’ll be right over when I am done.”

He then walks off, giving Mr. Clemon and Alice space. Alice’s eyes quickly scanned the huge room they were in; every inch of it was plastered with Mr. Stephenson’s opinion of how women should be treated. Every last thing she saw made her hold tightly onto Mr. Clemon’s arms. Sensing Alice’s discomfort, Clemon turns to her. “I am sorry, I know you don’t want to be here, but I think this is the only way.”

Alice looks up at her master and whispers, “I know, I trust you.” Before sitting in a more relaxed position next to him on the sofa.

Mr. Clemon knew Mr. Stephenson expected him to start fucking Alice while they waited, but he couldn’t bring himself to even touch her, not in this house, which he found repulsive.

Eventually, Mr. Stephenson made his entrance, smiling as if he had just gotten everything he could possibly want. “Well, boy, you surprise me,” he boomed, flashing a mouthful of expensive dental work. “I was expecting you to be balls-deep in her by now.”

Not wanting to be around him any longer, Mr. Clemon rose to his feet, Alice standing with him so quickly she nearly upended the low glass coffee table. “Actually, we were just leaving,” Clemon said.

Stephenson’s smile vanished. “I must insist you stay a moment longer. I have arranged a small surprise. It’s not every day a man of vision joins the movement.” He dropped into a wingback chair and began massaging his knee with exaggerated care, as if reminiscing about his glory days of football tackles and homecoming queens. “Just a little bit longer. Please, I insist. You must see this.”

Something tells Mr. Clemon that if he doesn’t stay, he would end up missing something that could shape Alice’s life, so he reluctantly nodded as Alice leaned fearfully into her because Mr. Stephenson’s perverted eyes wouldn’t stop scanning her.

The doorbell rang, and a moment later, a phalanx of local police, followed by two older men in the unmistakable garb of district judges, their robes pressed and gleaming in the harsh foyer light, stormed into the room.

They were not alone!

Dragged between them, hands cuffed and coats disheveled, were the Greek Life counselor, the same elderly woman who had just refused to help Mr. Clemon at the school, and three young women, each wearing a sorority hoodie that labeled them as the sorority student president, over hastily donned pajamas. The counselor’s face was set with brittle dignity, but mascara had pooled beneath her eyes. The sorority girls had been gagged, one with a red silk necktie that looked a lot like the one Stephenson had worn at the last Chamber of Commerce mixer.

Her eyes were wild, rimmed with mascara tears. The lead judge, a man with a baritone voice and jowls you could land a plane on, addressed the room without preamble. “In accordance with Section 223, Subsection B, regarding unlawful punishment of an enslaved party, the following persons are hereby designated for summary disposition: the defendant Greek life counselor, the defendant sorority president, and all officers of the aforementioned sorority.” He read it all from a little screen, not looking up, as if ordering groceries. “Sentence to be carried out at the pleasure of the court.” The Greek life counselor tried to stand tall, despite the fact that she had been roughed up a bit on the ride over. “Your honor,” she said, “I am sixty-one. The statute is quite clear about the upper age limit for slave eligibility. I am, with respect, simply not a candidate.” The judge made a show of sighing. “You are correct, excepting Section 301 Subsection F, which states: any woman in violation of the Slavery Oversight and Enforcement Act, who directly or indirectly conspires to punish or deprive a lawfully enslaved party of rights, shall be subject to summary enslavement without respect to age or prior condition of servitude.” He looked up. “Next.” One of the sorority presidents split the gag from her mouth and screamed, “My family has deep ties to this state. My father holds a political office. YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!” the judge told her that their families can’t do anything to save them from what they did to themselves, and if they try to invoke them again, their families will be sold off as well. As a result of the rule change Alice is able to join the social sorority of her choosing in the following semester, however Mr. Clemon and her quickly learn that due to Mr. Stephenson's action the Greek system has been Wrap into nothing more than a tool to harvest girls’ numbers. It brother Mr. Clemon because it meant Alice still didn’t get a full Greek experience so he brought it up to Mr. Stephenson. Mr. Stephenson agrees to stop using the sororities as much if Mr. Clemon help him get a few laws past. Due to this argment Mr. Stephenson began to remove the some of the laws that made it hard for men to enslave women. For example, after a few years, he got it past that men could go anywhere they wanted as long as they were casing a women they wanted to enslave. Due to the change in laws there was no longer a safe place for women to hide. As a result women began looking for a man that they like to enslave before a man that they did it. A a result by the third generation almost every of aged women is enslaved.

