Laid Plans
The brainwashing takes for-fucking-ever.
When Victor Worth set out to kidnap and turn his absolute nemesis into his willing and pliant sex slave, he’d thought it would be... easy. He’s not entirely sure when he realized it wasn’t going to be. It must’ve been sometime between deciding he was going to turn his arch-nemesis into his sex slave and around phase one of her brainwashing.
The first part had been, admittedly, quite easy. Oceanica, aside from having the dumbest superhero name probably ever (in his humble opinion,) was one of those types that made far too many friends for her own good. So step one: discover Oceanica’s secret identity, had required just the simplest of kidnappings, torturings, and killings to dispose of the evidence.
And when he’d arrived at her residence, and found little Marilyn Matters (which is a pretty name, if he has to say something nice about her,) sound asleep in her bed, drugging and kidnapping her had been even easier.
He does fondly remember those few moments when he’d driven the needle into her neck; the way she’d jolted, the terror turned to fury in her gaze, the way her eyes had rolled back and fluttered shut.
It was, all in all, what he’d thought to be the greatest revenge plan ever.
And it still is! He’s absolutely certain it still is, it just took a little longer than he’d thought.
The brainwashing itself isn’t really the main piece in his revenge scheme. It’s step A to get to point B. Sure, Marilyn probably suffered a bit, but it’s not like he’d driven spikes into her arms or anything like that.
There had been no point to doing it while she was under, anyway! The brainwashing process is entirely about shutting down and rewiring her mind. She’s been so out of it that the place could burned down around her, and she’d just stay there, strapped to her frame, drooling slightly from her parted, panting lips.
God, she’s beautiful. How he hates her for it.
And while he may be outlandishly wealthy, he’s certain he’d be even more outlandishly wealthy if not for her her numerous interferences over the past few years. And it’s those kinds of differences that really cement his hatred for her.
He hates her for a long, long list of things. But now, it begins.
Oh, does it begin.
He’s going to torture her. He’s going to torture his new, slutty little sex slave in all of the most twisted ways he can think of.
And with the help of some light reading, he’s been able to think of quite a few.
It’s one thing to brainwash Marilyn. Turn her pliant and willing. Anyone could do that.
The revenge would be making her wear those lovely nipple clamps he’d bought for her. He’s going to make her wear them for hours on end, until her little pink nipples are purpled and swollen. The pleasure-pain will be unbearable. And he doesn’t even care about the pleasure. He just wants her in pain, really.
She loves him! The brainwashing made her love him, and now he’s going to hurt her like it’s his job. And then the stupid thing will thank him! She may even come from it. What a brilliant, perfect plan this is.
And he’s going to start with the clamps, actually. As soon as the doctor brings her in. And then his hired guns take out the doctor. It’s nothing personal, he’s a nice enough guy, but he had been hired specifically to brainwash a person and just- That could get messy if people came looking for Marilyn. It needs to be done.
Oh, and the doctor’s seen Marilyn naked. And Marilyn belongs to Victor now, so that’s unacceptable.
He taps the intercom on his desk. “Doctor,” he says. “You told me Marilyn’s ready?”
“Ready and willing,” the good doctor says. And he really has been so loyal. It’ll be a real shame to see him go.
“Please dress her and bring her in,” he says.
He hangs up the line and calls another. “When the doctor leaves my office, please kill him,” Victor asks.
“Of course, Mr. Worth,” his head goon says. Maxwell, Victor thinks his name is. A good head of security, actually. Victor will likely never ask a lower head of security to kill Maxwell and take his place. Probably never.
“Thank you so much,” Victor says.
And he would, at this point, lean back in his chair and wait. Except that he’s done so much waiting for this damn plan to even get to the good part that he’s about to just burn down a building. So instead, he just taps his fingers on his desk and counts the seconds.
Two hundred forty eight seconds later, there is a heady knock on his office doors.
And Victor does not blurt out, ‘fucking FINALLY,’ because he is a professional. Instead he says, “Come in.”
The doctor opens the door slowly, as they’re antique doors and Victor assumes that any doctor he hires wouldn’t be a damned animal. He enters, smiling like he’s not about to be murdered, and following behind him with downcast eyes is the terrible, heinous, God he hates her so damned much, Marilyn Matters.
But damn it all to hell if she isn’t the most gorgeous girl on this whole stupid planet. She’s back in her Oceanica costume, for what Victor happily knows is the last time.
