The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I’d been walking five weeks, wearing nothing but the silver dust of the Russian Wastes across my tits, when I finally saw it: the walls of the Commonwealth. Thank fucking God. My regen let me go without food for a few months, but after having to regrow an arm, I really needed something to eat.

It should have been so fucking easy. There we were—Catherine, Isabella and me, Diana—top graduates of Neo-West Point, the first best creations of Pentagon R&D. The perfect plan, straight from the head of Isabella, a mind that could beat an AI at chess and Go simultaneously. Backed by the perfect soldier, the hound of war, Catherine, who had single-handedly crushed an insurrection in Michigan. And me, the leader, though I’ve got nothing to lead anymore.

We didn’t count on whatever the fuck that drone was. A jellyfish looking thing that rained its tentacles down on us, dissolving clothing and weaponry on contact, coiling up and capturing Isabella and Catherine. I cut off my arm with my laser to escape, trusting my regen to put me back together in a week. The rover was not so lucky.

A journey that should have taken a few days in the rover, took me weeks.

I punched my side. I’d pushed for this mission. The Caretaker now had my teammates. No, Isabella and Catherine were dead. They were good enough soldiers to bite their kill switch. Honourable sucides because of me.

I tongued the tooth where the kill switch was and… there was no tooth. The tentacles had dissolved all inorganic matter, which meant…

I ran towards the Commonwealth’s walls. This wasn’t just infiltration. It was rescue.

My plan to lay low was dead on arrival. Apparently, in the Commonwealth everyone knew your name, and if they didn’t, they did their fucking best to find out.

“Tuck in, Diana,” said Harriet, the café owner, as she laid down a breakfast bigger than a month of ration packs, glistening eggs and sausages, crisp bread, rice, curry, on and on. “You’re nothing but skin and bones.” She turned before spinning back. “Would you like a pastry? Or a macaroon?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure?” she said. “A lot of people say they don’t want a macaroon when actually—”

“OK, yes, one macaroon.”

I’d learned it was futile to resist the kindness of these strangers. When a passer-by saw my naked body spattered head to toe in silver dust, I was dragged and washed to a public bath, groomed by a beautician, clothed by a tailor, gifted a bicycle—I’d been pulled in and out of a dozen different stores, by managers with no sense of profit.

The whole Commonwealth (at least this part) had no sense of scarcity. Take the flower on this table. A rose, cut from the stem, dumped in a half-full glass. In America, that would get you five months in solitary. I looked out at the park across the road, full of flowers of every shape and colour, all dewy from the morning, bunched up against each other. And people just walked past them, some touching the flowers. In America, you could only see flowers through bulletproof plastic in one of the greenhouse states.

I had never touched a flower, I thought, looking at the half-bloomed, half-puckered petals of the rose. I brushed the petal, like it would shatter at my touch. My breath caught at the soft, fibrous feeling.

“Izzy!” said Harriet as she walked to the doorway behind me.

Izzy. The name reminded me of Isabella, and then Catherine. I was getting butterflies over this city while Isabella and Catherine were probably being tortured by the city-planner.

“Oh! My! God!” a high feminine voice squealed.

I turned. It was Isabella. Military cropped hair now grown to the shoulders; battle armour replaced with a frilled blouse, knee-length coat and a navy-blue skirt. She dropped her bookbag, mouth gaping in shock, before perking up like she’d gripped a live wire of pure happiness.

“Diana!” She lunged over the table to hug me, burying her face in my neck. “You’re here!”

She breaks the hug, still smiling, before frowning as she looks down her blouse, at the egg yoke, sausage grease, curry sauce, mushrooms that she’d smooshed all over her front when she’d bent over the table to hug me.

“Oh, no, I’ve ruined your breakfast,” she said.

“What colour is the carpet under our army bunks,” I asked.

She stopped begging forgiveness. “There… is no carpet.”

Probably wasn’t an imposter.

“You’ve gone deep cover,” I whispered. “Good. Reconnaissance? Weak points, what are they? Entry, exit?”

She had grinned and nodded as I spoke, and when I dotted the question mark, she chuckled, like someone with poor English who’d understood nothing but didn’t want to derail the conversation.

“You have an escape plan, right?” I said, slightly louder.

She gazed expressionless at the corner of the floor before looking me in the eye. “Wrong.” She smiled during my silence.

“They did something to you,” I said.

She tilted her head. “Who? Oh! Yes, they did!”

