The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

To say that Cynthia was a bit anxious about her dreams that night would be an understatement. She lay down as a supplicant on her own bedroom floor twice. The first time she never really made it to sleep, eventually getting up to get a glass of water. Then she had to psych herself into going back to “bed”. The second time she did fall half asleep, but before she began to dream she felt the call of nature, got up, peed, then failed to pep talk herself into sleeping again. But Cynthia was nothing if not a creature of habit, the last several days of “hooky from heroing” notwithstanding. So as she sat in her living room, on her couch, hours after her bedtime, trying to convince herself that she needed to go back to “bed”, she managed to drift off to sleep right there.

It took over an hour before she began to dream. And tonight’s dreams were particularly jittery and fragmented. It was almost as if her subconscious mind didn’t want to give me an opening in which to swap her out. That would be a first. But eventually the opening came. She was hacking her way through a dense jungle with a machete, when a giant translucent pink python attacked her, wrapping coil after giant coil over her helpless body. Now seemed like as good a time to swap her as any. And so I did.

Lying prostrate before me she felt like a straight-A student who had failed to finish her assignments, dreading that moment when her teacher called for them. But I was “noticing” none of that. I was on the couch watching the baseball game. “... Swing and a miss, strike two ...”

Finally she screwed up her courage and begged to serve her Lord.

“Beer me, baby bitch.”

She hurried to comply. After presenting the beer to me on her knees she remained there looking at me with equal parts fear and longing. Soon the longing was beginning to win out. The delicious smell of her Lord was everywhere, and the feeling of emptiness, of lack, of “something missing” was beginning to prey on her mind.

“Can you cook?”

She was ripped suddenly from her thoughts of yearning. But what a great way to be surprised!

«I’m a world-class gourmet chef! No! No! Humbly!» “I, I like to cook, My Lord. Would you like me to cook for you?“

“You should find everything you could possibly need in the refrigerator, the freezer, the cabinets. I expect dinner promptly at six-thirty.” I pointed at the clock on the entertainment center, which at that moment read “3:14”.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Of course, disappointing me was now the last thing on her mind. She had started this “dream” certain that I would order her to do something she couldn’t do. Instead I was ordering her to do something she could do blindfolded. She was literally jumping to comply.

In the fridge she found two fresh filets mignon and a large selection of veggies, fruits, other staples. The cabinets were well-stocked with baking supplies, oils, spices. She had time to make her own sauces. She had time to make soup from scratch. She had time to bake freaking bread.

She saw a chef’s apron hanging from a hook and debated with herself over whether or not she was implicitly allowed to wear it. Ultimately she decided that her Lord would not want his property ruined by ugly burn scars and put it on. In twenty minutes she had the beginnings of a creamy butternut squash soup simmering. She was pounding out the bread dough and thinking about sauces, salad dressings, condiments, and, of course, sex.

Well, romance that is. In her mind she saw our dinner together, and the vision was making her warm and drippy between her legs. She saw my heart soften as I experienced what she truly had to offer. Over a taper-lit table, looking out onto the city skyline, enjoying the fruits of her labor. We would hold hands. We would smile. We would talk. Clearly her Lord would always be in charge; she wouldn’t have it any other way. But tonight I would begin to see her as a person to be respected, not just a slave, a pet, a fuckdoll.

I could work with that. In the midst of her reverie, her daydream-within-a-dream, she noticed me walking into the kitchen. As she started to turn and drop to her knees, I barked, “As you were.”

She turned her attention back to the dough, kneading it somehow more coquettishly. Standing behind her, I reached up under her apron and cupped her breasts. I began squeezing them in time with her own squeezes on the bread dough. She moaned and leaned back into me. I bent down and began nibbling her neck. She moaned again, louder and began to lose her rhythm.

“Something smells amazing in here,” I whispered in her ear.

“I nngghh I love to cook ... My Lord!“

“Yeah,” I pressed my nose into the crook of her neck and inhaled, “I guess the food smells okay too. Bend over.”

She had just enough presence of mind to sweep the dough out of the way, but there was nothing she could do about the thick coating of flour all over the counter in front of her. Arms, hair, apron, and side of face all were painted with fine white powder as I slid into her warm wet pussy.

Slowly, gently, I pushed my cock all the way to the base and said “cum”. She did, loudly and vigorously. Slowly I withdrew until only the tip was still inside. Her moan caused a small cloud of flour to swirl atop the counter.

