The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Tessi woke up with a dropping sensation in her chest. Lately, she had been waking up riddled by anxiety. She wished it would stop, but she was, begrudgingly, coming around to the acceptance that this was how things were now, and how they were likely to stay for the foreseeable future.

Things just weren’t the way they had been, once. That much was true; she was sure of it. She remembered things being different, before— she wasn’t confident enough to pinpoint a moment that things had changed, but she did remember that things hadn’t always been this way.

She thought of earlier things longingly, again. She had been returned to consciousness— the alarm had woken her— and now she was lying in bed, in the morning, aware of existence— aware of her own psyche. She may have been accustoming herself to the idea that this engrained dread would be with her into the next weeks and months of her life, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. And though the alarm had gone off, she didn’t have to get out of bed at this very second. She wanted a moment to wallow— to feel a little sorry for herself.

She moved her arm slowly up the bed, up above her body. The thing coverlet she’d been sleeping under slipped off it, slipped partly off her body too, with the disruption. When she got her hand up to her face, her elbow triangled into empty space, she put said hand over her ears— even with closed eyelids, she felt she was shielding herself from having to see the room, felt she was shielding herself, even in a small way, from the world around her— she felt like she had real privacy in that moment.

And though the act of covering her eyes was in a way a kind of giving up, a kind of despair— it did also feel soothing to do, and that was a net positive. Still, with the world at arm’s length, and she herself somewhat shielded from it— with her eyes showing her no new information, because she herself was blocking them out— it was only natural that her mind started to wander slightly. And every morning when she woke up with the same tension in her body, that block of panic sitting in her chest, her mind always wandered in the same way; her mind always thought, longingly, of how things had been before. In those earlier years.

She couldn’t pinpoint an exact day or time; it had been a general pattern spread through the chronological line of her life, and it had been ever-present. But she remembered the feeling— the way it had made her feel. In those days, she’d just felt at ease— she’d felt like the world was something that could be relied on, something that was firm under her feet. She hadn’t worried about change, hadn’t feared it, or seen much of it. Each day had been like a happy summer afternoon, and she’d been certain that none of said summer afternoons were ever going to come to an end— that all her days would be like that, for all the rest of her life. She had woken up every morning excited to live, excited to add the memories of another day passing enjoyable into her mind and history.

There had been variations in the routine of course. They had always seemed magical at that time— day-trips taken out of the city, vacations— even small variations, so small as trying a different store this day, or a different hobby this other one. The world had seemed a container for marvelous things which it would show to her in due course— and her attitude had been one of supreme optimism. Even when there had been bad times, hard ones, demoralizing ones— she had never lost that optimism. She had still believed in the capacity of the world to give her great things— she had still believed that, even when such things were absent, they would come back to her eventually. Everything was good, and it would work out that way in the end.

And when those good things were present, she had felt even better still.

That attitude, that way of living life— it had seen her through the beginning and the early days with her now husband, had seen her through their marriage and those first married years. It had seemed everything had just drifted to her, cloud-like, easy as a dream. Even her marriage, even when everyone else had said marriage was difficult. She’d never found it difficult in those days. She lived her life according to a premise of ease; it was everywhere in her approach, and everywhere in her experience.

This attitude had seen her also through the birth and raising of their fraternal twins, Andy and Josie. Andy and Josie weren’t entirely raised— they were fourteen now, so there was still a number of years left to go until they were fully individuated adults, but a majority of the work had been done— for each of them, there were only four years left to go; and Tessi and her husband, Matthew, had made a strict rule that come their 18th birthday, Andy and Josie were expected to move out immediately. So when they were 18 they really would be gone, returning only now and then to visit.

But those early years of raising Andy and Josie— those early years, they had been much easier than they’d had any right to be. The process of giving birth, of dealing with newborns— losing sleep— even the process of going through pregnancy, all the shifts and discomforts and complications— these things were all supposed to be hard, too, but for Tessi, they had still simply drifted to her cloud-like. In the support groups for new mothers and new parents that she, and she and Matthew respectively, had belonged to— she had been the target of a lot of jealousy, because a lot of things had just gone easily for her— and she had never hidden that, or lied about it.

Ease. That was how things had been, in the first years of her adulthood— all through her twenties— through her marriage partway through them, through the arrival of their children when she was twenty-eight— all through her thirties when she had simply done the work of living… it had been ease.