5 weeks earlier

The Caretaker had led Isabella into a doctor’s office right out of the nineteenth century; everything was wooden and glass. Isabella might have escaped the unlocked room, despite having no clothes, but the Caretaker had told her, warmly, “Sit still and don’t hurt anyone,” before leaving.

From the lavender scent coming off the Caretaker, and the whispers backing her voice, and the fact that, no matter how hard Isabella concentrated, she couldn’t even try to stand up, Isabella made two deductions: pheromones and subliminals. That was why the Commonwealth had no deserters, no leaks, no known rebel groups. The dictator’s words were irresistible. So why hadn’t the Caretaker herself pulled every secret she could out of Isabella, Isabella had thought.

A tall, narrow blonde in a lab coat held a candle in front of Isabella. “Look at the candle. Look at the flickering flame.”

Isabella glared at the blonde’s eyes and blew out the candle.

The blonde, whose name was Lulu, screamed and hurled the candle at the wall. Her lab assistant, a short, curvy brunette called Carol, dodged. The ground was littered with hypnotic instruments, the candle, a spiral, a pocket watch, a lantern, a metronome.

Isabella now knew why the Caretaker hadn’t dealt with her personally. Apparently, Isabella was so worthless to the Commonwealth that she best served as a training dummy for twenty-something trainee brainwashers. Better than she deserved, after her blunder in planning this mission.

“Another one!” Lulu shouted at Carol.

Carol rolled her eyes. “That’s all of them.” She prodded the smashed metronome with her foot. “I’m not asking for replacements.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Pumpkin!” Lulu sneered. “I’m doing the work. I’m making our grades.”

“Working so hard,” Carol cooed. “Studying, practising, toiling away in the lab and library. Late into the night, splashing espresso upon espresso down your throat, trying to stop sleep weighing down on your eyes.”

Lulu’s clenched fist and jaws had loosened, her glare softening.

“You carried heavy books down to your desk, to gaze down on hazy words. You squint tired eyes, to blink away the wateriness, but each blink lasts longer. You keep your tired, heavy eyes open, keep your heavy head from drifting down because you need to learn how to hypnotise someone.”

Carol stepped closer to Lulu, who now looked like she’d missed thirty hours of sleep.

“You need to learn how lead a girl, as smart and sleepy as you, into a deep obedient trance. The book tells your sleepy, straining eyes that falling into trance is as easy as one… two… three.”

Carol snapped her fingers. Lulu fell into Carol’s arms, and Isabella fell off her chair, deeply asleep.

“… on the count of three, waking up, with no memory of my suggestions,” said Carol. “One… two… three.” She snapped her fingers.

Isabella felt like she’d woken from a faint, wondering why she was face down in a puddle of her own drool on a wooden floor. Arching her aching neck up, she remembered she was being “treated” by two grad students.

The brown-haired, curvaceous Carol smirked at Isabella. Carol was sitting on Lulu’s back, the slim blonde on all fours, entirely naked spare a pair of black panties on her head. Lulu’s blank face suggested no discomfort towards her predicament.

This was of course an entirely normal duty for a doctor’s assistant. Isabella was just glad American doctors had moved past such old-fashioned expressions of hierarchy.

“So,” said Carol. “Have you been hypnotised?”

“Of course not,” said Isabella, standing up. “I’m too much of a pig-headed dum-dum to be hypnotised.” To drive home the point, Isabella did something she knew would shock Carol, which would prove her untrammelled spirit.

She crawled to Carol, unlaced her shoes, and pulled off her socks with her teeth.

“Oh, you naughty bitch,” said Carol, trying to hide her anger beneath a smirk. “Don’t you dare suck my toes.”

Isabella took her cue to lick and suck and nibble on Carol’s toes, starting from her big toe, moving down to her small. The smell, the taste repelled Isabella, but the American spirit would not crumble before such small struggles. “My will is unbreakable,” she tried to say, but with Carol’s foot in her mouth, it came out more like, “Mah worl esh ahnbrahkabul”

“And I’ll be sure to tell the Caretaker just how strong-willed you are.” Carol pulled her left foot from Isabella’s mouth and tapped her cheek with her right shoe. As Isabella unshod, un-socked, and starting sucking Carol’s right foot, Carol continued, “Good thing I didn’t need hypnosis to diagnose you. Symptoms: anxiety, panic attacks, frequent bouts of self-harm ideation, and a rigorous ratiocentric mind, driven by obligation at the expense of joy.” She flips the page. “Diagnosis: bad schooling.”

That list of symptoms almost made Isabella panic, almost made her fear that this grad student had seen through her. But that final diagnosis put her mind at ease.