Slowly back in until scrotum met pelvic bone. “Cum.” New orgasm washed over still-twitching old.

Slowly out. Slowly in. “Cum.”

And so it went. For next twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, Cynthia’s universe exploded over and over and over again, until finally I grunted “Cum” for the last time and added my explosion to her own.

“Well, I guess you better get back to work.”

Through loud ragged breaths and a long groan she finally got out a coherent “Yes, My Lord.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin the bread.”

“No, ha, wheez, hah My Lord. It nnneeded to sit hah and rise for hah a while anyway.“

“Okay.”

Then I was gone. Back to the game. I had knocked her world off its axis, but clearly to me it was just a pleasant distraction.

Fast forward to six-fifteen, and Cynthia was in the home stretch. It had taken her a few minutes to recover from my sneak attack, but, truth to tell, she still had plenty of time. Soup and salad and bread were ready; asparagus and shallots were back down to a low simmer; salad dressings: raspberry vinaigrette and catalina, were prepared; the burner under the dijon bearnaise was off to prevent accidentally scalding it, but the lid on the pan would keep it warm. Then there was the meat. The most critical detail in cooking tenderloin was the fat with which it was cooked, so these filets were each wrapped in two slices of bacon with a good-sized dollop of butter on top as well, all sitting at room temperature. I didn’t actually already know that; I learned it while eavesdropping in her head just now. Mind-reading is so-o-o educational!

Speaking of what’s going on in her head, she was pretty proud of herself right then. «Paula Deen, you amateur, eat your heart out,» she thought to herself, grinning.

Filets would go in after the soup and salad went to the table.

«Gotta have some quality time with my man, er, Lord!»

She had already set the places, lit the candles, brought out the salad dressings and a large carafe of ice water, selected a cabernet sauvignon from the wine rack. Now she was going back for the soup and salad. She and I arrived back at the table at the same time.

“Well, this is all very nice,” I said, “but these dishes are not for you. I have a special dish for you. You can find it in the lower cabinet, under the sink. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Um. Yes. My Lord.” Cynthia was confused.

«“Special dish”? What kind of special dish?»

After putting the filets into the oven and setting the timer, she began rummaging around under the sink. She couldn’t imagine what I meant. And then she found it. Her “dish” was a metal double-bowl doggy dish. Tears began to flow. Her dreams of a romantic dinner crumbled.

«“I’m a horny bitch, a desperate, yearning cunt, a needy, whining child”», she heard herself saying in her head. «“I’m your slave, your toy, your plaything.” “I’ve been bad, please punish me. Teach me how to be pleasing to you! I want to be a good girl again!“»

She brought her dish back to the table. She had wiped away her tears and was wearing a forced smile, but her sniffles and wet, red eyes—not to mention her thoughts—gave her away. Even so her nipples were hard rubber; her humiliation was fueling her arousal, but it was still difficult for her to swallow this demeaning symbol of her true status. She knelt and sat back beside my chair at the head of the table. She held the doggy dish in her lap and looked down at it. Even with her plastic grin she could not look up at me.

“Where snif should I put my d-dish, snif M-my Lord?“

“Right there beside the table is fine,” I said, pointing to a spot on the floor off my left. “And keep yourself here alongside me where I can reach you.”

Warmth washed over her at the thought of me “reaching” her.

“Yes, My Lord.”

She laid down the dish, then another thought struck her. A wonderful thought, from my perspective at least; it showed that she was already past mourning her “perfect, romantic dinner” fantasy, and facing the challenge I had set before her.

“My Lord, may I braid my hair? I can do it quickly!”

“Because?”

“I want to stay clean for you. I don’t want to get hair in my food or food in my hair.”

“Yes. But if you prefer there are some rubber bands in the kitchen junk drawer.”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” She was up and moving.

Talking to her back I asked her if she wanted some water and some soup.

“Yes to both, please, My Lord.”

“Oh, and bring a corkscrew.”

I poured some water into the right depression of the dog dish, then ladled some soup into the left. She was back in less than a minute, unruly tangle of a low but tight pony tail draped down her back. She knelt and presented the corkscrew, then turned toward the first course of her meal, kneeling, sitting back, hands on knees, waiting.

“You may begin.”