Those had been good years— any time that lazy summer afternoon feeling had repeated all through those years, it had been good.

But that wasn’t how things were anymore.

Now she woke up, dreading— and everything was a chore— and everything was hard, everything was a nearly impossible obstacle that she had to force her way through— everything exhausted her, everything was a struggle, and every day she found herself wondering when things would stop being like this, when they would go back to being simpler again. How she wished that things could be simpler again.

How had she gotten so old? How had she gotten so far into her life, how had she arrived at this point where everything was in the state that it was at? Her internal landscape had never been so bad as it was— even when demoralizing things had happened prior to this period she found herself in, as she had already reflected, she had never lost her optimism, never lost her positivity— even in historically difficult situations, she had approached them from a habit of ease, had handled them using ease as a method— and that wasn’t what things were like now— not at all.

She just felt so old. She felt weary. Life had been too long, too much had happened— had all those years she’d thought she was handling things well really been an example of something else? Of her thinking things were being handled, when they weren’t, really? Perhaps all her difficulties had only been getting pushed back out of site— or thrown onto the same pile that climbed ever higher until it had grown mountainously high. And now, perhaps, the breaking point had been reached. All that stress that had compounded over the years could finally be contained no longer— now instead of sitting somewhere out of the way in her mind, it simply sat in her body. That was plausible to her. It would explain quite a few things.

Whatever the cause, things weren’t going well, and Tessi felt certain they would carry on in this less-than-ideal way indefinitely. She didn’t know how to get the ease back, didn’t know how to recreate herself, rebuild herself as a woman who was simply carefree and happy. She had known how to be that person once, even in the face of great adversity— she had lost the skill, had lost the knowledge, didn’t know how she could ever regain it now.

She was, at least, forty-two; and her forties had not gone well the way her twenties and thirties had. She thought often she could never pinpoint a moment when things had gone wrong, but as she thought about it now, her hand still over her eyes, wasn’t that a viable contender, if she thought about it? Wasn’t it true the trouble had really started around the time that she had turned forty? And then it had simply continued with each passing year.

She was not only different in her mind; her body was changing with age too— she was aging gracefully for the most part, but her hair was changing color. From the bright-red she had known for years; it was turning blonde, now; about half of her hair retained the red, sure, but the other half was now undeniably blonde, with no trace it had ever been a different color.

If she got up and looked in the mirror, she knew what she would see: that strange red-blonde mix she never recognized, though her hair had been like that for about three years now— she never fully felt like she was looking at herself, when she saw her hair colored like that. With enough time it would continue changing; she longed for those static days, change free. Someday she would be fully blonde. There would be no hint she had ever been red-haired.

She let a long sigh. Enough wallowing in the past. She should think of the day ahead.

Earlier in the week, Andy and Josie had gone off on a weeklong class-trip out of town. So she had left her alarm set out of habit, but it hadn’t been necessary to wake up this early— she didn’t need to do anything to prepare them.

The bed was empty aside from her— even on a normal day, Matthew woke up earlier than her— so he’d already left for work. And though Tessi had a job, today she had a scheduled day off. She’d taken it intentionally. She was trying to give herself more time off in general— she couldn’t be sure it’d actually help, but it seemed a plausible strategy for decreasing her stress, and reintroducing some ease and carefree spontaneity into her days. She’d worked even during her best years, though. She’d never stressed over it. Not a likely cause.

She decided she didn’t care to think about it anymore. She didn’t need to figure out causes, or reasons, or anything else. She should just get on with living her way through the day.

She was exhausted though. The stress of being so down, the stress of having gone a “bad period,” which at this point had lasted over two years, was a hard burden to carry. It tired her out. It taxed her— she had slept a good ten hours the night before, and yet, still, she had woken up feeling hungover— or as if she was so deep into a sleep debt she could never recoup the resources to pay back what she owed. And even though what she owed was owed to herself, it still upset her to think she could not repay it, could not make restitution, could not get back to a place of being well-rested.

She shifted her hand from off of her eyes— she forced herself to open them, and above them, she saw her gray ceiling.