“You can leave us,” Victor tells the doctor. “Please close the door on your way out.”
The doctor is quick to leave.
There’s a shot and a thud, and Victor is so happy he can usually get things done quickly.
Marilyn, for her part, hasn’t budged. She’s standing exactly where the doctor left her. Standing there with glassy eyes and parted lips, hands clasped behind her back.
“Marilyn,” he says. “Come take your mask off and sit on my lap.”
She tilts her gaze up to look at him, and he does not at all feel a slight tug in his chest. Because sure, she may be looking at him adoringly, but that’s not anything special. It really isn’t.
“Yes Master,” she says. And her voice is not especially pretty, now that she’s not barking superheroic doctrine bullshit at him.
She pulls her mask off and he knows, of course, that it’s not in slow-motion. It’s not slow motion at all. Her strawberry-blonde hair does not bounce off her shoulders, and when she nibbles her lip it’s childish. Not beautiful or sweet. She does not walk with a particularly gentle sway, and when she sits on his lap, he does not at all care about the gracious, soft swell of her ass.
What an absolute bitch she is.
He takes her mask from her with a careful hand. He doesn’t want to twist her fingers.
And here’s something he’s never noticed: Marilyn is tiny. He’s got to have at least six inches on her. She’s not even people sized! He’s never noticed because her costume’s got heels and she’s usually in a pillar of water, or something, but she is fairy-sized. And that really means she should have smaller breasts, but there they are.
He brushes her hair behind her ear. It’s so soft that he’s certain he’s imagining it. “Do you know who I am, Marilyn?”
She gives him a docile grin. Her lips are slightly chapped, he notices. She may be a bit dehydrated, from the days spent under duress. He’ll have to amend that.
“You’re my Master,” she says.
“Hm?” he asks. He’d heard most of that, but he’d been slightly distracted, thinking of lip balms to get her. From this position, he’s getting the wafting scent of coconut from her hair. Would lip balm with a matching scent be good?
She giggles. The sound earns his full attention. “You’re my Master,” she repeats, happy as can be.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking her soft, soft, so impossibly soft hair. “And who are you?”
“Marilyn,” she says.
“No last name?” he asks.
She shakes her head. Yes. Her hair definitely smells of coconut. And is that... a hint of cinnamon? “No, Master.”
“That’s because I took it from you,” he says. “You know that, correct?”
“Yes, Master,” she says.
“And do you know what you’re wearing?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. “My costume.”
“Do you know why I have you in it?” he says.
“I assumed you’d want to come on me while I’m in it, Master,” she says.
Dear Lord. His plan is brilliant. She’s already prepared to be degraded! But. That’s not what he’d had in mind, and this next part is important.
“I’m going to make you strip for me,” he says. “This is all in your programming. The programming that taught you to be good. When you take off your costume, what happens?”
She falls into a daze. A beautiful, brainwashed dazed. She’s so simple-minded. So easy to control. “I forget ever being a superhero, Master.”
“Yes you do,” he says. “But you won’t miss it.”
The reassurance wasn’t necessary. Of course she won’t miss it, she can’t miss something she doesn’t remember. Honestly. He shouldn’t have said anything. “Stand for me,” he says. “And strip. I had the doctor put you in the damed costume just so I could watch this next part.”
How excited he is to strip her of her identity. Her very reason for being. She’s nothing without her costume. Nothing but his delightful, stupid little slave.
She takes off the boots first. And there it is. The height. How high were those heels? Those couldn’t be comfortable to fight crime in. They didn’t even have a platform to them. At the very least, he hopes she’d used some kind of gel insole.
Except that he doesn’t hope that at all! That would be stupid! He’s going to make her wear those fetish shoes, the ones that force the foot into a pointe position. And then he’ll watch her hobble around and he will laugh!
“Master,” she says, pulling off her gloves. Fingerless gloves. Her fingernails are actually still painted, though some of them are chipped. Pale blue. It’s a nice color, actually. “Does my body please you?”
“Are you asking because you want the praise?” he asks. “Or because you want to demean yourself?”
“The latter, Master,” she says, doing the fucking lip-nibble again. He’s going to put a dildo gag in her. Shove a plastic cock right between her lips and watch her drool as he fucks her senseless.
Then they’ll see who’s adorably nibbling on their lower lip.