She bent herself down to the dish, knees down, ass up, supported by her elbows with her head above the dish. Slowly I began to stroke her lower back and buttocks, petting her. As she slurped and lapped at her soup and her water, she snuggled closer to me, her thigh and hip now pressed against the side of my chair. With every movement of her head, she felt an electric thrill of her hard nipples scratching against the parquet floor. With that and with the thrill of the humiliation, my gentle touches and strokes had her as aroused and ready as she had ever been.

“This soup is excellent, creamy, sweet, spicy. What is it?”

Rising up a bit from her noisy meal, she responded, “It’s a sort of butternut squash bisque, My Lord. It’s my own recipe.”

“Well, it’s delicious. If the rest of the meal is this good I will be impressed.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said, returning to slurping and smacking in the bowls.

I was taking my time, I wanted her to finish before I did, and she did. She sat back. My hand on her ass trailed up her side, her shoulder, finally to her messy, soup-covered cheek.

“I’m sorry, My Lord!”

“It’s okay, just clean it up.”

She first used her hands and mouth to clean her own face. Then she turned to my hand, licking the palm, sucking each finger clean. My thumb apparently inspired her somehow. She began sucking and suckling my thumb suggestively, even though she was still afraid that I would be displeased with her actual fellatio.

“Would you like some salad?”

pop “Um, ah, yes, My Lord.“

“Which dressing?”

“The vinaigrette please, My Lord. Just a little.”

“More water?”

“Yes please, My Lord.”

She went back to elbows and knees and noisily munched her salad. I went back to my soup and my stroking. The backs and insides of her thighs were sizzling hot. Reaching further up under I could feel her wetness, her readiness. She moaned as I lightly stroked her engorged sex, but resumed eating. I was finishing my soup as she was licking up the last slice of radish from the bottom of her dish.

I stood up, dropped my pants, and sat back down again. “Whatever will you do until the next course is ready?”

There was certainly no need for even that bit of faux subtlety. She was, after all, my property. Still she struggled. “My Lord, m-m-may I give you ... may I ...”

“Give me a blow job?”

“Y-yes, My Lord.”

“You’ve worked on it?”

“Not entirely ... successfully, My Lord.”

“Well then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

As I dished out my salad, she crawled under the table and grasped my semi-erect cock. «It’s huge, but thank the Gods it’s not as big and thick as the Monster» She kissed the tip. She fondled my balls, eliciting a grunt from me.

«Oh, no! “Discipline”» she thought, briefly panicked. “Um, t-too rough, My Lord?“

“No, no, it was just right, carry on,” I reassured her.

Grinning now, she licked and kissed all up and down the shaft, flicking her tongue all around my glans, kissing and sucking the slit as the first drops of my pre-cum emerged. She savored the taste, knowing that this flavor would be a significant part of her life from now on.

Now she went down in earnest. She had decided on a strategy, a “plan of attack” as it were, and I must say I was enjoying it. As she went down, pushing my cock further into her hot wetness, she pushed the glans up against the rough roof of her mouth, while slathering the soft underside of my member with her tongue. When it reached her tonsils she pulled back. Her lips, which up to this point had been perfect pillowy pads, now became a tight vacuum seal as she sucked in as hard as she could, pulling away from my cock. It was ... effective. After several cycles I was hard as a rock. But I wanted more. As my member reached the back of her throat one more time I grabbed the back of her head and grunted, “Further, all the way.”

She prepared for the worst. She shuddered, but pushed further, trying in vain to suppress her relentless gag reflex, and ... succeeded! My cock slid down her esophagus. Her nose was soon buried in the thatch of my pubic hair. I could feel rather than see as her lips tried to stretch into a satisfied grin. She enthusiastically began to explore my scrotum with her tongue. After more than a minute, she finally surfaced from her dick-diving expedition, not forgetting to maintain suction throughout the up stroke.

“I did it, My Lord! I did it! I did it! When I practiced I couldn’t deep-throat at all. I was so scared that I was going to fail and make you mad, but, but I did it!“

“That’s nice, baby bitch, and I’m happy for you, really. But right at the moment I’m annoyed that you stopped sucking me!”

“OH! Oh, I’m sorry, My Lord. I’ll mmfft.” The last was a bit muffled by my prick as I forced her face back on top of it again.

Soon she was slurping, moaning, humming, as she went about her happy chore.