Somehow, that was enough. Upon seeing it she felt an immediate stab of terror in her heart. She couldn’t face this. She couldn’t manage it. Even though it was a day off, even though nobody was in the house except her— even though there were no expectations, and no demands on her— just seeing that ceiling overwhelmed her. Being in her house, being in her life, it overwhelmed her. It made her want to cover her face in her hands again, but to do it this time so as to hide imminent tears. She wanted to cry great wracking sobs that her hands would obscure— the facial expression behind them would at least be hidden, even alone in her own company she still wanted it to be hidden— to hide and hide her face, to use her hands to cover and cover.

It was the fact of knowing the ceiling was there— the ceiling was part of the house that she helped pay the mortgage on, for the sake of paying the mortgage, she had the job that she had— the job which would be expecting her to return to work tomorrow. And this was the house that she lived in, linked into the rest of her life— and she was having the day off that she was having, but once her day off was over, she was still going to have to go back to her “regular” life and her “regular” routine. It was all waiting for her like it was staring at her… staring at her just like that ceiling which was above her. She didn’t want it seeing her— the overwhelm had not decreased itself, she still wanted to hide her face, she was still upset, she was still afraid— couldn’t she sob and sob— it was so much pressure, suddenly— even to have to get up and dress herself, it was too much pressure and she couldn’t handle it— too much, too…

She forced herself to exhale slowly. In an immediate panic response, she had closed her eyes again, but she forced herself to once more separate her lids and look up. That ceiling was still making her feel inordinately uncomfortable, but instead of re-closing her eyes, she would solve the problem a different way.

She sat up, so she was looking ahead at her room, instead of up at its ceiling.

The vantage point wasn’t much improved; she could see the two posts of the four-poster bed which were at the foot of it, on either side— she could see the dresser that was across from it, she could see the two closets which stood on either side of the dresser— she could see the sunlight spilling into the room from the windows on the side-wall. These were still all elements of her house, her house meant her mortgage, her mortgage meant her job, her job meant her life, and everything was expecting her, expecting her, expecting her— she could steal a day but then she still had to show up the day after that and after that and after that…

Time seemed an endless expanse— moreso if she had to go on traveling through it feeling the way she was feeling, feeling the way she’d been feeling for the past two years. She didn’t want to do it, she didn’t want to have to continue, she wished she could stop, wished that today could be a nothing day, and tomorrow a nothing day, that the rest of her life could be a nothing life, that she could be secure in the knowledge that no one would ever ask anything of her ever again, let alone ever expect it— if only it could be like that, she wished it could be like that, she wished…

It had decreased her overwhelm slightly to take the option of seeing the ceiling away from herself. If she was getting dressed, she wouldn’t have the time to be staring into her room, the time to see her job in her room, her life in her job— that chain of associations just couldn’t happen if she was participating in an activity instead. Productivity, that was the key. Or should she be thinking of how she had used to behave, when everything had still been easy? Should she pretend she was the person from before, mimic old habits in an attempt at recreation? Would mimicry give way to authenticity, put habits back into her body, into her muscle memory?

She was thinking too much, overthinking anything. That had her starting to panic again. All the overthinking, maybe that was the real problem— maybe all that overthinking… maybe every time she engaged in it, she only deepened her dread, made it more extreme. Maybe she was making her own problem worse all the time.

That had her almost clutching at her head desperately, some kind of impulse to stop her thoughts physically, but instead of giving into it, she made herself rise, measuredly, into a stance.

She had slept in pajamas— a shade of pink that had once set off her red hair so beautifully— it didn’t do that anymore, with all the blonde mixed into there, but she still wore it out of nostalgia— a tragic longing to return to how things had been before, a tragic longing to return to what could never be either restored or recovered. The sooner she was out of these clothes the more normal she would feel— the pajamas were nothing unusual, a long-sleeve top and long pants, as the days would shortly be getting cooler again. They weren’t cooler yet but she was anticipating the change in the weather, arriving at it before it had ever actually taken place. Some part of her feeling that if something outside of her changed something inside would too— like it would take seeing the seasons shifts for her mind, for her heart to understand that things could change, that just possibly the dread she felt all the time could go away— maybe—

Though even when the weather was still warm, like she could see it was today from the brightness of the sunlight the windows showed her, the house was still drafty. At night even in the summer she found herself getting cold, so wearing the long pajamas had not been a tax on her at all.

But as long as she was in the pajamas, she would feel sloppy and stuck. She was quick to get out of both components of the sleep-wear outfit, and then to dump what she’d removed into the laundry hamper.

She got her underwear on, careful not to catch any glimpses of herself in the free-standing mirror. It wasn’t her body she was trying to avoid the sight of, it was her hair that she didn’t want to see at all.