The lead judge, a man with a baritone voice and a jowled chin, addressed the room with all the warmth of an air-raid siren. “In accordance with Section 223, Subsection B, regarding unlawful punishment of an enslaved party, the following persons are hereby designated for summary disposition: the defendant Greek life counselor, the three defendant sorority presidents of the largest sororities on campus.” He spoke as if reading out traffic citations.

Alice’s jaw dropped open, and she clamped her free hand over her mouth. Clemon almost matched her.

The judge scrolled on his phone, squinting through bifocals. “Sentence of being enslaved is to be carried out at the pleasure of the court.” He nodded, and two deputies began to frog-march the group toward the sunken den, where a pair of metal folding chairs had been set up like a pop-up DMV.

The Greek Life counselor tried to wrestle her dignity back into place. “Your honor, I am sixty-one. The statute is quite clear about the upper age limit for slave eligibility. I am, with respect, simply not a candidate.”

The judge let out a sigh so deep it could have sucked the air from a classroom. “You are correct, excepting Section 301 Subsection F, which states: any woman in violation of the Slavery Oversight and Enforcement Act, who directly or indirectly conspires to punish or deprive a lawfully enslaved party of rights, shall be subject to summary enslavement without respect to age or prior condition of servitude.” He looked up at the Greek Life counselor and then at Mr. Stephenson, who beamed in silent approval. “Next.”

One of the sorority presidents managed to twist the gag from her mouth and yelled, “My family has deep ties to this state. My father holds a political office. YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!” The shriek echoed off the marble entryway.

The judge did not blink. “Invoking the privileges of your bloodline only exacerbates the gravity of your crimes. Should you continue in this vein, Section 107 mandates that your family is to be made examples as well. I urge you, for their sake, to comport yourself with dignity and accept your fate without dragging anyone else down with you.” The president fell instantly silent, her face crumpling in disbelief.

Mr. Stephenson clapped once, just loud enough to be heard. “A beautiful system, isn’t it?” he said, addressing Clemon as if they were watching a particularly intricate game of chess. “No more second chances, no more loopholes. The law is finally what it was always meant to be.” He sounded almost wistful.

It took a moment for Clemon to realize that Alice was shaking—not just her hands, but her whole frame, vibrating as if she were standing in front of a speaker set to “earthquake.” He squeezed her hand, and she latched onto his arm with desperate, talon-like fingers.

After the group had been led away to be processed in the den, Mr. Stephenson stood, gathering his jacket across one shoulder. “Now, my boy, you can see what we’re building here. A world where men of vision and action can reclaim their rightful place, and women are finally free to become what they were meant to be. Don’t you agree?” The question was rhetorical; Stephenson’s eyes glittered as if the universe itself had finally admitted he was right all along.

Mr. Clemon couldn’t really agree, but he also couldn’t openly disagree out of fear that it would turn him against Alice, so he said, “As long as it gives Alice the life I want her to have, then I am happy.” Alice looked up at her master with pride as he said that.

Stephenson nodded, satisfied, “Don’t worry about this, because her being enslaved won’t be an issue for her joining a sorority anymore!”

It was a devil’s bargain, but for Alice Clemon accepted.

He worked on the bills late at night, ghostwriting language for Stephenson’s lobbyists. They passed, one after the other, eroding the remaining protections for women at a pace that made Clemon sick.

The first bill made it legal for men to follow or “case” any woman at any time, provided they filed a pre-enslavement intent form with the campus security office. Meaning people could no longer shelter women in their homes if another man was after them. The second for women to post about hunters, or hunting parties.

Within two years, there was nowhere left for girls to hide.

By then, the only girls not already marked or spoken for had started to preemptively offer their numbers to men they liked, hoping to avoid the fate of being claimed by someone they couldn’t stomach. It was a perverse kind of social Darwinism.

By the time Alice graduated from college, nearly every woman in the state was enslaved by age nineteen.