The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As soon as famous TV presenter Bill Henry had claimed my sissy ass, and released the slut he saw inside me, I became a regular at the weekly recordings of his show, Headline Hits.

For the first few weeks, I served exclusively as his fucktoy. Waiting in my sissy pink lingerie in his dressing room, to suck or be fucked on demand by Bill or his friends, as he finished fully breaking me in and asserting his control.

But I quickly discovered that many of the Show’s after party ‘special guests’ were a regular set of bois and girls like me, there as part of Bill Henry’s collection of fucktoys available to his network of perverted celebrity abusers.

And like all those before me, he soon grew tired of me, once his next young victim came over the horizon, and I too was thrown into the general pool of available entertainment.

From furtive fucks with shy stars who didn’t want their wives, girlfriends or fans to know about their predilection for sissy bois; solo gangbangs with whole pop groups; floor shows of rutting bois and girls; to orgies of every shape, size and composition; we did it all, and more.

Plus of course, the occasional deployment to help head off rumours and scandals, like my own encounter with the buggering Justice Collins.

So my part in the whole jigsaw of the Bill Henry celebrity abuse scandal was really no greater or smaller than all the other victims involved. Not that any of that really came out until after his death at a ripe old age. And even then, every cloud has a silver lining it appeared, at least for some.

That was certainly the case for young newsreader, Tom Willard, who stepped up into the role of unofficial spokesperson for the new generation of celebrities, aghast at the disgusting abuses of their former peers. The exposure catapulted him to super celebrity status, and national sainthood in the eyes of a shocked public.

It was Tom Willard who brought together this next generation of younger celebrities to say this must never be allowed to happen again. Tom Willard who set up the survivors support scheme, funded by a tabloid newspaper, to provide free counselling for victims like me, who were still alive, in return for telling our stories to the ever patient Jenny Wilson for serialisation.

That was the currently role we were now all playing. With Bill Henry dead and beyond punishment, several long retired celebrities had had their reputations destroyed, and their freedom taken away, to satisfy the public demand that someone should pay. The victims were finally getting the help they deserved thanks to Saint Tom, and the newspaper had months and months’ worth of sensationalised public titillation to boost their sales. Everyone was happy. Disgusting chapter consigned to history.

So like all the others, I had told the tale of my part in this jigsaw to the pretty tabloid journalist, Jenny Wilson, over a series of monthly afternoon teas in this hotel room. Chapter nearly closed.

But we had saved talking about my much bigger part of this story for our final few sessions. My twenty year plus abusive relationship with jailed and disgraced former pop-idle, Stevie Starlight.

“Stella, your therapist, tells me she is very pleased with your progress” Jenny Wilson told me as I arrived at the hotel room. “I hadn’t met her in person before, but she seems super nice. She allowed me to listen to some of the relaxation files she has been using with you, for background on one of the papers’ final articles about how well you are all recovering.”

I had thought the headphones and files odd and slightly disturbing at first, but quickly felt happy and relaxed about it all, even if the exact details seemed to elude me. But at that precise moment I was more distracted by Jenny herself.

I had always spotted that there was a sexy bombshell hiding inside the petite blonde journalist. You get an eye for that kind of thing when you have hung around predatory alpha males for as long as I had. But Jenny, ever the professional journalist, had always been careful to dress in a drab, unflattering, conservative outfit for our meetings, so as not to trigger any of the past sexualised trauma I guess.

But today that professional façade had been dropped for the first time. Perhaps she was just demob happy at nearly reaching the end of such a long and harrowing assignment at last.

Whatever the cause, gone was the drab grey trouser suite and buttoned up white blouse, in favour of black ankle boots and a modest above knee navy skirt to show off her legs, along with a tight fitting, V-neck purple top, showing off and accentuating her ample tits.

“You look nice” I commented cautiously. “Thanks” she replied, with almost the hint of an out of character girlish giggle. “Let’s chat about Stevie Starlight today shall we” she added, hitting record on her little digital device, cutting off any further fashion small talk.

I suppose it was inevitable in the hedonistic heyday of the late 80s Headline Hits after parties that favourites would emerge among the regular celebrity abusers and Bill Henry’s menagerie of available bois and girls.

Some by happy chance or choice, but plenty by force and coercion, especially when more extreme perversions were being satisfied. I guess you could say I was lucky to be largely in the former with Stevie Starlight. Too many in the latter group were no longer with us thanks to the toxic mix of drugs, shame and self-harm.