Underwear on. She had chosen her bra and panty duo that were made of t-shirt material, and which were a plain gray color. No one would be seeing them. Matthew knew of the stress she was under— was being very understanding with her, considering she’d single-handedly ground their sex-life to a halt. They’d always had a good time together, but since she’d started having her problems, she just hadn’t had the heart to keep up with it anymore. The most they did at night was embrace— that did give her comfort sometimes, did make her feel better about everything. On occasion, at least. So she cherished those moments— but he still wouldn’t be seeing her underwear duo, so it didn’t matter.

It seemed easiest just to throw a sundress over herself; she chose one which was that same shade of dusky pink which had once served her ginger hair-color so well. It was a plaid pattern, pink over white— and the dress was flowing and comfortable. Perhaps she would find a moment a little later to go out and sit in the backyard— or better still, the front-porch.

While she had this day off, she really should make the most of it. This should not be a day which she approached as an opportunity to catch up on tasks— she was falling behind on many of them, but that wasn’t what today was for. Today was for moving gingerly— making everything as easy as it could be, even if she couldn’t return herself to a state of easygoing-ness. If she moved carefully enough— kept things calm and peaceful, it was bound to improve her headspace at least somewhat.

So now she was dressed, she should observe her morning ritual with care. She ventured to the kitchen, and poured herself a cup of coffee left from the pot Matthew had made earlier— she sat at the table— so far evading the stress of finding herself at the same place in her same pattern.

Instead, she drank her coffee deeply, and savored the way that it tasted on her tongue, enjoying it sip-by-sip, making the most of it— she went for a second, after the first was finished, loved all that she had extracted from the moment of that experience.

She put her coffee-cup in the sink to soak so it didn’t coffee-stain, and she sat back at the kitchen table and thought about what she should do.

She could… shower… Yes, a nice warm shower would be nice. And today it was not required that she do any cleaning, or the like. But she could choose to do some voluntarily— being productive might make her feel better, slightly improve her mood, so long as she did it with care, and with caution.

But a nice long shower first. Long, and with warm, warm water. The kind that would relax her muscles— ease her strain and tension in at least that way. Yes, that would be the smartest thing to do. Then her body would be relaxed, and at that point, she could either tidy around the house a little or go out to sit in the sun as she pleased.

She stood from her chair— the thing that creaked was her body and not the wood. Maybe the exhaustion was making her physically decrepit, also. It was better once she stood.

Feeling her exhaustion in every step, Tessi made her way to the bathroom on the first floor, which was just down the hall from where hers and Matthew’s bedroom was— their entire house was only a one-level affair, all rooms only on the ground floor, nothing above that level other than a roof; and nothing to access up within the roof.

In the bathroom, she was pleased to find there was a clean towel on the towel-rack. She didn’t remember putting one in here the last time she’d done laundry, but Matthew knew she liked to take her showers in the mornings, so there was a good chance that he had gone out of his way to stop in here and hang a towel for her on her way to work.

She felt a little silly, now. She’d made such a to-do about getting dressed before, but really, she’d only gotten dressed to have cup of coffee, and now, here she was, needing to undress herself again. Maybe she should have saved herself the energy, and just gone through the house naked, drank her coffee naked— if she’d done that, she wouldn’t have to be spending her time undressing now.

Too late to go back and change the past now. She lifted her dress over her head, took the underwear off— she left all of her clothes in a pile which she kicked under the basin-sink; there was no cabinet beneath it, it just emerged from the wall, so the pile slid into place.

Naked, she stepped beneath the shower-nozzle. Their shower was a glass-enclosure on three sides, with the four side bordering on bathroom-wall; completely sealed in, if the shower-door was closed. And now, as her hand fell from the handle, it was.

She turned towards the taps, and put her hand on one of them, before she turned it in place. She felt her exhaustion even in that motion. Suddenly she didn’t want to take the shower. She was so tired, like she’d been standing on her feet all day, although she’d barely been awake for twenty minutes. She just wanted to slip out the shower-door; so tired, so tired suddenly she would have accepted the bathroom floor as an acceptable bed, would have lain down on that cold tile, and so had the cold tile directly against her naked body… she was so tired that even if she got out of the shower, she wouldn’t be able to make it back up to bed; she would have to lie on the bathroom floor.

