The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Discipline and Reward

A Love Story

Disclaimer: Standard “free porn” disclaimers apply. If you are too young, or don’t like pr0n, or just aren’t into my kinks ... go away.

Chapter 3. In which our heroine resists, futilely

Cynthia’s relatively quiet morning was almost more adventure than she could bear. It started in the shower. First of all, it required an immense effort of will for her just to put her head under the running water. She finally did it but shivered uncontrollably the whole time. Then she had to go through the whole ordeal a second time just to rinse off soap and shampoo.

All the while she silently reassured herself, «He’s not here. He can’t hurt me. He can’t drown me. I’m safe.»

After the shower though, she soon was gripped with terror again. After drying her body she raised the damp towel up to dry her face and hair. Suddenly she spasmed, throwing the towel into the bathroom door hard enough to crack the wood. No matter what, she could not bring herself to put that damp towel over her face to dry it. She simply could not. Finally, she decided to dry her face and streaming wet hair with a blow dryer. It took almost an hour but the alternative was unthinkable. «There is no way that towel is going over my head!»

Later she picked nervously at her breakfast while downing cup after cup of coffee. Usually by now she was at least scanning the news—radio, TV, internet—for word of a crime or disaster that might call for Majestic Woman’s help. But not today. She had a lot on her mind. She had had lucid dreams before, but nothing like last night’s vivid, horror/porno of a nightmare. She didn’t know how to deal with it. Never in her life, not in her centuries upon centuries growing up and living in the Amazon Queendom, nor in her decades living as a superheroine in “Man’s World”, had she ever felt such desire for a man, not even Simon.

She felt a familiar stab of anguish. «Ah, Simon. It still hurts every time I think of you. But not as much as it used to.» She let go of her sad loss and got back to mulling over her strange dream.

The worst was not that there was sexual desire; she was after all only human, despite the gifts of the Gods. The worst was the ease with which the object of her lust had subdued her. The terror he had instilled in her. The sheer orgasmic joy she had felt in surrendering. The cold disquiet she had felt on every “failure”. It had just been a dream, but nonetheless the memory of it was shaking her idea of—her belief in—who she really was. «I called him “My Lord”. And Hera help me, I meant it!»

Later that morning superhero duties were still on hold. Besides her need to come to terms with that awful dream, there was the matter of the wreckage which her nightmare had left in the real world. Her bedsheets and her pajamas were utterly ruined. She needed to dispose of them, to remake the bed with one of her two remaining sets of sheets, and to do something to get the reek of sex out of her bedroom.

So she opened the windows to air out the room, cleaned and vacuumed thoroughly, and—not satisfied—lit some aroma candles to mask the last traces of the stench. Now what? «I need to get out of this house!» So she left, not as Majestic Woman, but as Cynthia Royal, just a long walk to get a change of scenery and to be alone with her dark thoughts.

She came back home more than an hour later for a late lunch and to don her Majestic Woman togs. This afternoon was the monthly Legion of Heroes executive meeting, held in the Legion’s Spyglass orbital platform. Access to the satellite was by a teleporter provided as a courtesy by the Uenans, the ancient alien race with whom Magic Lamp was affiliated.

She signaled for teleport, and in seconds she was there. Other committee members trickled in. Snacks and beverages were consumed—in the usual way; no special handling required due to the artificial gravity, provided as yet another courtesy by the Uenans—and small talk was exchanged. Were it not for the garish uniforms and rippling muscles, not to mention the cold, untwinkling stars visible in every viewport, one might think this were just some mundane group of civic-minded leaders.

At the appointed time, they gathered in the war room, and the executive committee meeting was called to order. It was the Wraith’s term as Chair, his second turn in the big chair, and so the meeting ran with clockwork efficiency: status of known and suspected extraterrestrial threats, status of the various hunts for supervillains known to be at large, status of jailed or civilly-committed supervillains nearing release, status of ongoing programs of training for young or newly-powered heroes, probationary status of villains-turned-hero, status, status, status. Cynthia was lost in her own thoughts and twice had to ask someone to repeat a question directed at her.

After the meeting, the Wraith asked her to stay behind in the war room and help with some strategic planning. Such a request was not unusual; her long centuries of military experience among the Amazons had made her quite the expert at strategy and tactics of both defensive preparedness and organized combat.

However, as the last of the other heroes teleported back to Earth, the Wraith approached her with an attitude that had much more in common with multi-billionaire captain of industry, Blake Warren, than with the terror of the Carthage City underworld.