Isabella pulled her nose and tongue away from Carol’s sole long enough to say, “The American Military Academy Network is scientifically designed to produce soldiers able to operate at specialist level in every martially relevant aspect of every martially relevant field. According to inter-academy rankings, I am in the top two percent of students. You’ll never find a smarter smarty-pants know-it-all than me!”

She licked Carol’s foot from heal to toe, overjoyed she’d made her captor squeal with laughter.

“As I said,” said Carol. “Bad schooling. They jam your head with knowledge that’s so damn useful and relevant that you think your every action, your every thought, needs to be useful and relevant. You break down over every little mistake.”

Isabella would not argue with idealistic academics.

“Now,” said Carol, wiping both her feet on Isabella’s chest. “The treatment.” From her lab coat pocket she pulled… a straw and tape. No! It was the brain-drainer!

Isabella was so shocked by the heinous instrument that she did not resist when Carol planted her foot on her face and pushed her onto her back. Carol crawled onto Isabella’s naked body, chest pressed to chest, taking the opportunity to bite her prisoner’s neck. Isabella yelped, frantically wondering why her super-soldier strength couldn’t shove a pudgy academic off her.

“Don’t struggle,” said Carol, pressing the straw to Isabella’s forehead and taping it in place. “I’m going to sit you up, very gently.”

She rose off Isabella, and pulled her up by the hand. Isabella’s eyes rolled back as she felt her mind slosh against her forehead, sloshing towards the straw.

“Let’s just tilt that head gently forward,” Carol said as she pushed Isabella’s head down. “After the first few thoughts drip out, they’ll all come flowing out.”

Isabella saw them streaming out, the projectile equations, the geographic principles, the technical specifications of America’s arsenal flowing out the straw, warmly splashing and splattering onto her lap.

“How does that feel?” Carol asked.

Isabella tried to answer, but all the most accurate words rushed to front of her mind, and then down the spout. “Um…”

“Finding words can be so difficult, can’t it, Izzy?” said Carol. “I’ll give you two: do you feel good or bad?”

Isabella hated the answer, but lying took too much concentration for her mind which was swirling around the plug hole in her forehead. “Gh… Gh… Good…” She could no longer even recognise the knowledge, theories, tit-bits draining through the straw.

“Well, would you look at that, Izzy?” asked Carol. “It’s dying down.”

Isabella crossed her eyes to stare at the heavy stream from the straw slowing to a trickle, then to a drip.

“And there!” Carol said. “All empty, Izzy.”

Isabella was too hazy to feel Carol tear the straw and tape off her forehead. She was too hazy to even close her mouth.

Carol smooched Isabella on the forehead where the straw had been. “Good as new.”

“You…” Isabella said, shaking the fog from her head. “You haven’t won!” She smiled. She felt as loo-sid… as… as fresh-headed as ever!

“Let’s do some tests then,” said Carol, standing up. “Slave! Attention!”

Lulu scrambled to her feet, back straight, arms locked at her sides. Carol took a marker from her pocket. Over Lulu’s small breasts, Carol wrote, “1+1=?”.

“Is little Miss Top-Two-Percent smart enough to answer this?” Carol asked.

“Easy!” Isabella smirked haughtily while sitting cross-legged. “Two!”

On Lulu’s flat stomach, Carol wrote, “1-1+1-1-1+1-1+1-1+1-1=?”

Isabella said, “Zero… No! One—I mean, um…” She squinted. She remembered when she could just look at numbers and symbols and they’d just… work themselves out in her head. She started counting her fingers.

“Next question!”

“No fair!” Isabella had almost got that one.

Just above Lulu’s cunt, Carol wrote, “dy/dx x^2 =?”

Isabella grimaced in fear, before brightening. “It’s trick question! You can’t divide letters.” Her grin faltered when she saw Carol’s.

“Perfect!” said Carol. “Now that we’ve drained that brain of every pointless chunk of know-how, the fun can begin.”

Isabella didn’t need to be genius to know that sounded bad—and she was a genius, so she knew it was bad.

Carol knelt in front Isabella and booped her on the nose. “All that knowledge, Izzy, all that heavy knowledge poofed and gone away. It had filled up your brain, squishing down everything else. Now, all the clutter’s vanished, and the light, airy thoughts can finally bubble up. Can you feel the bubbles, Izzy? The silly, airy bubbles bubbling up?”

Izz—Isabella pursed her lips and put on her sternest face. But her lips twitched, and she caught a case of the giggles. Izzy bit her lip, desparte to keep her giggles from leaking out her mouth.