She didn’t doubt that if she did, she would easily be able to fall asleep— didn’t doubt that even if she failed to sleep, she would just end up lying there, catatonic, taking some rudimentary rest in doing so anyway— she would just lie and lie there all day; and eventually Matthew would come home and find her, and then he would have to be the one who helped to get her up and moved to a different part of the house.

She really shouldn’t lie on the bathroom floor. That was what was going to happen if she stepped out of the shower, so, therefore, she shouldn’t step out of it. Besides, maybe once the water was hitting her, it would give her a burst of energy; enough for her to get back down the hall to bed, surely.

She didn’t know why she was so tired like this; her body seemed to have just given up, all the stress compounding on itself in the same moment.

She shook her head, and forced her wrist to turn.

Immediately the shower started spewing water down her— and it was hot water. She jolted where she stood, seizing up, bouncing off the balls of her feet in a startle, and then easing back to standing normal. It was quite hot, actually, almost like it was burning her.

She tried to prod at herself, tried to soak the desire to scrub at her body with her hands, to scrub against it just with the flowing water, but she didn’t want to move at all. She thought only… warm… it seemed like, for the moment, she only wanted to bask in how the shower water felt on her.

Actually, it was starting to feel really good. It had startled her at first, and then it had seemed to be burning her, but those it was still a hot sizzle, she was starting to relax in it. She had knots in her back, in her arms and in her neck, but even though the water was hitting her body from the front, it felt like those knots were untying themselves just from the water hitting the front of her body. Like that heat got deeper in her than the water did. The water hit, but the heat kept flowing, penetrating her flesh, getting to the center of her body, rising to the surface in the back of it; like beams of something were moving through her, warming and heating everything inside her in the same, steady pulse.

Something had changed. Was that a light she was seeing? The whole shower-enclosure seemed illuminated in a vibrant orangey-glow. But had she ever seen a shade of orange quite like this? Her closest frame of reference was a shade of coral, but even that wasn’t quite right. It was something alien, something otherworldly, this shade— a color the earth had never know; and it was coming at her in the form of a light, and it was bathing her shower, bathing the water, bathing her body.

As quickly as it come, surely, it would leave again. She waited for it to dim, to disappear. It shone on at the same intensity of illumination; it was on the tiles in front of her, it was in the water that was streaming towards her and hitting her— something had been turned on, and it wasn’t going to be turned off again, it seemed.

Only a few seconds had passed, and something new was happening already. There was a clicking noise, and then a melodious tone was playing, almost as if there was some kind of speaker in the shower— melody was the closest frame of reference, again, that Tessi had, but it wasn’t quite the right word. It didn’t sound like any human music that Tessi had ever heard, not of any genre or style. It was something completely unique, unexpected. Tessi didn’t know how or where to classify it.

It felt like there was more than one speaker in the shower stall, as if there was speakers directly in the glass— the sound was everywhere, surrounding her head like it was a thick cloud hanging in the air. Her mind strained to make sense of it, to derive some meaning from it, but nothing about it became intelligible to her.

She had seized up and jumped again at the first sounding of the tone but she was starting to get used to it. The light was still shining and the tone was still playing. It was making her head feel weird, feel swoop-y; making her whole body feel swoop-y, as if it were diving this way or that from aloft on a swing, even though she was standing perfectly still, and not moving at all.

Her head felt that way too— like she had done too many somersaults underwater and couldn’t remember which way to move to get back to the surface.

This was wrong. This had all gone horribly, horribly wrong. She felt that so suddenly. She had to leave this shower, she shouldn’t be feeling the things she was feeling, she shouldn’t be experiencing the experience she was experiencing. Even her thoughts were no longer making sense, becoming too repetitive, bleeding out their meaning and their sounds, until they sounded just like… an otherworldly… droning tone… that she must have heard somewhere outside her body first, but now she heard it in her head…

She turned in the shower’s enclosure, and tried to pull at the handle, get the glass-door to swing up. She didn’t even care that that meant the water from the shower-nozzle would just spray out directly onto the floor. She was in emergency-mode, she was only thinking about escaping.

But the door was jammed. No matter how she banged on it, or jiggled the latch— it just wouldn’t open. And the swooping was getting worse, like her heart swooped with it, like she might faint in the shower.