“Being your slave is all the praise I need,” she says, unzipping the front of her costume. It’s nothing more than a wetsuit-inspired leotard, but she did fill it out. He’ll almost miss it. It slides down her legs, and she kicks it aside.
There are, of course, no undergarments. Those had been destroyed early in the brainwashing process.
So she’s nude. And he knows, from the moment of adorable confusion on her face, followed by a dopey, loving little grin, that it’s done.
He. Wins.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Marilyn,” she tells him.
“What are you?” he asks.
“Your devoted slave, Master,” she says.
He likes the added ‘devoted’ in there. It’s a nice touch. “Have you ever been anything else?”
“I don’t remember,” she says. “And it doesn’t matter.”
“Will you ever be anything else?” he says. “Other than my slave?”
Her knees tremble. He wonders, if he opened the folds of her neat little pussy, would she be slick and wet? Judging from the change in her breathing, coupled with her curling and uncurling her toes against the carpet, the answer is a sound yes.
She drops to her knees. Parts her legs, and looks up at him. “No, Master,” she says. “I’m your slave. Now and forever.”
Well. He hadn’t ordered her to get on her knees, but he wouldn’t refuse it. “Crawl to me, slave,” he says. “Rest your head on your Master’s lap.”
She crawls like a little kitten, padding on her hands and knees. Who even decided that she would be this small? She’s like Thumbellina. She’s barely even a nemesis, at her height.
He thinks of the golden clamps he has waiting for her. And as she rests her head on his lap, he reaches for them. He’s been saving them in the top left drawer of his desk. He’s planned every scene. Every torment. He’s so ready to hurt her. His clamps may even draw blood.
She nuzzles his erection through his pants. “Are those for me, Master?” she asks. The light from the gold must’ve caught her eye.
“Yes, slave,” he says. “I’m going to bruise your tits up nicely. Does that make you happy?”
She sighs in content. “You make me happy, Master.”
He grasps the chain more tightly in his hand. “Thank you, slave.”
She lifts her head off his lap. Slowly arches her back, presenting her ample chest to him.
She has slightly uneven nipples. One’s more circular than the other. And now that he knows they’re uneven, he has to get a closer look.
“Stand,” he says.
She does. He’s still sitting, so her chest is just about at his head. He leans forward, and sucks one of her nipples into his mouth.
She lets out a squeak of delight, which he feels directly in his dick. So thanks for that, Marilyn. He rolls the bud against the flat of his tongue. Flicks the tip of his tongue against her when he feels her nipple is fully plumped and hard.
She moans. “Master,” she says, in a breathy, sexy little voice. “That feels so good. Oh, Master.”
He pulls back. Her nipple is peaked and ready. Just got to stick the clamp on there. Just got to stick it on there and mark up her pert, albeit uneven, adorable little nipples.
She’ll thank him for it.
Buuuuuut. She’s so... dehydrated. She hasn’t eaten properly in days, and so who really knows what kind of ill effects the clamps may cause. And he loves ill effects, he lives for them, but he’s got a very specific plan, here. He can’t try to torture her tits and end up doing something that will interfere with the rest of his plans. That’s just stupid. That would ruin everything.
Besides. Isn’t the real torment being reduced to a quivering mess by the mouth of your arch-nemesis? Why, if Marilyn last week could see herself now, she’d try to kill him. And that’s really the whole point of revenge.
God, he’s brilliant.
He puts the clamps down on his desk, noting the way she tilts her head. There’s the kitten image again, a concerned little kitty with her ears all perked up.
“Be quiet,” he says, despite her complete and total silence to begin with. “Come here. Turn around.”
He pulls her back onto his lap, with her back against his chest.
“Master?” she asks, and he should really punish her for that. He did JUST tell her to be quiet.
He cups her breasts. “You are absolutely terrible,” he says.
He can practically feel her deflate. “I’m—” She’s shaking. “I’m so sorry, Master, I didn’t—”
“No,” he says. “No, stop. I didn’t mean it. You’re wonderful, darling. Just feel how happy you’ve made me.” He rubs himself against her bare ass, and wonders at what point he lost his effing mind.
No. No, no, he’s fine. He wants Marilyn to be in a state of constant, blank-faced happiness. That’s what makes her torment fun! Her misery just leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Marilyn,” he says, gently tweaking her nipples. “Are you upset?”