“Cynthia, what’s wrong? You’re a key leader in this team, and today you weren’t really here.“

“It’s nothing really, Blake. Don’t worry about it. You’re right. I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I’ll deal with it.”

“You’re sure ... ”

“Positive. Look, you said you wanted to talk strategy, and I do have some strategy ideas. About the Betelgeusean threat. Let me look at Power Man’s reconnaissance report, and I’ll try to have something back to you tomorrow.”

“Well—alright then,” he said. There was a brief flurry of tapping on his wristpad and then, “It’s in your mailbox now, Cynthia. Thank you.”

Soon she felt the full-body tingle of the alien teleporter technology sending her back home, and she caught one last glimpse of Blake Warren, with a look of concern on his face. His yearning expression said it all. He wanted to comfort her, shelter her, ease her troubles.

«Uuugh. MEN!»

She was more than a match for the Wraith, physically and mentally. «Well, maybe I’m equal mentally. On a good day. But that’s beside the point. He knows I’m not some wilting pansy. But he’s trying to do the stupid “male protector” thing just the same.»

She was no longer insulted by such treatment as she often had been when she first left the Queendom.

«It’s not his fault. He’s just a man. He was raised in Man’s World. He can’t help trying to be—what’s the word?—“chivalrous”.» She sighed. «But it’s still annoying.»

Later that evening, she prepared and feasted upon her typical gourmet dinner for one. Tonight was: Chicken Kiev, steamed artichoke, and a light salad with homemade Roquefort dressing. In the aftermath, she was sipping a nice pinot grigio and pouring over the report.

«The Betelgeuse Empire thinks the Earth is easy pickings except for what they call “the metahuman problem”. And they’re probably right about that. Even so, they still seem to be preparing for invasion, so they must think they have a “solution”. Ah, there! They’re stockpiling rheanite!» Exposure to the rare radioactive mineral was Power Man’s only known weakness. «And they know about that! But rheanite only works against Rheonians. Is there more? No, that seems to be the linchpin of the whole plan.»

A smile came over her face. «Great Hera! They’ve made two critical mistakes. First of all, they think Power Man is a metahuman. They don’t realize he is non-human, an alien. Secondly, they think, based on no evidence whatsoever, that rheanite affects all metahumans the way it affects Power Man.» There was some small possibility she had missed something, but it was not enough to worry about. So she happily typed up her preliminary analysis, fired it off to the executive team, and rubbed her tired eyes.

A cup of hot cocoa and a warm bath later, she was feeling much more relaxed. Working on the Betelgeusean problem was exactly the antidote she needed to that nightmare. Mind at ease, she headed to bed.

Dreams soon overtook her. As I watched them, I saw that much of the violence in her dreams centered on being trapped underwater and drowning. She was not as “over” last night as she thought. Ah, there. In her dreams, Blake was calling her back to the war room, except that through the viewports I could see that Spyglass is deep underwater, not in outer space. As she shut the door to the war room behind her, she was suddenly naked. A masculine arm reached around and cupped her firm breast.

“Blake,” she sighed. But when she turned around, it was—me: Blond hair and beard, blue eyes, and a lecherous smile.

I was almost too surprised—and flattered—to take my cue. But I managed to execute the body swap before her dream moved on to something else.

* * *

In the penthouse, Cynthia was in a familiar state. Head down, ass up, arms outstretched. Her body alive, electric. Her nose full of the smell of her Lord, somewhere in the room. The gap between her legs, wet, empty, yearning.

«Oh no. I’ve got to get out of here.»

Clumsily she staggered to her feet. Too, too slowly she ran for the front door, her only hope of freedom.

She hadn’t seen me yet at all, but I easily overtook and subdued her. She was again helpless in my grasp, arms pinned behind her, every fiber of her being aware of her Lord, her body aching to submit to me even as she struggled.

“You have to be one of the most stupid bitches I’ve ever owned,” I said with just a hint of sadness.

«“Discipline”»

In her mind she said it with me. We body swapped as her knees gave way.

In my training room dungeon again, she was restrained exactly as last time. However, unlike last time, there were no introductions, no explanations, no chance for compliance. The towel was already over her face. The hose was already drowning her. She had already screwed up too badly to be allowed to breathe.

Over the sound of continuous clicking, I began, “This is unforgivable. In only one day you have forgotten every ... single ... lesson. I’m tempted to just drown you now and find a new baby bitch. Is there anything worth salvaging here? Are you actually intelligent enough to benefit from instruction?”

Flip. Cough. “Please. Please just let me g ...” BRAP!

Once again over constant clicking as I drowned her: “Your answer was not responsive.”