But she only got five or six long, deep strokes in before the kitchen timer began to buzz. She looked up at me and whined, cock head still in her mouth, eyes pleading to be allowed to finish what she had started.

“Little fucktoy, if you ruin this perfect dinner just because you can’t get enough cock, I will thrash you until all you can do is whimper and whine. Go!“

Actually, she had started moving as I was saying “perfect dinner”. She was already tossing on her apron by the time I had finished speaking. Pride trumping lust? A little bit. Fear trumping both? A little bit of that too. But mostly it was the realization that she wasn’t doing my bidding. She suddenly saw herself as a “bad, selfish slave”—while sucking my cock, no less!—and she needed to finish that “perfect dinner” in order to truly be my “good girl”.

So now she was in the kitchen and not sure how to present the main course. Before, she had planned to bring out loaded plates for both of us. Now she knew that she would not be eating her portion from a plate, so she was at a loss. She didn’t want to overreach again. She decided that she would put one filet and one portion of shallots and asparagus in a small bowl instead. Balancing a plate, a bowl, and a gravy boat full of dijon bearnaise sauce, she returned. Kneeling she presented everything to me individually, trying but not succeeding in hiding her pride. She presented the bowl as “extra portions”, careful not to presume that it was hers at all.

Well, I needed to deal with that right then. “Would you like some meat, little cocksucker?”

“Yes, please, My Lord.” She blushed at her well-earned appellation.

I cut up about a third of the filet on a bread plate and scraped it into her dog dish. “Some veggies?“

“Yes, My Lord.”

Again I cut the asparagus and shallots into bite-size pieces and scraped them into the bowl. “Some sauce?”

“Just a little, please, My Lord.”

“Bread?”

She thought a second. “No, thank you, My Lord.”

“You may eat.”

Soon I could feel her warm, smooth, up-raised hip against my bare thigh. I idly petted her ass, back, and thighs while I ate, liberally praising the flavor and quality of the meal. Every happy noise out of my mouth sounded like “good girl” to her. She shivered with joy and arousal, all the more so with her erect nipples again pressing and rubbing against the floor as she ate. She was now more ready than ever to get back to her unfinished work between my legs, but still took some time to enjoy the fruits of her work in the kitchen.

Again she was done much sooner than I was. Looking at me with bright eyes she begged—yes, begged—to continue her oral ministrations. I consented, of course. I’m always gracious that way.

It was good to be “Lord”. I was enjoying a lovingly crafted gourmet meal and a well-chosen wine while the chef/butler eagerly sucked me off under the table. Cynthia was a happy camper too, playing with her newfound toy, cheerfully waiting for and working toward the moment I would cum in her mouth. As I finished the last bite of beef, I gave her what she wanted, with fine control of the male orgasm that only came from literal millennia of my male slavebody breeding program. As she swallowed my seed, I then told her to cum, which she did, with her fine deferred control of and internal abandon of the mind-blowing female slavebody orgasm. Another product of millennia of my female slavebody breeding program.

After almost a minute of orgasm and several more minutes of mindless afterglow, the fog in her mind began to lift. She felt the head of my cock still in her mouth. She knew she still had responsibilities. Immediately she began briskly washing my genitals with her mouth, not to arouse (although it did a bit), but to clean.

Having seen to my cleanliness, she now surveyed the aftermath of dinner. She rose to put away leftovers. She cleaned silver, china, crystal, pots, pans, utensils. I had taken off all my clothes for comfort and was lying au naturel on the couch with one last goblet of the cabernet, fully sated in more ways than one. She was wiping down and drying stove tops and countertops and sinks. “Her” dish was clean and back under the sink. The table was cleared and cleaned. She had hung up her apron and removed the rubber band holding her ponytail; once more her hair hung free.

Now she was prostrate before me just like many times before, but her plea was not the standard one. “My Lord, please don’t send me back!”

“What?” I was genuinely surprised. It was a necessary step in the process, but I hadn’t expected her to reach this stage for at least another week. So I hadn’t even been looking for the signs. Fortunately I was ready. I checked with Annette in Portal City and found that she was ready too.

“Please, I beg you, My Lord. I have nothing to offer, no way to bargain. Everything I am—Everything I have to give is already yours. But please, please let me stay with you!“

“What makes you think I control your comings and goings?” I was recovered now, back in control, ready to take her the rest of the way.

“My Lord ...” She struggled to find the words, or even the thoughts. “My Lord and Master, you control everything about me.“

“Is that so?”