Stevie Starlight, like Bill Henry himself, had been one of my early teen hero figures. A manufactured pop sensation, dressed in black leather covered in a spray of sequined stardust, aimed at cashing in with the kids on the whole David Bowie Ziggy craze. Just without the talent.

By the time I was taken into Bill Henry’s perverted circle at 19, Stevie Starlight’s earlier stellar career had seriously waned, alongside my own interest in such vacuous pop music.

But only about six months after I had become one of Bill’s ‘special guest’ at the headline Hits after parties, Stevie Starlight was on the Show with a comeback album, winning over a new generation of teen fans, and some grudging, nostalgic re-acceptance from older fans like myself who had moved on. He was actually heading for another No1 hit single with his rocked-up space opera’ery cover of Leader of the Pack. People just seemed to love it, and him.

Later on, it was always rumoured that Bill Henry had somehow learned dark secrets about hypnosis in music, using it in the theme tune of his Henry Makes it Happen show to help ensnare victims, and that he had shared some of this with Stevie Starlight for his Leader of the Pack comeback single.

I can’t say whether any of that was true or not, but I do know that the four of us sissy bois picked by Bill to party in Stevie’s dressing room after Starlight’s first reappearance on Headline Hits when his new single first entered the chart, worshiped our ‘Leaders’ thick cock like a pack of animals possessed.

Stevie and I particularly seemed to hit it off, and suddenly I was his regular slut as the single raced to the top of the charts. And not just only at Headline Hits, but sometimes travelling around the country with him too. I think he liked that I was an old fan regressing back to that former teen adoration, and if there was one thing Stevie Starlight needed to feel, it was being adored.

Plus of course, by now, I was a hot sexy gurl, with all the dirty skills to match, trailing around after him like a wide-eyed puppy.

Back then, at the end of the 80s, I think I genuinely loved him. Still do really. And I think he cared for me too in his own way. Even now, despite being abused by 100s of men, it is still his perfect cock I dream of in my mouth and ass when I close my eyes. Then again, thanks to Bill Henry, sexual abuse had become my life, the only real intimacy I had known, so perhaps I was just confusing it for the real thing.

As we moved into the 90s, musical tastes inevitably changed again, and Stevie Starlight’s fame started to wane once more. Even Bill Henry’s own decades of TV stardom were finally falling out of fashion, challenged by the fresh next generation of younger wannabe celebrities nipping at his heels. Henry Makes it Happen was cancelled due to falling viewing figures, and he was increasingly sharing the presentation of Headline Hits.

Also, as time went on, even Bill Henry’s assiduously built network couldn’t stop every rumour and potential scandal. Suspicions mounted over time, and although nothing was ever proved, the Brunchester Broadcasting Corporation was increasingly tightening up its operating policies and safeguarding procedures in response. The wild after parties became consigned to history.

Of course, by then, the network of abuse had matured to the stage where it just carried on behind closed doors in private, even with Bill Henry in semi-retirement. Connections made, the spider at the centre of his web, still enabling old and new abuses.

Meanwhile, Stevie Starlight was still making a good living, touring the country, making personal appearances, and playing gigs, college events and balls. For the first part of the decade, I became a permanent part of the Stevie Starlight travelling tour as his lover. But as the new Millennium drew ever closer, things began to change.

We were both getting older of course, but in Stevie Starlight’s head at least, he was still the same young pop-idol who had first burst to fame in the 1970s. The only aging he saw was in me. So increasingly I became his spare slut, his wingman for enticing others into our bed. I would scout the audiences for more youthful bois and girls to his tastes, as I had once been, and invite them backstage after the shows. Any lingering reluctances would always melt away once he played them that Leader of the Pack single in his dressing room, and they would fuck with wild abandon in any and every way he wanted.

But aging wasn’t the only price being extracted by the passage of time. Stevie Starlight’s fame was now in terminal decline, and with it, the adoration he so craved. He compensated with ever greater drug use, and ever riskier behaviour. In short, he was becoming not fun to be around, and we hung out less and less.

The complicated lives of all of Bill Henry’s secret sluts was taking a mental toil. We were living the stressful lies of a double life. Occasional on demand horny slut fucktoys on the one hand, but expected to act out normal vanilla lives with unsuspecting friends and families on the other. Hiding in plain sight.