Inside she was digging in her heels. She thought she was ready to die rather than become the servile rag doll that she had become yesterday. She thought she was ready to let herself drown. But there were two forces working against her. First, she had lived through two and a half millennia; her will to live was stronger than you, or she, can imagine. Second, and I can’t emphasize this enough, her body wanted her to be servile, to be used, to submit, to obey.

And, of course, I was ultimately in control of the situation. I was ready to give CPR. Hell, I was ready to intubate her and force her to breathe if it came to that. But it would be much simpler to just not let her suffocate.

I flipped her and let her breathe, and cough, and moan, but then I put her back under the hose whenever she attempted to speak.

“You belong to me. Your breath belongs to me. Your little rebellion will not work. You will live as long as I will it. You will die when you cease to amuse me.”

Over the next several iterations, her moans gave way to pitiful sobs. Her body began to shiver uncontrollably. And tears. A normal “practitioner” would not be able to tell that she were crying with all the water flying everywhere, but I was inside her head. I knew. It was an impressive display of will power, but it would ultimately fail.

“You’re not doing very well. I can keep this up all day if necessary. Just as a reminder, in case you forgot, you should be pondering the question ‘Can you be taught?’.”

I kept the hose trained on her as her will finally crumbled. She squirmed. She stopped shivering. She clicked once.

Flip. Cough. “I ... I ... I can be taught. My Lord!” she screeched. «Fuckfuckfuck I almost forgot!»

“Well, that remains to be seen.”

I took her through yesterday’s session again. Of course, it went much faster this time, since she knew the answers and was tremblingly eager to give them. But there were no “rewards” this time, much to her dismay. She so wanted to hear me say “Good Girl” again. But I merely said “Correct” to each answer and put her under the hose again while I asked the next one.

The heroic facade was gone; she had crumbled completely. Now she wanted the reward as much as she wanted to avoid the punishment.

At long last I paused. Ding! “Well. You have answered truthfully and completely, you may pleasure yourself, twat.“

“Thank you, My Lord. Aaahh!”

The smell of her Lord added spice to her masturbation. Soon she was hanging on the edge of her orgasm, knowing that she needed me to get her over.

She starts begging me for release. “Please. My Lord. Please, help me! Please let me cum!”

“No. Not yet.”

Swap.

* * *

We were back in the penthouse. She, once again bowed to the floor in supplication. I, standing above her waiting.

Her voice was raw, encompassing her fear, her pain, her desire, her need. “How may I serve you, My Lord?”

Walking briskly around her I ordered, “Don’t move. I will use your ass now. Open up.”

«Open up? I can’t just ...» And then, to her amazement, she felt her anal sphincter relax just by thinking about it.

Grabbing her hair and pulling her head back sharply, I came down on her ass savagely, painfully, thrusting over and over, deeper and deeper, until my cock was buried to the base. Without pausing, I continued pistoning my full length in and out of her opened rosebud. Cynthia screamed in agony, but amid the pain of her raped anus, she nonetheless felt her arousal building. The shock was preventing her from forming actual words to express herself, but inside she was again pleading for release from the never-ending, ever-rising tide of desire, from this wave that builds and builds but never crashes upon a shore. Some small part of her mind wondered how it could be possible. She felt no pleasure in this rape at all, but still her sexual arousal continued to build.

Finally she found her voice, but it had nothing new to say.

“Please, My Lord, let me cum. letmecum, letmecum, letmecum ...”

Her refrain matched itself to the rhythm of my thrusts, punctuated only by her own shrieks and howls when the pain overwhelmed her. Time bled away. Cynthia’s entire universe was my cock in her ass. It was a universe of pain, and punishment, and bottomless empty need.

After the first twenty minutes she could no longer maintain the posture that I demanded of her. With every thrust, her knees slipped and her hips sank a little more, until she finally bottomed out onto the floor. She didn’t notice at all.

After an hour or so—well, No regular human woman could have withstood this much anal rape. my slave women are inhumanly tough in some ways. But Cynthia was no longer pleading to cum. It was getting hard for me to register coherent thought going on inside her skull at all. She was sorry. She loved me. That again? Where was this crap coming from? She prayed to the “Gods” to wake her up. She prayed to her angry God, me, to give her release. She hoped. She despaired. All was endless pain and rising sexual frenzy.

Near the end of the third hour she was a shell of a woman who knew only that her God would never, ever forgive her for her disobedience, and that she would endure this eternity in His hell silently praying for the release that would never come.

And that was when I whispered into her ear, “You’ve been a good little candy ass, so when I cum, you may cum too.”