Carol chuckled. She got up. “Slave! Act like a monkey.”

Lulu’s blank face grew as serious and stupid as an ape’s. She crouched to the ground and loped about on her feet and fists, ook, ook, ooking about the lap.

Izzy guffawed, holding her sides.

“See,” said Carol, as Izzy’s eyes watered with laughter. “Isn’t the world so much nicer when you only have nice, airy thoughts. And when we send you back to school, we’ll be sure to give these lovely, airy, bubbly thoughts room to bubble up.”

Izzy was barely listening, her tummy aching with laughter as she watched Lulu scratching herself like a monkey. Once Carol had finished making notes on her clipboard, she shouted:

“Slave! Get your coat. We’ve got the prelims.”

Lulu buttoned up her lab coat, not bothering to wear anything underneath or even take her panties off her head. The two grad students left the lab, leaving Izzy to recover from her fit of giggles.

She lay there on the ground, aftershocks of laughter rocking her as she remembered Lulu aping about the lab. She gazed absentmindedly at the door… the open door… Oh, that’s right, she needed to escape.

Izzy marched to the door but tripped over the pile of Lulu’s clothes. A disguise! Izzy shivered at her own cleverness.

Lulu was a size or two or five smaller than Izzy in a few key areas. Lulu’s sweater couldn’t cover Izzy’s stomach, spending most of its fabric around her bust. And the trousers stayed on, but they couldn’t even get half-way up her butt. It would have to do!

She snuck out the door and dashed through the corridor. She’d a made a mental map of the building as she’d been taken to the lab… Or at least, she had. She poked and kicked around her memory for the map, so lost in thought she didn’t notice when she’d wandered on the campus green, and she didn’t notice the students and faculty gossiping about the girl with her pants almost falling down her legs.

She did notice, out of the corner of her eye, Lulu and Carol rushing out of the building she’d just come from, frantically questioning a student on the green. Izzy yelped and ran for a hiding place, ducking in the first door she saw. It was a lecture hall.

The professor was a woman in her fifties drawing on a blackboard for a hall of over two-hundred students. Izzy sat in a free chair at the back.

“To reiterate,” said the Professor, “the normal force is not constant. It varies according to the initial force.”

Izzy lent forward at her desk, tilting her head at the diagrams on the board, as meaningless as they were tantalising.

“What’s normal force?” Izzy whispered.

“It’s the way a surface pushes back against what pushes against it,” whispered a voice beside her, a whisper backed by whispers.

“Then what’s force?” Izzy asked, sniffing at the lavender smell.

“Force is the push,” said the voice.

“Then what’s a push?” Izzy caught her breath when she saw the Caretaker standing next to her, all eight feet of her.

“Are you thinking of escaping, Dizzy Izzy?” asked the Caretaker.

“Yes, ma’am.” The words just left her mouth.

“I won’t stop you, sweetie,” said the Caretaker, setting a satchel on Izzy’s desk. “But while you’re planning your escape, here’s your timetable, textbooks and dorm key.”

“The Caretaker’s so smart!” said Isabella, smiling like she was on a drug trip. “Her brain’s big enough that she can control all 120,000 of her bodies at once. That way she can be in every city in the Commonwealth.”

“All the better to keep an eye on her serfs,” I muttered.

“I’ve never seen her surf…” She smiled at her imagination.

I stared at my idiot of a science officer, knowing that my failure had done this.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll plan the escape—”

She grabbed my wrists. “You know what you need to see?”

Isabella dragged me all the way to the theatre, before realising that Jane Eyre only started in seven hours. So after dragging me around her university campus, she dragged me back to the theatre, one hour late for the start of the play.

I asked what was so important that I had to see, but she only responded, “Oh, you’ll see” and “It’s just an old friend” and “I’ll give you a hint—it starts with C”. Catherine. I knew it was Catherine. It was obviously Catherine, so when Catherine strode onto the stage… it came as a hell of a surprise when I saw her cat ears and tail.

“I am no bird,” meowed Catherine to her Rochester. “And no net ensnares me. I am a free human being, with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.” With a hiss, she made herself big and scurried off the stage.

“Where have you been?” Catherine asked me after she wedged herself between me and Isabella. She rubbed her face over my shoulder and neck.

She’d invited us to her dressing room, which was overflowing with bouquets, fan letters, and a scratch post.

I felt the vibrations of her purring into my neck. Her eyes were half-lidded. “How did they brainwash you?”