“No Master,” she says. Her tone has lost it’s quivering edge. He’s pleased that forgetfulness comes so easy to her. “I’m happy.”
She tilts her head back, brushing that head of gorgeous hair against him.
His twists turn to pinches. She’s killing him. She is absolutely killing him. “Do you think I could make you come?” he asks her. “Just by playing with your tits?”
“Yes, Master,” she says. “You’re the best at making me come.” Incidentally, that’s not true. Not yet. He seeks to amend that.
“Good girl,” he says. He pulls. “Good, empty-headed little Marilyn.”
She lets out a moan. “Your Marilyn,” she says, rubbing her ass against him. “All yours, Master.”
Yes. This dominance is exactly what he wants. He plays her with quick fingers, knowing full well she’s going to leak onto his pants. Good. Let her leak and quiver and moan. It’s not like he hasn’t had this specific fantasy since the moment she began ruining his life.
His lips brush the shell of her ear. “I’m going to torment you,” he promises, in case she thought his moment with the clamps showed weakness. “I’m going to make you black and blue.”
“Yes,” she cries. “Yes, yes, Master! Oh, torture me, spank me, please use me I’m—”
“You’re just so weak,” he says. And he’s been edging her closer to orgasm this whole time, just by playing with her breasts. He particularly likes the feel of her tits in his hands, the way she squeaks when he twists her nipples just so. “So weak and so vulnerable.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m weak!”
He swallows. “You’re just... you’re a girl. A vapid, silly girl.” He’d intended to say something filthier. He had. It would come to him soon enough. The timing just felt off. “Are you close?”
“Mm, yes,” she says, dreamily. Her head is against the crook of his neck. She’s draped over him, consumed by him, totally enthralled to his will and how could he want to hurt her when she’s so utterly-
He drops his hands. Awful. So utterly awful. “Hold this feeling,” he tells her. “You’re right on the edge, aren’t you?” he asks.
She squirms. “Yes, Master.”
“Do you want to come?” he asks.
“Yes, Master,” she repeats, more urgently. “May I? Please, Master?”
He catches a whiff of her hair. “Spread your legs for me,” he says, sinking two fingers into her. He fucks her slowly on his hand, memorizing the way she feels. For future torture, of course. He can’t wait to stretch her out and make her beg to be spread wider. Even when it hurts, even when the pain is too much, she’ll beg. Yes. Perfect. That is definitely something he wants.
“Master,” she breathes, in a lovestruck little voice that’s entirely too distracting. “Oh, Master, your fingers feel so good, I lo—”
“Come,” he says. “Come, Marilyn.”
She rocks herself against his hand and cries out. It’s a high-pitched, passionate sound, and he wants it recorded. He wants to wake up to it every morning and fall asleep to it every night. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful, all flushed and slick with sweat, making her little moaning noises as he pulls an orgasm from her.
God, she’s lovely. He just wants to carry her to bed, lay her down and, and-
Spank her. That’s next in the scheme. The nightly spankings. She’s supposed to have a gold chain dangling between her tits as he spanked her, but he’s willing to make this compromise.
“Come on, then,” he says. “The night’s hardly over. And you are going to be my slavegirl forever, I can’t have you leaving me after the first orgasm.”
“Forever?” she asks, shifting in his lap. She’s gazing into his eyes with unashamed devotion, and he’s not awed one bit. “Oh Master, do you mean it?”
He rubs her lower back. “Of course I mean it,” he says. “I’m never letting you leave my side.”
She squeals in delight and plants a kiss on his lips.
Well. How dare she.
He cups her cheeks and kisses her like he never plans to come up for air. Her lips are a garden, a valley, an all-consuming escape from everything that is not her and her breathing and her body.
He pulls back from her gasping. “You—” he says, and fully intended to call her a bitch. But the slickness of her lower lip distracts him, and he has to suck her lip back into his mouth, just to remind himself how it feels to nibble on her and feel her smile against him.
Divine. Terrible.
“My bed,” he says. “Other side of the manor. Now.”
“Okay,” he says, decidedly pushing her onto the bed. She lands with a dainty little ‘oof,’ and rolls onto her back. “I’m going to spank you. Now that you’re prepared.”
She blinks up at him. “Of course!” she says, cheery as could be. She tilts her hips up ever-so invitingly. “Whatever you want, Master.”