Inside her skull she was saying, «Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.» But the incoherent mumble that actually escaped her lips sounded nothing like that.

Soon I was spouting my release into her rectum, and Cynthia’s universe of pain exploded into sudden, wild unimaginable pleasure. She couldn’t handle it; she began to slip into unconsciousness.

I certainly didn’t want to let her escape her punishment that easily, but fortunately I was prepared. I began to pester her mentally, peppering her mind with a steady stream of nonsense seed thoughts, the more ridiculous the better. I didn’t want these seeds to grow. I wanted her to reject them. But to reject them she had to fight back. And to fight back she needed to rouse herself to some semblance of coherence.

It wasn’t long before it was time to add some external stimulus to the mix.

“Wake up, lazy bitch.” I was poking her side with my foot. “Fun time is over. Get off your ass, and clean this shit up.”

Her Angry God commanded and she had to obey. She yearned to obey! Inside her head, «Yes, My Lord, right away.» But again, all I could hear was weak mumbles. She tried to get up several times and failed. Finally, she reached her hands and knees and began to crawl toward the bathroom. In her head, I could see that she envisioned getting towels and what not and bringing them back.

I disabused her of that notion.

“Where the fuck do think you’re going? Use your hands. Use your tongue. Use your hair. Clean this shit up. Here, start with me.” I grabbed her hair and yanked her face up to my groin. “Get to work.”

Her disgust was palpable. My groin was slick with my cum, but that cum was blended with bits of her own thoroughly-churned fecal matter. Slimy pale brown strings and gloppy pale brown driblets were everywhere. But her Angry God commanded and she had to obey.

Her tongue and lips started low on my thighs, where a sluggish rivulet or two had nearly reached my knees. She licked and sucked and «Ugh!» swallowed. She worked her way upwards, making sure everything was clean as she progressed. Soon she was cleaning my scrotum, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from me as she gently licked my balls clean. Then on she went to my cock, the filthiest part of all but still an object of worship for her. She licked up and down, pausing at the tip. She thrilled at my reflexive hardening as she consumed my glans and sucked it clean of shitty jism. Finally, she finished up, cleaning the goop out of the pubic hair above my cock.

She was fully awake now, though weaker than a kitten. She surveyed the mess on the floor, trying to figure out where to start. There was the puddle of the original sex leavings, the dribbling bits and smears along the floor where she had tried to crawl away, and the smaller puddle where she dripped between her knees while cleaning me up.

She decided to begin where she was and backed up so she could put her face to the floor and clean the last mess. Licking and slurping at the floor she began to make her way back to the scene of her rape. But she soon noticed that her dripping anus was creating new messes behind her even as she cleaned the ones in front of her.

She stopped. Exercising the control she now knew she had, she closed her brutally abused rosebud tight. She reached a hand back to her buttcheeks. She began wiping up her leavings and, with no other choice, transferring them to her mouth. Next, she applied the same technique to the dribbles running across her cunt and down the backs of her thighs. Having “plugged the leak”, she proceeded, tongue to floor, with the original plan.

All told, including fits of exhaustion that forced her to pause, it took her well over an hour. Having finished she looked around and found me «My Lord! My God!» sitting on the couch, fully dressed. She felt more naked and dirty now than she did even yesterday. Her desperation to please me was warring with self-disgust and fatigue. At length, she planted her face on the floor in my direction and spread her arms toward me.

“Haw muya zur yoo, M’Lrrr?”

“Get me a beer, baby bitch.” I said casually, as I grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels.

Once, many millennia ago, I was seeing to the care of one of my African slave villages that was caught in the grip of a deadly drought. Eventually, I located a watering hole not many miles from the village. It was held by another tribe, but, with my help, my tribe could defeat that tribe quite easily. But during my reconnaissance, looking out through the eyes of one of those “foreign” tribesmen, I saw a sight I have never forgotten. A weak, starving elephant was lumbering toward the pond. He smelled the water but was so far gone that he almost didn’t care if he made it or not. Even so, biology was forcing him to try. Cynthia’s heavy, hopeless crawl toward the kitchen reminded me of that poor pachyderm. When she came to the refrigerator, she reached up, never leaving her knees, opened the door, and pulled down a beer.

Now she was crawling back, beer sliding along the floor, shakily clutched in her hand. Along the way she froze, paralyzed by hopeless weariness. She started to cry audibly, to shake uncontrollably. «I forgot to remove the cap!»

The very thought of turning around, crawling back to the kitchen, popping the top, and crawling back seemed more daunting to her than one of her super-powered feats of derring-do.