So in the 90s, I also met a nice girlfriend, we got married and had a child. I guess nothing better illustrated the physiological schizophrenia of our secret double lives than my wedding day itself. Stevie Starlight insisted he drove to the registry office himself, stopping at a quiet layby en-route. I doubt many grooms get married to their new wives with another man’s cum still leaking from their just fucked asshole. Stevie Starlight thought it was hilarious of course.

After the Millennium, as the so called Naughties got going, I only rarely still saw Stevie Starlight. Unfortunately though, you could read about his increasingly off the rails behaviour in the newspapers nearly every week. With allegations starting to attract police attention, Stevie Starlight fled to Thailand ‘on holiday’ and simply never came back.

I visited him twice in Thailand at his request, but each time his drug habit was worse, and his only real interest in me was serving as his scout around the Ladyboy bars to invite big groups back to his apartment for parties without any journalists seeing him out doing it himself. After the second visit I simply didn’t go back.

Then in 2005, Stevie Starlight was suddenly all over the newspapers again. Arrested by Thai police on drug charges, he was sentenced to 7 years.

Back home, all this meant that for me at least, the Naughties were actually turning into my least naughty decade. Only subject to the very occasional demand from Bill Henry’s network, I settled down into my new role as loyal husband and father. Bill Henry himself was virtually back where he began, a DJ on Sunday morning radio, his aging network becoming less and less active, and even that activity was probably only propped by the recent invention of Viagra.

And there, things might have stayed, simply fading into history for me. But the Thai authorities suddenly deported Stevie Starlight, just three years into his sentence, straight into the arms of the waiting US Police, who by this time now had drug charges and other offenses of their own for him to answer.

Worse still, I was implicated and exposed in this new US trial as a witness. Overnight I found myself at the unpleasant centre of the latest tabloid newspaper storm. My shocked, unsuspecting wife left me of course, taking our eleven year old son with her. I can’t blame her, and to this day I have never been allowed contact with either of them. Stevie Starlight (real name Arthur Greensplik), as everyone knows, was found guilty a second time and got another 12 years, albeit this time in our own more comfortable prisons.

Thus, the first half of the 2010s found me at a personal rock bottom. Alone, I had started dressing as a sissy nearly full-time. Thanks to my notoriety, I was a minor celebrity at the local gay sauna where I had become a regular. Real men there liked to put me in my place, treat me rough, and abuse me hard. Many would laugh and tell me they were the Leader of my Pack as they filled me with their hot cum. And I started to help make ends meet by prostituting myself out too, all thanks to the new opportunity to do this on a thing called Craigslist.

Then in 2014, Stevie Starlight was released from his low security open prison, on early parole for good behaviour, with a home curfew ankle tag. Guess who was there, dressed as his sissy slut, to meet him. I blew his cock and swallowed his sticky load on the backseat of the car in the prison car park before we even drove off.

He started fucking me regularly again, but it wasn’t like the old times, and I think it was only because his parole and ankle tag meant that he had few other viable options. Plus his time inside had only served to make his drug addiction even worse.

Pop singer Arthur Greensplik, aka Stevie Starlight, died suddenly just nine months later. A heart attack exacerbated by prolonged persistent drug abuse. Just three people attended his funeral at the crematorium. Myself, his former manager, and a journalist who was trying to persuade me to sell them a kiss and tell story about the real Stevie Starlight. I certainly could have used the money, but I just knew in my heart that I couldn’t do it. Instead his death had sparked in me an unexpected determination to clean up my own act.

Jenny reached over, switched off her recording device, and we sat there for a few moments silently regarding each other, both lost in our own private contemplations.

She smiled breaking the spell, and I noticed the erectness of her nipples clearly visible thanks to that new tight fitting purple top. Was she getting as turned on as her readers by our tales of perversion and abuse?

The unexpected thought gave rise to a sudden familiar tingling in my own crotch, even though it had been many years now since I had last felt anything like that. In my mind, I could see the sexy Miss Wilson in this new outfit, bent over this very hotel sofa as Bill Henry forcefully plunged his big stiff cock into her wet pussy. She moaned loudly, only for it to become a laughing Stevie Starlight pounding into her. Another big moan, and now bizarrely, it was Tom Willard himself fucking the slut from behind.

I shook my head, dismissing the weird daydream as quickly as it had arrived. But I was shocked and embarrassed it had even happened, saying my goodbyes and fleeing the hotel room as quickly as I could.

On the street outside, I briefly wondered what the hell was happening to me, but I quickly reassured myself that I had merely been momentarily overwhelmed by bring up Stevie’s death again, and the largely unprocessed raw emotions that still held for me.