“Hmmmm?” She had begun idly clawing at my skirt. “Oh, yes…” She sighed, as though recounting her downfall was the most boring and tiring thing imaginable. “First of all…”

5 weeks earlier

Something was suffocating Catherine as she awoke, something thick and heavy laying on her face. She hurled it off her face, and it screeched as it landed on all fours. The cat hissed at her. Still lying down, she stared down her naked body and saw another cat curled up on her stomach, and another spread long across her thighs. She got up, letting the cats tumble off her. She was in the middle of a café, empty, except for a dozen cats and—

“Do you like cats, Kitty,” asked the Caretaker. The eight-foot tall gynoid sat on the café counter, a black cat snoozing on her lap. She wore a beige blouse and black slacks, fit to be a model in a pre-Bomb fashion magazine. “You look like a cat person.”

“Dog person,” Catherine grunted. She hadn’t chosen to answer.

“Have you ever had a cat?” asked the Caretaker, stroking the cat on her lap.

Catherine scanned the room for a weapon. “No.” She spotted a steak knife on a table. She hurled it right at the Caretaker’s throat.

The Caretaker caught the blade in her hand and crushed it. “That was very dangerous,” said the Caretaker, and it took all Catherine’s strength to hide the shame the voice stoked in her. “What if you’d hit a cat? I don’t know America well, but I know you don’t go around throwing knives at cats, do you?”

“No, we don’t,” said Catherine, feeling like she was getting chewed out by a kindergarten teacher. For some reason this felt worse than getting whipped.

Catherine had hunted down deserters, but even she knew when retreat was the only option. She ran towards the door.

“Stand still.”

Catherine almost tripped onto her face.

“Do a U-ey and march right back here.”

Catherine walked back. It wasn’t like her body had been hijacked. It was like her strongest desire was to walk and stand at attention in front of the Caretaker.

“Oh, my, you’re trembling.” The Caretaker was practically “aww”ing. “Are you scared of me, Kitty?”

“Yes! I mean, n- Yes!”

“You’re doing a very good job hiding it, too good for a human to notice,” said the Caretaker. “But I can see your every shake and shiver—Oh! Just saying that made your heart skip a beat.”

Catherine was scared. She’d been trained to resist torture, not whatever this was. She wouldn’t let fear control her. She’d bite out her own tongue. Her regen would make her tongue grow back, but it would stop her answering questions for a while.

“Why would you do something so silly, Kitty?”

The question forced her to abort her attempt. “Don’t want to leak military secrets.”

“Oh, you’ll tell me those later.” The Caretaker scooched the cat off her lap and got down from the counter. “I’m more worried about you.”

“What the fuck you mean ‘worried’?” It was Catherine could do not to collapse in fear as the Caretaker walked behind her.

“Stay very still,” the Caretaker whispered from behind Catherine. “Yes, worried. It’s all well and good to brave and strong, but not if it means shoving down all your worries and weakness.”

“I’m not worried or weak!”

“See?” said the Caretaker. “This will sting, but I know you’re a very strong, brave soldier. What’s your favourite animal?”

“Doh-ahg!” It was like she’d burnt a cigarette end on the small of Catherine’s back.

The Caretaker pressed two things to her head. “And why’s that?”

“Loyahhlll!” That was one. “Won’t back dah-nnnn…” She gritted her teeth as the second stung into her scalp.

She felt her regen going into overdrive, her whole body getting hot.

The Caretaker came around to Catherine’s front and took her hands in hers. “Look at my nose while I have your hands. What about cats?”

“What about them?” The Caretaker pricked something into Catherine’s left pinkie. Catherine moaned.

“There, isn’t that worth those little stings?”

“Yeah… What?” Her head was hazy from the heat of her regen, from the heat all over her body, making her as sensitive as—

She purred as Caretaker pricked her fingers one by one, each puncture pushing the fluttering feeling further up her arms, into her chest. When the Caretaker began on her right pa—hand, Catherine couldn’t help pressing her thighs together.

“Why don’t you like cats?” said the Caretaker, teasing Catherine’s ring finger.

Toes curled, Catherine slurred, “Lazy… Sleep all day… God!” She gasped as the Caretaker pricked her. “Disloyal… Selfish… Um…” She was too busy thinking of the feeling of the Caretaker’s hand on her finger, waiting, pleading for the next sting to think of another word.

The Caretaker pricked last two fingers, shocking her down to her cunt. She almost collapsed to her knees.

The Caretaker hopped back onto the counter and picked up a large mirror that was lying there. She held it up to Catherine. “I don’t think cats are that bad, Kitty.”