It couldn’t hurt anything to show her a little mercy now, could it? Her lifeline was this seed thought «Maybe it’s a twist-off?» She examined the cap and with joy indescribable saw that it was.

Soon she was at my side, carefully twisting off the cap with the hand she had not used to wipe her ass. Kneeling and presenting, eyes downcast, her body a reed blowing in some imaginary wind, she slurred, “Yrr beer, M’Lrrd.“

“Good girl.”

She shivered with joy at even that faint praise. She crawled wearily to the kitchen, threw away the cap, and crawled wearily back. By then I was nearly done with this beer. She looked at the emptying bottle in horror, imagining that her Lord would ask her to perform the Sisyphean task of beering him again, or maybe even the Heraclean labor of constructing a sandwich. But still she assumed the position, and still she slurred out her begging plea to serve me.

“You’ve done well, little cunt. I’m pleased. You may rest.”

She was stabbed with joy, «He’s pleased!», even as she realized I had given her permission to fade out. She proceeded to drift away immediately.

I swapped her back home.

Cynthia snapped awake in her bed. It was worse than the night before. Pajamas, sheets, pillows, blankets, mattress and box spring were all torn to shreds. Springs and pieces of metal were jutting out all around her. Even worse than that was the way she found herself amid the wreckage: face down, ass up, arms outstretched. She tried to rise from the bed, but her arms were cramped and weak, and her legs felt like they were on fire. Eventually, she rolled over the torn metal, which could not pierce her impervious skin, and exited the bed. She staggered to her feet, shaking off the scraps of cloth and standing naked. Now she could see that the bedframe itself was also broken. The side boards were snapped near the foot of the bed, and the footboard itself was broken in two.

The clock said five-oh-eight AM. She had gone to bed before eleven last night but she felt as if she had hardly slept at all. She lay face down on her bedroom carpet and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

My slave Annette needed sleep in her abused slavebody as much as Cynthia did in her exhausted natural body, but something was bothering her.

“Master, what was in my mouth? it tastes like shit.”

I grinned a sheepish grin at her. “Odd that you should say that ...”

Annette covered her mouth in horror. “Oh no. Master. You didn’t ...”

She was off like a rocket to the bathroom. I followed close on her heels. I held her hair while she retched and vomited into the toilet. Still face down over the bowl, she reached out, knowing that I would read her mind to see what she needed. Damp washcloth? Check! Bottle of mouthwash? Check!

“You know,” I said ill-advisedly, “Your natural immunities should prevent you from catching anything nasty.”

Annette looked at me as if I were a space alien. “Begging your pardon, Master, but what the fuck does that matter?“

“Annette,” I said, no longer teasing, now completely in earnest, “I was in full control of myself the whole time. Nothing was done to your body out of anger. All of this—All of this—is to advance my plan, of which you are an integral part.“

“Master,” she replied, frustrated and patient and humble, somehow all at the same time, “All of us, all Ten Thousand, serve you willingly and unconditionally ...”

“Of course ...” I said, prompting her to continue.

“And for me, it has been a profound joy and privilege to get to know you personally ...”

“But ...”

“But right now, Master, I really need Greg. Please?”

“Not a problem. Good night, Annette.”

I contacted Greg telepathically and gave him the skinny on Annette’s situation. Then I swapped him back into his own body and found another slavebody to ride for a while.

While Greg was comforting his wife I picked her mind for the checklist of the things I had needed her to do while she was riding Majestic Woman’s body.

Aside from completely wrecking Cynthia’s bed, I saw that she had been very creative in how she had “exhausted” the superheroine’s body. She had flown to a junkyard and stacked three rusty old school buses on top of each other. She’d got under the buses and squat-pressed them until she couldn’t stand anymore. Then she’d crawled under and bench-pressed the same stack of buses until she could no longer lift them. Afterwards, numb arms and legs dangling beneath her, she’d flown back to the house and bench-pressed Cynthia’s car in her garage until she couldn’t even lift that. Then, at last, receiving my final signal, she’d flown back to the bedroom, positioned herself in the wreckage, and waited. Everything was going according to plan. She had done well. I was pleased and ready to tell her so, but in that brief span while I had reviewed her memories events had overtaken me. She was out cold.

Checking Greg’s mind, I saw that he had kissed away his wife’s tears and held her until she had fallen asleep, which was almost immediately. Greg was at that moment carrying Annette to her great-dane-sized pet bed at the foot of their actual bed. While I “watched”, he kissed her forehead, and laid her down to rest. I asked Greg to relay my kudos to Annette when they woke, and I carried on.

To Be Continued in Chapter 4. In which our heroine cleans the place up a bit