She just had to stop what was happening. She turned back to the water, and twisted futilely at the taps— letting out noises of increasing desperation. The water wasn’t stopping— again she tried to turn the taps, and again— and again— but the water was still beating down on her. She felt it in every pore of her skin, felt the heat was going into her.

Suddenly, it was feeling like magic— with each second, the heat grew more intense, the water felt more slick— she let out a groan she hadn’t been able to control— the water was falling more cyclically now— like a greater water-pressure bore down on her, and then eased back.

Somehow it gave the illusion of massage— and then her body was unconsciously moving with it— surging forward, swaying back— when it bore down hardest, the shower-spray— her body contracted in it, held in its warmth, and when the pressure faded to a drizzle she swayed back out of the way of it. Swinging while it massaged her— the water beating into contracted muscles and taking all the tension out— then the pressure of the water fading to almost nothing, as she swayed back, completely relaxed— and then the pressure became unbearable— but her body already understood intuitively that it must knot itself for that pressure, that it must stand in the beam of it— so then everything knotted, and she surged back into the center of the shower’s emittance— only for everything to remain solid; it was only water but it was massaging her… and her body was no longer quite her own, responding without thought, responding obediently— then it knotted and unknotted muscle at the water’s command, while in her mind she could barely process what was happening, let alone understand.

Outside Tessi’s house, and many feet in the sky, there was a small hovercraft— on this hovercraft, one of the life-forms had specifically hacked Tessi’s shower to control water-pressure, lighting, sonality— with all of these tools, it tried to encourage Tessi to a greater state of obedience; it wanted to own her completely— and it played with its dials again in the hopes of being yet persuasive…

Of course, those many feet down, and in her shower, Tessi had no knowledge of this. She realized how strange she was feeling, however, and tried to fight— she tried to break the cycle, to resist the way her body felt— trying to regain control over her own actions.

But the water was still massaging her. Her pussy was wet and not from the water— her nipples were two sharp points of sexual frustration— the light was still blaring and the tone still droning— did she hear voices?

Yes, she thought she heard voices in it— they soothed her, filled her body with a sense of calm— the tone was a droning, but it hid things inside, hid things underneath— and that speaking— it wasn’t like any speech she’d ever heard, any words that were spoken on earth— otherworldly, like the light, like the musicality of the tone itself— something that had come from beyond the earth— a language completely unfamiliar, and bizarre.

Her mind couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t find understanding— scrabbled in confusion, and so she just stopped trying. It was more important that she find a way to control her body again— for now she was still stuck, her body obeying perfectly— surging forward, knotting up, swaying back, looser than her body ever was during the course of her daily life, so loose she thought she might puddle-up on the floor of the shower and circle the shower-drain. No, she didn’t want to feel this; didn’t want to feel her muscles twisting themselves up and then so erotically untying. It made her whimper every time— and not just in fear. Part of those whimpers were based in fear— but it also made her feel so vulnerable, so sensitive and responsive. All her flesh becoming so tight, so sore and contorted just upon the command of the water— squeezing so tightly she thought her muscles would tear, would rip themselves apart— and then just at the unbearable moment, everything relaxed, and then she was loose like strings of spaghetti, so floppy, her heart-rate so relaxed— barely able to stay conscious, like she might fall asleep standing…

And all the time her body responded erotically. Her nipples ached, forever unsatisfied— two bulleted points, which made her want to twist anew. If only she could think enough— control her body enough to put them between her fingers and twist and pinch— she didn’t care if she twisted them raw, they needed some kind of direct stimulation—

Her pussy was almost worse. Her clit felt about as bulleted as her nipples— it ached— it ached, it was a point of frustration, but a frustration so many times more potent than the frustration she knew in her nipples— her pussy felt the same way inside— like she needed something to be penetrating her in there. Her walls were crying out, screaming, pleading and begging— wanting that so badly, but she was painfully empty.

All that erotic sensation in her body, it only translated to frustration, because there was nothing there to assuage it… If only something—

No! She thought forcefully, appalled at the way her body continued to be coaxed by the water, continued to move with it— she had to— stop— if she couldn’t make the water stop, and couldn’t get the door of the shower to open… then she should stand beneath the spray of the shower, directly under the nozzle, so it couldn’t touch her anymore, stand there and wrap her arms around her body, and just wait… until something else happened. The water turned cold— or Matthew came home and liberated her— that was what she should do, what she must fight for.