Two ears on the top of her head. Two cat ears the same black as her hair. She could feel them, move them. She almost froze when she felt something shift behind her, and then she realised that it was her. She saw the tail flick back and forth behind her at her own will.

“Your regenerative abilities gave me some very fun ideas,” the Caretaker said. “What’s wrong? Would you have preferred dog ears?”

“A little,” Catherine said, staring at her long, narrow, retractable claws.

“But you make a lovely cat, Kitty,” said the Caretaker as she stroked a cat in her lap. “Cats are very misunderstood. They’re not lazy or selfish or disloyal. They’re the friendliest sweetie-pies you’ll ever meet. They’re very hard workers; it’s just that they have their own ideas of what’s worth working on.”

The Caretaker swayed her dangling foot as she spoke, a shoe tumbling off, revealing brown feet, and purple-painted toes.

“A dog drops everything for her master,” said the Caretaker, “but cats have their own ideas…”

The Caretaker said things after that, but the Catherine was taken by the purple toes, the way they swayed back and forth, the way the light glinted off the nails. Only when she was face to foot did she realise she must be on her hands and knees. The realisation melted as she pawed at the foot, sniffed it, licked it. She rubbed her face against the Caretaker’s lavender-scented foot.

The Caretaker said. “Oh, Kitty, Kitty, we have a guest.”

Catherine shot to her feet, blushing right down her naked body. She glared, ready to dare whoever had come snooping to make a big deal of what they’d just seen. When she saw the visitor’s face, she lowered her shoulders and retracted her claws.

“Isabella?”

Isabella was wearing a baggy, green dinosaur costume, with her head popping up in the mouth.

“Oh, no, Kitty,” said the Caretaker. “That’s not Izzy. That’s a big, scary dinosaur!”

She popped her claws out. She saw the big teeth, the hard scales, the sharp claws. Catherine’s legs turned to jelly. She’d trained to fight soldiers, regular humanoid soldiers. She made herself big, arched her shoulders, squealed and hissed, but did not dare attack the dinosaur which was now stomping towards her. She was ashamed when she saw the other cats fearlessly circling and nuzzling the monster’s legs. Catherine leapt over the counter and curled up on the ground, next to a snoozing cat, a cat entirely unaware it was perilously close to meeting its maker.

“Don’t worry,” said the Caretaker as she walked beside Catherine. “Why would a dinosaur hurt an itty-bitty kitty?”

The dinosaur roared, and Catherine hugged the Caretaker’s legs.

“Does my itty-bitty kitty want some dinosaur repellent?”

“Yes!” As soon as Catherine looked up, she got a blast from a spray bottle in her face. She hissed and coughed and wiped the liquid from her face.

The roaring had stopped. Catherine peered over the counter. The dinosaur was retreating.

The Caretaker sat down cross-legged beside Catherine. “Were you scared?”

“Yeah! You let in a fucking a dinosaur,” said Catherine, kneeling with her hands on the ground between her knees.

“And what did you do to stop it?”

“Nothing,” said Catherine. She clawed the floor. “Nothing at all.” She almost squeezed tears from her eyes.

“And yet you’re okay,” said the Caretaker. “You didn’t need to brave, strong, or anything at all. You could just be a weak little kitten, and everything turned out alright, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yeah,” Catherine said.

“Being brave is all well and good, but how does it feel to let someone else take care of you?”

The Caretaker started scritching and scratching Catherine’s face. Catherine’s sense of pride told her to pull her face away, but…

She purred as she rubbed her face against the Caretaker’s hand, licking her fingers. “I feel… safe…”

“We’re escaping, ASAP,” I said, grabbing Catherine’s hand.

She bit my hand.

“Fuck!” I said, yanking my hand away from her.

She growled at me, bearing her fangs, before mellowing. She licked my wound with her sandpaper tongue. The Caretaker had been making regular additions to her it seemed.

My allies. A bimbo and a cat girl. All because of me. I was the leader, and I’d let us barge into this mission without even half an idea of our enemy’s weapons and skills.

Isabella turned my head towards me and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Don’t worry. Cats aren’t venomous… I think.” She pulled out her notebook, scrawling down and muttering, “Do any cats have venom?”

Catherine draped her arms over my neck. “Sorry…” she said. “I’m not leaving. Especially not before the Caretaker congratulates me on my first performance.”

I threw Catherine off me. The Caretaker was coming. What would the totalitarian bitch turn me into? A double agent? A propaganda pinup? A personal sex slave?

I didn’t let myself get lost in fantasies—I mean, nightmares. I threw open the door, immediately hearing the lovestruck words of the stage crew.