“That’s correct,” he says. “It is whatever I want, isn’t it? And I really, really want to see you in horrible pain.”
“Anything for you,” she says.
He’s got a flogger that he had special ordered just for this. Studded tails and a crystal handle. It had been both painfully expensive and entirely unnecessary, and it came with a matching riding crop. Really, he’d have been loosing money if he hadn’t gotten the crop as well, and the gag-
This isn’t the point. The point is, by the time he’s through with her, Marilyn’s back will be more welts than creamy, freckled skin.
She was really supposed to be wearing the clamps. Not that he’d made a mistake earlier, or anything. He doesn’t make mistakes. It’s not in his nature. “Roll onto your hands and knees,” he demands. “Present your ass to me.”
He makes her wait while he finds the flogger. And he hopes that it’s a strain for her, to just stay there with her ass in the air while he peddles through his enormous closet. He will take his sweet time with this. He certainly isn’t stalling.
And he’s realizing, actually, that he’s going to have to get Marilyn an entire wardrobe, since she’s completely out of clothes. He’s thinking lots of straps and chains and spikes. Corsets that he can line with stinging nettles and fuzzy bathrobes for when he takes off those horrible, horrible corsets.
He finds the flogger. Grabs it from the shelf like it’s a unholy object. He’s getting weak. His plan isn’t working. He’s not hurting her like he should be. He feels... defunct.
Well. No longer. He strides out of the closet, weapon in hand. “Feel free to cry out in pain or pleasure,” he says. “If you can still tell the difference.”
She wiggles her ass at him. And maybe it would just be better to fuck her. Right now. He could always flog her later. There’s never a wrong time to flog. Except for right now. Exactly this second is the wrong time. He puts the flog down next to her, and raises his hand. Just a smack. Just a smack with the back of his hand and-
Oh fuck this. He shoves her onto her side. Falls onto the mattress beside her. “Just ride me,” he says. He’ll figure something out.
She beams and pushes him onto his back. Straddles his hips and envelops him.
Her cunt is literally perfect. It’s perfect, astounding, and he hates her for it.
He thinks he might fall in love with her. No. No, he will not fall in love with her. She’s completely in love with him, and he’s indifferent to her.
Why is she biting her lip while riding him? Uncalled for!
“I love you, Master,” she says, plucking at her nipples. Her pink, uneven, uninjured nipples.
He gently (oh, he seethes) takes her hips. “Thank you,” he says.
He’ll punish her for this. He swears he will.
They’re driving back from the movies and she’s eating the rest of the licorice.
“I dunno, Vic,” she says. He doesn’t really remember when she dropped the ‘Master,’ when he let her, or when he suddenly found time to go to the movies in between burning the world down. “It was kind of a weird movie.”
“It was artistic,” he says.
She takes another piece of licorice and shrugs. “Are we still going to see your mom next week?”
He sighs. “Why did you have to remind me?”
“Because I’m the planning side,” she says. “It’s what I do.”
And he has to smirk to himself. Revenge is ongoing. Flexible, really. Because even if they’ve dropped the Master-Slave thing, even if he’s fallen inexplicably, terribly in love with her. Even if he’d never harm a hair on her strawberry blonde head, or gag her pretty lips.
She used to be a superhero! Once! And she doesn’t even remember! And she loves him because he brainwashed her to. Which is pretty evil, really.
And he may resent himself for not being able to bruise her delicate complexion, but he’s developed new parts to his plans.
New parts! New plans! Ongoing revenge! And he’s still very, very evil. Deeply disturbed.
If he can’t torture Marilyn, then Marilyn will torture other people. Superheroes she used to be close friends with. And she won’t remember them, so it’s not really revenge on her end, but she WOULD’VE remembered them had he not taken that from her. And if she did remember, she’d be very upset!
So. That’s a victory. He just needs to make a list of potential victims, really. Then double-check the list, then make sure Marilyn’s gentle, sweet heart won’t be upset by the idea of torture, because if it is, well-
“Babe?” she asks. “You with me?”
“Yes,” he says. “What do you want for dinner?”
“I’m thinking Chinese,” she says, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. It’s very distracting! He is trying to drive.
“Well,” he says, in a tone of voice that no one but Marilyn will ever hear. “You’re the boss.”
She laughs.
And she isn’t the boss. He is. He’s in charge of this entire situation.
He has his revenge totally under control.