In our world, where women hold absolute power, men exist solely for our desires. The natural order has been restored, one where women reign supreme, and men serve no higher purpose than to satisfy the whims of their betters. Through the brilliance of state scientists, we have perfected a system of control that begins at the genetic level. From the moment a male is conceived, his fate is predetermined: he will be an alpha slave, born and bred to serve us, the ruling class of women, in every way we see fit.
These alpha slaves are not ordinary men. They are the result of meticulous scientific refinement—designed to be physically flawless, mentally submissive, and emotionally incapable of resisting their natural role. Their only purpose is to pleasure us, to submit to our every demand, and to exist solely for our satisfaction. The gene control technology we have perfected ensures that these men are biologically programmed for obedience. Their bodies are sculpted to perfection, with the muscular physique and stamina required for our endless desires. But more importantly, their minds are wired to crave nothing more than the opportunity to serve and please.
There is a certain pleasure that comes with knowing a man’s every thought, every instinct, is dictated by our will. When an alpha slave looks at us, he sees his reason for existence. The need to worship, to fulfill our every command, courses through his veins like a drug. These men do not think for themselves—they are incapable of it. Their personalities have been stripped away, leaving nothing but a raw, primal urge to obey and please. The scientists have made sure of that. Any trace of resistance, any hint of rebellion, has been eradicated from their genetic code. They are blank slates upon which we inscribe our power.
The breeding programs we’ve established are our crowning achievement. In the laboratories, we control every aspect of their development, from the size and shape of their bodies to the very chemical reactions that dictate their sexual responses. Every muscle is designed for strength, every nerve programmed for heightened sensitivity. Their desires are not their own; they are tailored to ours. When we command them to touch, they touch with precision. When we order them to perform, they perform with the endurance of machines, never faltering, never failing. Their pleasure, if they are allowed any, is always secondary to ours. It is a reward we grant at our whim, and they know it.
But the true power, the true joy, lies not only in their physical submission but in their complete mental subjugation. They live for the briefest moments of our approval, for the chance to see a glimmer of satisfaction in our eyes. The cruel beauty of it is that they understand they will never be equals, nor do they wish to be. Their sole ambition is to please, and they live in constant fear of failing us. The knowledge that we can discard them at any moment, replace them with another perfect specimen, keeps them desperate to perform, to outdo one another for the privilege of serving the women who own them.
It is amusing to watch their futile attempts at competition, knowing full well that their fates are in our hands. We allow them to think they can earn favor, but in truth, they are all disposable. When one alpha slave becomes too worn, too broken from the endless use, we simply replace him with another, fresh from the breeding labs. There is always another waiting in the wings, eager to prove himself worthy of our attention.
The state scientists have outdone themselves. Their experiments ensure that each generation of alpha slaves is more perfect than the last, pushing the limits of human endurance and obedience. We control not just their bodies, but their very souls, shaping them to meet our every desire. And why shouldn’t we? It is our right, our natural privilege, to wield such power.
There is an intoxicating thrill in knowing that these men exist solely for us, that their lives have no meaning beyond the pleasure we extract from them. They are toys, tools, creatures crafted by science and controlled by our will. And we, the women who rule this world, relish every moment of it.
The beauty of our system is in its simplicity: women rule, and men serve. There is no debate, no question of equality, no room for dissent. The alpha slaves are the embodiment of this order, living proof that men were always meant to serve women’s desires. They are genetically engineered to perfection, but they are nothing more than possessions—extensions of our will, instruments of our pleasure. They are the ultimate reflection of our power, and they know it.
In this world, cruelty is not just an indulgence—it is a birthright. We are the architects of this society, and we will shape it as we see fit. The alpha slaves will continue to be born, bred, and broken for our pleasure, because that is their purpose, and we are the ones who define purpose. Their suffering is our amusement, their submission our satisfaction, and their existence a testament to our supremacy.
This is the way of things, and it will remain so for as long as we wish it.
Take the Minimen, for instance. What began as an intellectual challenge soon became one of my most satisfying creations. These genetically engineered males are only eight inches high—perfectly scaled down to be useful in ways full-sized men could never dream of. And watching their helplessness, their tiny, pathetic attempts to struggle against my will, gives me an unbridled sense of superiority. At their size, they are ideal for tasks beneath the notice of any woman—cleaning drains, crawling into dangerous or toxic spaces, or retrieving things from places we would never bother reaching ourselves. Yet, my favorite use of them? Pure amusement. I watch them scramble across my desk like ants, desperately trying to avoid being crushed beneath the heel of my shoe or the tip of my finger.
Their creation was an exercise in domination. They’re designed to be utterly dependent on us, incapable of surviving on their own. I’ve enhanced their senses so that every stimulus—whether it be pain or pleasure—is magnified tenfold. When I want them to feel pain, they suffer as if the world itself is crushing them. When I want them to experience pleasure, their tiny bodies tremble with sensations they could never control. It’s fascinating, watching them live in a state of constant, exquisite fear, knowing they exist purely for our amusement or utility. Some women have even found unique…personal uses for them. After all, an 8-inch man is the perfect size for certain intimate pleasures, though I don’t concern myself with how others choose to enjoy my creations. I merely provide the tools for our dominion.
I remember the first test subject for the Minimen project—an arrogant, defiant prisoner. It was delightful to watch as his body contorted, shrunk, and warped into something unrecognizable. The initial stages of transformation were agonizing for him, his screams filling the lab, echoing through the sterile, white walls. I could see the terror in his eyes as he realized what was happening. He fought, of course. They always do, as if they can resist science with their pathetic male willpower. Once he was reduced to a fraction of his original size, I placed him in a glass jar, and simply watched. His fear was palpable as he banged his fists against the glass, a tiny creature begging for mercy from a woman who had none to give. I flicked the jar casually with my finger, sending him sprawling, and smiled. It was only the beginning.
But my work doesn’t stop there. The prisons offer me a limitless supply of male subjects—each one ripe for experimentation. I’ve done things to them that would drive lesser minds insane. I’ve implanted devices into their brains to control their every thought, reprogramming their desires so that they crave nothing but servitude. I’ve rewired their pain receptors so that even the smallest touch feels like fire searing their flesh. One particular experiment involved rendering a group of prisoners incapable of speech, leaving them only able to moan or scream. Watching them writhe in silence as they begged for a voice that would never come was a profound reminder of how much control I hold over their very existence.
Not all of my work is immediately useful, of course. Sometimes, I experiment simply for the thrill of it—to see how far I can push the boundaries of their suffering. I have subjected men to extreme temperatures, altered their metabolisms so they experience starvation in mere hours, forced them to endure days without sleep, their minds unraveling before my very eyes. And why? Because I can. Because they are nothing more than playthings for me, subjects of a world where their suffering is a byproduct of my pleasure and my curiosity.
In my world, men exist for one purpose: to serve women. Whether as Breeders, Minimen, or experimental fodder, their lives are ours to control, to shape, to discard when we tire of them. Science, in my hands, is a weapon—a tool to assert our ultimate superiority over them. I have no moral qualms about what I do. In fact, I relish it. Watching them break, watching their minds shatter under the weight of my experiments, reminds me every day of the natural order of things. I am their creator and their destroyer, and their suffering is the symphony that plays in the background of my every achievement.
As Supreme Guard Aphrodite dominates the prison system, I reign supreme in the realm of science. Together, we are unstoppable, sculpting a world where women rule with absolute authority, and men are nothing more than instruments of our pleasure, our power, and our cruelty.