“Hi, boss.”

“Greetings, chief.”

“Ma’am.”

“Mummy!”

The Caretaker came around the corner, her head almost touching the ceiling. She wore a well-fitting beige blouse, and black slacks, on an hourglass body. On seeing me, her mouth opened in a smile.

“You must be Izzy and Kitty’s friend,” she said.

No way to pretend I’d already been brainwashed. I ran. I had no idea how this theatre was laid out, but I ran down the corridor.

“Don’t run,” said the Caretaker, and I slowed before I could collide with a prop girl rounding the corner. I walked as fast as I could, and from the slow taps of the Caretaker’s shoes, I could tell she wasn’t hurrying to catch me; but with legs that long, it took her ten seconds to lay her hand on my shoulder.

“Come with me,” she said. “And don’t make a scene.”

Me and the Caretaker were in a cosy office, all mahogany, fit for a sepia photograph. She leaned on the front of her desk. I was sat in a plush chair. Her order to sit still was the only thing keeping my restrained.

“So that’s how you do it,” I said. “Mind control. Don’t mention that in your agitprop, do you?”

“It’s because people get so nervous when I mention the M.C. term,” said the Caretaker. “When you give a pill to a puppy, you hide it in cheese.”

“People aren’t puppies!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says, smiling. “You’re all so cute and affectionate and eager. When I see a human working away at their pet projects, it’s as adorable as a wagging tail.” She sighed. “But when humans make rules for each other, they don’t let other humans be cute, affectionate or eager. They make punishments, prisons, and they’re so gosh-darned focussed on using others.”

“The price of freedom,” I said. The best argument I could think of then and there, so what?

She just smirked like I’d said the most adorable stupid thing she’d ever heard.

“Where’s your military base, sweetie?”

“At—” I couldn’t shut my mouth, but I turned my words into a groan. I clenched my fists, almost drawing blood. I’d failed my team, but I would not fail my superiors, not again.

“Aren’t you a strong girl,” she said. “If you’re going to burst a blood vessel, don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me. Not yet.” She tapped her chin. “How to make you talk?” She grinned. “Oh, yes… You know what your problem is, my little serf.”

Her blouse, her slacks, her flat shoes dissolved into nanomachines, briefly revealing her brown nakedness, before reforming. She stood a few inches taller in black stilettos, wearing a tight leather catsuit, its zipper pulled all the way down from her neck to her pelvis, yet still somehow holding her F-cups in.

“Your problem is that you think you’re in charge. You think you’re so important.” Her patronising grin had become a mischievous smirk, as a riding crop materialised in her hand. “You will learn who is in charge. Stand. Up.”

I stood at attention, chiding the part of me that wanted to beg her to slap me.

The tress of the crop turned red hot, and it was coming towards me. I knew I could regenerate, but I still had to steel myself for the… tepid warmth on my skin. The crop was pressed to the collar of my new blouse. I smelt burning copper as she ran the crop down my buttons, my blouse falling open inch by inch. It cut through the centre of my bra, my breasts falling out of my open blouse. The heat which was hot enough to melt metal was restrained enough that its radiance felt like warm honey trickling from my neck to crotch.

She stopped before she got to my skirt. She pulled my shirt and bra off before slapping her red-hot crop on either side of my waist band. My skirt fell around my ankles.

She shoved her hand down my panties and into me. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. I wouldn’t waste energy hiding this secret.

“Did you think you’d like it?” she said, slapping the now lukewarm crop to my face. “Aren’t you glad, I showed you this side of yourself, my little serf.”

“Yes, mistress,” I said.

“What do you like most about getting stripped and used by me?”

“Powerless,” I said. “Helpless. Dominated.”

“Sit down.”

I sat, naked and horny and humiliated, wearing only wet panties and my shoes.

“If you like being powerless, helpless and dominated, then you’ll love what I have in store.” She clapped her hands. “Girls!”

My chair reclined back, and the foot of the chair shot up. I was lying down. Arching my head back, I saw Isabella and Catherine skip in. They were dressed as French maids, with costumes that heaped up their cleavage and skirts that barely covered half of their asses.

“Are you ticklish?” asked the Caretaker.

“N-no,” I said.

“Now you are,” she said. “You’re so ticklish. The tiniest brush makes you a chortling mess.” She brushed her crop up my inner thigh, and I almost choked on my giddy squeal.

“Girls,” she said. “Dust off our prisoner.”

They bring out their feather dusters.

“No, no,” I said to them. “Stand down. Don’t—”

The Caretaker whacked me in the stomach with her crop. “You are not the leader. I am. I give orders. Do you understand, my little serf?”