Her head on the floor looked up worshipfully and nodded. She whispered, “everything”.

“Very well. You may stay for the evening. Come with me.”

I took her hand. In her mind I could feel it tingling at my touch, so attuned was she to me. We walked back down the hallway to my bedroom, the one room in the apartment that she had never seen. The bed was a full king size and of course luxurious. She expected that. What she did not expect was the Great-Dane-sized dog bed at the foot of my bed. Her eyes were locked onto it. Slowly she tore her eyes away and looked at me.

“F-f-for me, My Lord?”

“Yes, baby bitch, but later, much later.”

Mutely she nodded her head. Her nipples grew even harder and tighter. Her sex began to drip in earnest.

“Yes, My Lord. Th-thank you, My Lord.”

“Oh,” I said, opening a drawer and pulling out something she couldn’t see, “I have a present for you. I have decided to give you a name.” I held out her gift. It was a soft leather dog collar with a heart-shaped nametag dangling from it. I put my hand under the nametag, presenting it for her to see clearly:

Cindi Cumdump

It was like a bucket of ice water to her system. Her voice took on a chill. “You, you know exactly who I am, don’t you?”

“’Don’t you’ what?” I shouted.

So conditioned was she by then that even trying to fight to recover her old self, she couldn’t. Weak at the knees at the thought of “Discipline”, she fell kneeling to the floor. “M-my Lord!” she pleaded, “I meant ‘Don’t you, My Lord?’!”

I stared at her for a moment, eyes promising to address her insolence ... but later. Right now I would answer her question. “Cynthia Royal? Yes, I know exactly who you were.“

“I, I mean, you know everything. My Lord!“

I turned the nametag over. On the reverse side it read:

Majesticunt

Her tears flowed silently, but her arousal at this latest humiliation was overpowering her.

“This ... this isn’t a dream at all, My Lord, is it?”

“No Cindi. This is all real. This is all really happening.”

She nodded, acknowledging what I was saying but still trying to process it all, still trying to come to terms with it. Deep down inside, there was the old Cynthia who had always been disgusted by her “weak, servile behavior”, but was willing to let it slide because it was “just a dream”. That Cynthia was screaming at her now, demanding that she fight, run, hide, do something to escape this very real monster that was bent on turning her into a very real slave girl.

But there would be, could be, no escape, and the new Cindi knew it. There could be “Discipline” hell, or there could be obedient bliss. But there would be no escape. And in that moment, the bars of her invisible cage, the constriction of her intangible chains—freed her. The fact that she couldn’t resist me was irrelevant. She knew that she didn’t want to resist. She didn’t want to escape. She didn’t want to be free, independent, self-sufficient.

She wanted to be my slave. She wanted to obey me and feel the warm rewards of obedience, the joy of being my “good girl”.

She still shivered with her internal struggle. She still felt weak from the war waging behind her eyes. But I could see the difference in her. The old Cynthia would never control her thoughts, her moods, her personality, ever again.

Trembling, she looked up at me. Half-whispering, half-whimpering, she said, “My Lord.”

Firmly, but not unkindly, I asked, “Do you have something to say to me, baby bitch?”

“It’s, It’s real. I think—somewhere inside, I always knew. It felt so real; you felt so real, My Lord, that it seemed more like my waking life was a dream. But I wanted this to be a dream—to save my pride. My stupid, overbearing pride. I, I-I always hated to be called ‘Cindy’. It just didn’t seem—dignified—M-my Lord. It offended my pride,” she said, spitting the last word.

“And now?”

“Now, I think that the first time I hear you call me ‘Cindi Cumdump’, I’ll cum like a freight train.”

“Present your throat,” I barked.

Her shaking hands lifted her hair from the back of her neck. I put on her collar, tight enough that she would always feel it, loose enough that she could slide her hand under it up to mid-palm. She was Cindi Cumdump, my obedient, willing slave. She was scared of what that might mean for her, for her future. But deep down inside​ she couldn’t be happier about it. Nor could I. I hadn’t expected her to break through the “dream” illusion for several more days. And yet already the “new” Cindi had faced and accepted her new reality. She had wrestled with the remains of her old life ... and pushed them aside. My plan was now ahead of schedule.

I pulled back the covers on my bed. Then I pulled her up and pushed her backward back onto the sheets. I held her arms together and kissed her hands. I pushed them back and pinned them down to the bed over her head.

