Synopsis: Albert is on a journey of self-discovery in a hypnotic femdom community. His life changes forever when he meets two very different Dommes.
Perfection Unchained
(by S.B.)
1 — Mistress Heather
Albert Sanders looked down at the stone amphitheater, unsure if he had ever experienced such a similar thing before. The room was packed to the brim, its greatness reduced to a claustrophobic atmosphere filled with primal urges and untapped desires that were both arousing and terrifying.
All of this because of a woman. A woman sitting on a mahogany throne at the center of the sexual vortex. All around, dozens of hungry, salivating pets lapped at her every word, kneeling and begging for just a glimpse of attention, a chance to stand out from the crowd, and be something other than a shadow.
“What am I doing here?”
It was a recurring thought, an insinuating question that all explorers are bound to be confronted with, sooner or later. The meaning of meaning was, perhaps, to have no meaning at all, but such a reductive logic was not to be accepted lightly. The reason existed, it had a purpose and a specific shape. What those were remained a mystery, though.
What was also a mystery was why he had chosen to perceive things this way. The truth is was there was no amphitheater, no throne, and no Albert in that place. No, the walls surrounding him and his stray ruminations were made of bits and bytes, a software construct on a hardware prison. It was the chatroom of Womenincontrol.net, a popular Femdom Community devoted to spreading its principles of supremacy by means of hypnotism and various assorted ways of neural programming, commonly known as mind control.
A newbie there under the guise of his alias ‘descoberta’, he had entered the chat not to stand out, but to blend in the background like a chameleon, and just observe the sequence of events, the reactions that unfolded, and the consequences of such a process in his own personal search. He was far from imagining that the once inviting and friendly aura would soon give way to a raw manifestation of Power, a collective trance session under the hands of a very skilled and exceedingly dangerous Puppet Mistress. Heather. Mistress Heather.
Through the speakers of his laptop, he had heard her hybrid voice, a mix of soft, feminine sensuality and a modulation program that hit all the right frequencies in a perfect pitch. She had talked about the importance of relaxation and the path to get there, a road paved with yellow bricks that seemed to melt with each step taken. She had mentioned the unsuspecting breeze that blew from the North, sending cold ripples through the traveler’s loose clothes, making their skin tingle. She had suggested that both the road and the breeze were in fact nothing more than sequences of spirals expanding and contracting, a pulse, a heartbeat, a dream of speed slowly beginning to freeze.
It was confusing, surreal, a ruse inside a ruse spinning within his brain. He admitted the fascination for such a clever play on words but, after a while, he mentally shielded himself by putting the headphones down, and refusing to listen. All rational protocols that governed his life came into play and safety became more than just a word. At that moment, it was his only concern.
He could still hear fragments in the background, echoes of a countdown into a state of suggestibility, and then the birth of a compulsory trigger. It was just a word repeated ad nauseam that was sure to elicit another word in response to those that accepted it as true. But how did that work exactly? What manner of manipulation allowed for an outside influence to become an inside reference? To him, the real nature of trance and triggers remained unexplained, wrapped in layers of saccharine derision, and the idolization spectacle he was being confronted with made no attempt to contradict his train of thought.
At the end of her mesmeric display, he put his headphones back on and listened to the aftermath. It was at that moment that things started to take a very strange turn, indeed.
“And that is why,” Mistress Heather began “that all of you present in this room will always be...”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
“obedient.”
The responses kept pouring in a furious cascade, always the same, blind compliance at his best. From what he could gather, just about everyone in the chat was typing the same thing at the same time to the point where the server was beginning to act up, choking between lines, as if the machine itself was being affected by an unconscious wish of capitulation to her supernatural-like charms.
His silence, his conscious choice, did not go unnoticed. Suddenly, a question sprung to existence. He heard it assault his ears and, in his mind’s eye, he envisioned Mistress Heather growing on her throne, and then looking down at him with ravenous eyes.
“Someone hasn’t been paying attention... why is that, descoberta?”
Not sure exactly what to say, Albert continued silent. She was not pleased.
“You should always respond to a question,” she insisted, with the emphasis on the right word. “Always.”
“I can respond,” he finally began to type, a decision he regretted soon after. “but not the way you’re expecting, I’m afraid.”
“We have an impertinent one, it seems,” she smirked. “It’s always funny to meet one of you. Tell me, descoberta, are you always like this? Challenging, defiant? Why aren’t you still dizzy after the trance like everyone else?”
“I didn’t go into a trance.”
“Ah, but you should always go into a trance for me. Always.”
“I don’t accept what I don’t understand.”
“And I don’t understand what you don’t accept. Perhaps, instead of understanding first and accepting later, you should understand to accept and accept the understanding of acceptance so that you can understand even more and accept even more. I’m sure you agree, don’t you?”
“Nice trick.”
Other responses kept popping up in the screen but, at that moment, it was if the flow of the conversation was strictly between the two of them. Mistress Heather was clearly sizing him up and he, inexplicably, did the same.
“Mistress,” she declared. “Address me as Mistress Heather when you’re talking to me.”
“No.”
“What did you just say?”
“No. I don’t serve you. You are not my Mistress. I have no obligation to adhere to protocol in this situation.”
“Now, you’re just being plain rude. You clearly do not know your place, and I do not have time for confused submissives who do not know how to behave and respect their superiors. I do not know why you came into this room but if you are not here to serve, I think it is time for you to leave. Leave, now!”
“I have questions. Many questions. I came here looking for answers.”
“Well, you won’t get any answers from me, that’s for sure. This is my territory. I make the rules, everyone else obeys them. Those who do not play along, do not get to play at all. Leave!”
“Fine,” he concluded, obeying one command, at least. With the click of a button, the amphitheater collapsed under its own weight, the chat room fluttered before his eyes, and the world made some sense, again.
“Okay, so that happened...” Albert mumbled to himself. Reaching for a small table next to his desk, he produced a half-empty bottle of Port, poured a glass and drank it, furiously. Somehow, he had allowed a perfect stranger to crawl under his skin so quick and effortlessly. Not a promising start. Not a promising start at all.
It was already past 3 am, yet he knew he would not be able to sleep at all. In his half-feverish self-imposed insomniac state, he started exploring other aspects of the Community, some pretty pictures, a couple of blog entries. When an animated banner in shades of green and purple brought Mistress Heather back into his stream of consciousness, Albert decided he had had enough and logged out.
Had he waited a few more seconds, he would have seen the overhead display of an incoming private message materialize against the light blue background and, perhaps his real journey would have started sooner or, given his emotionally distraught frame of mind at the time, not start at all. However, to dwell on the ‘what ifs’ is irrelevant, especially when the road has already been cleared and only a string of memories about it can be recalled. This is how it all began....