“Yes, mistre-sssssss, hah-haaah!” They’d started dusting my ribs. I tried to wiggle away, but when I wiggled away from one duster, I only wiggled into the other. My stomach ached with laughter. Catherine laid off my ribs and started brushing her duster over around my breasts, teasing my nipples.

“Stop!” I gasped.

The Caretaker swatted my face with the crop. “You keep giving orders. Do you like getting whipped for insubordination?”

Between my cackles, I wheeze, “Yes!”

“Do you want the tickles to stop?”

“Yes!” My jaw ached, my body was exhausted, and Isabella had started on my neck.

“Then just tell us where your base is?”

“N-No! Hahahah!” I grit my teeth. “N-nevahahahah!”

Through the tickle torture, I smell burning leather and I feel that familiar honey-like warmth on my foot. She’s using the crop to cut off my boots.

“No,” I said. “Don’t…”

She pulled off my pink socks, one at a time.

“Oh, would you look at these feet,” she said. “Seems your regenerative ability has kept your soles so pretty, smooth and sensitive.”

I squeal my laughter as her fingers danced up and down my soles, all the while Isabella and Catherine dusted my armpits.

“Ready to tattle on the army now?” the Caretaker asks.

“No!” I can’t see with the tears in my eyes.

“Let’s see if you’re so brave when I make you ten times as ticklish.”

I screech. It’s like a thousand more feathers were teasing my every nerve.

“Ready now, my little serf?”

“It’s at…” No, I am a soldier, not a traitor.

“Still holding your tongue? What if I make you a hundred times more ticklish? A thousand!”

My guffaws made me writhe and wriggle almost off the platform. My laughter was filling my ears and tears filled my eyes.

“I can see one place you haven’t been tickled, my little serf,” said the Caretaker.

I sighed as her fingers leave my feet and gasped as they touch my thighs, going up and up. My legs were jelly, jiggling with laughter. She reached the join of my thigh and my crotch.

“A million times as ticklish,” she said.

I screamed the coordinates.

Immediately the tickling stopped. I was catching my haggard breath as the chair pushed up my back and let down my feet, so I was sitting in front of the Caretaker.

She leant over me, one hand on the back of my chair, the other she shoved into my sweat-soaked panties.

“Who is in charge?” she asked, pumping her fingers into me.

“You are, mistress…” My head lolled to one side, barely strong enough to answer.

“That’s right,” she said. “You’re decisions don’t matter. The world is not on your shoulders. I am in charge, my little serf.” She sped up her fingers. I trembled and whimpered. “Just obey me and be friendly to your neighbours. That is the totality of your responsibility now. How does that sound?”

“Good.” I gripped the armrests as my stomach clenched. With my little strength I pushed my cunt into her fingers. “Please…”

“I’ll let you cum only when you tell me how much you love being my cute, affectionate, eager serf.”

“I love it! I love being your cute, affectionate, eager serf.” I was grinding on her hand. “Please… Please… Let me cum…”

“Good serf,” she said. “Cum!”

My dry throat couldn’t even moan. I wracked and writhed to my bones as bliss cascaded through me.

My eyes almost closed.

“Since I see how sleepy you are,” she said. “We’ll discuss your new job tomorrow. Now say good night.”

My eyes were closed when I slurred, “Goo… nigh… Misstre…”

“Oy!” I shouted at the drunken cyclist who’d just crashed into the floral clock. “Get up! No! Don’t walk there. Walk through the flowers you’ve already fucked up.”

The cyclist tried and failed to walk in a straight and just fell on her ass.

I ordered my under-gardeners to start replanting. All the while, I chewed out the cyclist.

“My little serf,” said a voice behind me, “take three deep breaths.”

I had no choice but to breathe deeply, calming down. I turned around and look up at the Caretaker.

“Do I need to remind you who’s in charge?” she asked, tickling my chin.

“You,” I said, blushing and giggling.

“Then why are you shouting like you own the place?”

“Because… because we worked very hard on that floral clock!”

The Caretaker smiled at me. “I’ll make sure our cyclist knows what an awful mess she made.” She stroked my head. “After only a month, you’re so invested in the flowers.”

I hugged her and almost cry into her blouse. “Thank you. I’ve never been so happy.”

“Oh, well, aren’t you so sweet and grateful, my little serf,” she said. “Well, I’ve got you a little surprise… You know how I said we’d begun the invasion of America?”

“Yeah…” A smile grew on my lips.

“How would you like to meet Madame President?”