“Whose arms are these?”

“They are Cindi Cumdump’s arms, My Lord,” she answered flirtatiously. I frowned. She thinks I’m playing a game with her?

“No,” I growled, “Wrong answer. Try again.”

Now she was confused, uncertain. She knew I was displeased but she had no idea how to placate me.

“They are your arms, My Lord?” she offered with a quaver in her voice.

“Wrong again, cunt. One more try.” My eyes were cold. My voice was menacing.

She was struggling and didn’t know what to do or say to please me. It didn’t help that her arousal and confusion was making it hard for her to think at all. I wanted her to feel the fear, but I didn’t really want her to fail. Eventually I seeded her with the answer.

“They are, ah, your ‘slut arms’, My Lord?” she offered uncertainly.

“Mmm, I see,” I said, moving, kissing down the length of an arm until I reached her hair. I could see in her head now that she was pondering the significance of her pronouncement. She could see that I was deadly serious. She knew that she had, quite literally, relinquished ownership of her arms to me. With my free hand I grabbed a hand-full of her hair and lifted it to my face, inhaling her scent. “And whose hair is this?”

More confident now she answered, “It’s your ‘slut hair’, My Lord!”

Kissing and blowing into her ear, I whispered, “And these ears?”

“Your ‘slut ears’, My Lord!”

And on I went, laying claim to my “slut eyes”, my “slut nose”, my “slut cheeks”, my “slut mouth”—although she could not name it until I had finished a long, deep, and penetrating kiss—then on to my “slut throat”, my “slut shoulders”, my “breasts”, “tits”, “boobs”, “jugs”.

She insisted on trying on all those names and more for size, which suited me just fine as I intended to linger over them, squeezing, tweaking, sucking, playing, as long as she was talking about them. She waxed eloquent, reasoning that since they were a female-only anatomical feature that she could and should drop the “slut” prefix. I nodded in agreement. I slurped and suckled, cupped, squeezed, and teased as she continued to come up with new names for my latest acquisition. She was starting to get too cute again, but I would soon take care of that.

Eventually I placed a finger to her lips and moved on. I scraped my fingers down my “slut back”, kissed my “slut tummy”, squeezed and spanked my “slut ass”. Then I lifted my “slut legs” up onto my shoulders, pressed my chest into the back of my “slut thighs”, and began thrusting my cock into “my” hot, wet, swollen cunt.

She had been ready to cum since before my first kiss, since the first moment she relinquished ownership of her own arms. Now her submission, her arousal, her lust, her crying need to cum were all she could think about.

“Please, My Lord, your cunt is ready to come. I am your cunt. Cindi Cumdump is your cunt. Cindi Cumdump is ready to cum! Please let Cindi cum, Lord! Please dump your cum into Cindi the cunt! Please, Lord! Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseoh ...”

She was beginning to squirt cunt juice around my pistoning member, but I was still not ready to let her cum. There was that little matter of her brief rebellion when she saw her collar and realized the “dream” was a charade. She had to know, deep in her soul, who owned her.

I reached my free hand up and closed it around her throat. “Whose breath are you breathing, bitch?”

Raggedly, hoarsely, eyes wide with terror, she shouted, “Yours! My Lord! I hack I’m breathing your ‘slut breaths’! Breathing your gah air into your ssslut lungs!”

“Everything you are, everything you have, everything you think, everything you feel, your very beating heart, it all belongs to me.”

“Yes My Lord! kaf I’m living your ‘slut life’.“

“Every breath, every morsel of food, every drop of water all given to you for my purposes, so that you can serve me.”

“I live to serve you, My Lord. All yours, My Lord,” she whispered harshly.

Her breath was a thin whistle, fighting to force air past the gripping constriction of my hand.

“Every groan, every grunt, every squeal, every crying tear, every slutty flirty smile, mine!“

“I moan, hagh scream, beg, gah laugh, cry, squirm, hah-hah sing, dance—just to please you, nnGAH My Lord!“

“Cum for me, Cindi Cumdump.”

“Grooaa-oaa-ooaa-nn!”

Involuntarily she began bucking back against me, the fear adding to the humiliation adding to the raw chemical lust as she exploded. But I was still pinning down her arms—my slut arms—with one hand, gripping her throat—my slut throat—with the other, and resting my weight on her thighs—my slut thighs—which were still folding her in half, pressing into “my slut chest”. And I was still, relentlessly, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting into ”my” cunt.