But her body still wasn’t listening to her. Inside she thrashed, tried seizing control even of one arm, of one leg— of even one hand, even one finger. Nothing changed. Inside her, nothing shifted, nothing budged.

It was so hard to think— but this was wrong, wasn’t it? They didn’t have any kind of special high-tech shower— it was just supposed to emit one spout of water at the same moderate water-pressure. It wasn’t supposed to be able to modulate itself— wasn’t supposed to be able to massage; they didn’t have one of those massage-jet bathtubs, and they certainly didn’t have a massage-jet shower— if such a thing existed— and yet the water massaged her more effectively than any massage-jet would have ever been able to.

And the light. That light. It felt like it was burning her mind, peeling it back, peeling through all her defenses until that orange light was a spotlight in her head, as well as all through the shower. And that droning tone— there— like it burned into her mind. Her head was empty. There was only the orange light. It burned into her mind. Her head was empty. There was only the tone. It burned into her mind. Her head was empty. There was only the voices.

Tessi panicked again, feeling how much she had lost further control of herself in that moment. She tried to regain control of herself, but she was directly in the shower’s spray— she felt every inch of muscle, of flesh in her body, contorting painfully, to the ripping point— and then more of that unbearable water-pressure beat down on her, her body shaking, her body vibrating with it— and then suddenly, every knot melted— and the sensation had been too overwhelming that time— when everything unspooled that time, her pussy contracted roughly, and she understood that she had had a quick, small orgasm.

The pleasure was as sharp as the point of a knife— as burning as the orange color in her brain, as burning as the droning, as burning as the voices hidden within the tone— and the frustration, in her pussy, in her nipples, in her clit— for one moment it was soothed—

And then it was back, worse than ever.

She howled in frustration, but the water-pressure had eased back— she swayed back onto her heels, the water only a trickle out of the nozzle. She might really fall asleep this time— but the light was still there— her eyes were stuck on it, and it was the only thing in her brain. The droning was there— her ears were fixed on it— it was the only thing in her brain. The voices were hidden in the tone— her mind was stuck on them— they were the only thing in her brain.

Her body pulsed in the lasting pleasure— her mind was the orange light. Her body pulsed in the lasting pleasure— her mind was the droning tone. Her body pulsed in the pleasure— her mind was the chorus of whispering voices.

She had been doing a better job of struggling internally before, at least, even if she had never quite managed to regain the ability to influence the movements of her body. Now she could barely remember how to struggle, even mentally— the pleasure had really incapacitated her— the orgasm— even though it had been small— had been too much.

And then suddenly the water-pressure was back. It compelled her body to surge forward and stand directly beneath it. “No, please,” Tessi moaned, tiredly, in despair. But her body was back beneath the spray— and that spray— it beat into her so hard— and every muscle responded— twisting like knotting rope, around and over itself— it hurt— so tight— she would rip this time— her mind was the light was the tone was the chorus of voice— the water beat in even harder—

Only last pulse of water— and everything in her came undone. The water was drawing back but the pleasure surged even higher— the orgasm had started— and water that was still on her body ran down the planes of it— trickled past her clit, and a second orgasm was triggered immediately, doubling back over the first— it was too much— but the pleasure silenced her mind. And there was the light. And there was the tone. And there were the voices.

She felt sluggish with the pleasure— her legs shook to keep her standing— she struggled to remember how to fight, how to resist— her mind was so cloudy now— her cunt was still spasming.

Pleasure. Pleasure was light. Pleasure was tone. Pleasure was voices. Pleasure.

It was like an ocean that drowned her— she tried to reach the surface, tried to get to air.

Pleasure. Pleasure, and so, light. Pleasure, and so, tone, Pleasure, and so, voices—

It felt like each orgasm dragged her down deeper into the ocean that was drowning her— deeper, to the place she could not even remember how to think—

The water-pressure increased. She was directly beneath the spray— on the brink of ripping herself apart— then it surged a little harder— she surged a little closer— and everything came apart. The orgasm was more powerful. And then it was light, and then it was tone, and then it was voices—

And pleasure. It pulsed. She swayed back but it pulsed. Pulsed and it pulsed light and tone and—

Those voices. They were so beautiful. They attracted her. She wanted to listen to them forever. She never wanted to stop. The orgasms were stronger every time, and every time, the voices were a little louder. She didn’t care any longer that she couldn’t understand them. She just wanted to keep listening to them. They were so good to listen to.