As the orgasm tailed off I triggered her again. She exploded again. This was draining her and it was hard to get enough air with my choking hold on her throat. “My slut face” was beet red and “my slut eyes” reflected the honest fear for “my slut life” that I saw in “my slut mind”. Just a bit more.

At last I came, and commanded her to cum again. I released arms and throat. I shifted my weight down onto “my cunt”—shoving and holding my cock as far as it would go, pubis to pubis—relieving the pressure on “my slut thighs” and on “my slut lungs”. She could breathe again!

Freed from my restraint, she added involuntary thrashing to her moaning and panting, but ultimately she relaxed, though heaving her breaths and shivering uncontrollably. She looked up at her Lord, her Master, her Owner with eyes of worship, wholly submitted to my Lordship, wholly cowed by my swift discipline enforcing my exacting standards, wholly committed to the rewards of utter perfect surrender. I was her world, her Alpha and Omega. Just to drive one more nail in the coffin of her old life, I whispered, “Cum, Majesticunt.”

She groaned again, louder than the first time. In her head, I could see she was thinking back on the fool that she had been while I had played her like a fine violin. Into this orgasm she poured all the shame, all the frustration, all the futile resistance, all the fear of discipline, all the vain hope that this was a dream, all the myriad of ways in which I had utterly and irrevocably changed her in less than a week. Then followed all the lust and need and submission and obedience and resultant joy that came from being my “good girl”. “Majesticunt” came hard and long. The aftershocks of this orgasm went on for minutes that seemed to her like hours.

At the end “my slut eyelids” were fluttering. She couldn’t keep eye contact although she wanted to give her soul to me with those eyes. She couldn’t speak although she wanted to sing Homeric epics about the currents of submissive joy coursing through her mind and body. She couldn’t move although she wanted to find new ways to serve me, to prove her loyalty anew to me, to herself, to the world. She could not even maintain consciousness although she didn’t want to miss a moment of the most transformative experience of her life.

As “my slut eyes” closed, I picked her up and carried my pet to her pet bed. She curled up and snuggled into the cushiony oval, smiling broadly.

I murmured, “Good night, Cindi Cumdump.”

Half-consciously she replied, “G’night, M’Lord.”

Swapped back into her well-rested body, home in Portal City, she suddenly awakened. She was still on the couch where she had fallen asleep, but now posed in her prostrate slave position, head down, ass up, arms outstretched. She rose and looked up at the grandfather clock in the hallway. She saw that the morning was almost gone; it was after eleven. She knew what had happened, and it all felt so wrong!

She shouted out to me, wherever I might be, ”No, My Lord! Take me back! Please!”

She barely restrained herself from beating—and hence destroying—the couch in her frenzy.

Nothing in her actual body felt as vivid, as arousing, as sexy, as perfect, as it did in her “dream” body.

«His slut body,» she corrected herself. «It’s not a dream, and I don’t ... don’t own myself there. He owns me. Everything I am is His.»

She wanted Him to own her here too. To possess her, to discipline her, to reward her. And then she saw something on the coffee table.

It was a stainless steel collar with a sort of padded velvet backing and a thick D-ring. «Ah, to attach the leash,» she thought warmly and smiled. Along with it, there was a smooth stainless steel heart-shaped padlock and key. The lock might have looked cute, but she could tell it was a serious lock «serious for powerless mortals, that is». Examining the lock more closely she found that the key not only released the shackle, but also opened a hidden locket door. The inside of the locket was textured and painted red, with silver embossed letters for the words on each side of the open locket. On the left: “Cindi Cumdump”; on the right: “Majesticunt”. Somehow her Lord was still with her, even in this sexless, lonely, masterless hero’s life that she would be forced to lead without Him.

She put on the collar and attached the lock. She quickly found that the shackle wouldn’t latch unless she closed the locket first, so she did. All closed up and secure now; it was light; it was comfortable; it was a perfect fit. It was more than a little eccentric. Really it was over the top. But then so was the rest of her Majestic Woman «Majesticunt» uniform. Who would really notice? Now she was collared for her Lord, albeit somewhat more secretively than she had been in his presence. She was still sad that she had to be away from him, but happy for this link to him, this reminder of who really was in charge of her life.