And the color. Always so vibrant. So orange. The color and the tone and the voices and the water. The compelling of her body forwards, the sending of it back— the tightening, the loosening. The orgasms that gripped with greater and greater ferocity. The voices that grew louder and louder.

She felt like her head was swooping again— or, though she stood in place, that she was revolving around and around. Every revolution had her deeper into that drowning ocean. There was a word for something like this— it was trance, but she was disappearing further into it— down in that ocean where it got so much easier to never think again— forget how it had ever felt to think.

Don’t think. Only orgasm. There was a spasming in her body. And light and tone and voices—

Don’t think. Only orgasm. The body in the shower— it convulsed. It convulsed. It convulsed.

Don’t think. Only orgasm. Convulsion. Convulsion.

Don’t think— only orgasm—

Time was bleeding away. Time didn’t exist— there was no such thing as time. Only orgasm— there had to be more orgasm— and less thought— no thought— thought didn’t exist either. The body in the shower convulsed again.

Tessi didn’t know, but though time had ceased to exist for her, it continued to progress. One hour went by like this. The woman in the shower stared with empty eyes. Her body convulsed each time the shower triggered her— it triggered her more and more often with each passing minute. One hour became two hours, became three hours, became four hours.

There was nothing left in her head by this point. She was only a body convulsing in orgasm, more painfully than her muscles had contracted themselves, whenever the water triggered her.

After five hours, the woman reached for the tap. This time when she turned it, the water stopped. Then, as if by magic, the shower opened.

Tessi had no awareness. She had no will. But she stepped from the shower, her body naked and dripping, pussy still convulsing in her final orgasm.

She stepped from the bathroom. She went outside onto the front lawn.

As soon as she arrived there, a beam of light fell upon her from the hovercraft so high above— Tessi’s mind was too hypnotized to register this.

Tessi’s mind returned to her. She was still feeling very confused, and sluggish. It wasn’t so different from when she’d woken up that morning to begin with. She was filled with exhaustion, and again filled with despair. Dread was sitting in her heart, and she was so tired she just knew she wanted everything to stop. She didn’t want to have to be here, doing this— didn’t want to have to be awake, didn’t want to have to continue living through the next few moments. Couldn’t she sleep through them instead, wake up later, when things would be better? Wake up, and find that everything that was expected of her had miraculously been completed and she didn’t have to think about it anymore…

But wait, what was expected of her? Where was she, and what was happening? It didn’t feel like she was lying in her bed— she had woken up earlier that morning, so this wasn’t her first time being conscious today— she remembered the earlier time. She was also feeling pretty confident that she had never gone back up to her bed and laid down, so she couldn’t be back there again… then where was she?

Her eyes were still closed; she should try to use them to see what was around her, look for answers. When she tried to remember what happened before she woke up, her mind gave her nothing. There was only emptiness there, a total blanking. No explanations of any kind.

She opened her eyes, and looked around.

This wasn’t her room— didn’t look anything like her house. Maybe she was having a dream? She looked like she was on the set of a low-budget, trashy science fiction film. The room— or was it better called a space? The area she was in was made of shiny metallic parts— quite aways across from her there was a control-board, a console— with all kinds of levers and glowing lights— maybe they were buttons which were not tactile— which would respond to pushing— do something in response when they were tapped, only electronically conveyed. In front of this console there was a great screen— maybe it could show the pilot of this craft anything they wanted to see, but for now it was showing empty space— literally space, out of space— millions of stars far away, galaxies a little farther than that— if this was something someone had set up as a joke, they had put a lot effort into the set-up.

Other than this, there was just a lot of empty floor-space; and a door— like something out of science fiction, too— if it opened, it would split in half and draw back on either side— if it closed, then it would seal, both sides meeting in the middle together, gripping into each other with teeth-shaped protrusions in the metal that latched together. For now the door was resting closed— each of those squares were slotted together, holding that way.

Apart from the console, there was one other thing in the area. Centered in the ceiling, there was a great orb— wider, so wide— so huge— taking up the center of the ceiling. It was clear— clear and kind of cloudy inside, so Tessi couldn’t tell if there was supposed to be anything in there— there wasn’t much worth looking at there, but it was noteworthy because of its size.

All the metal was white-silver; so light in color, and so shiny. So shiny that when Tessi looked at the floor, it was reflecting her back mirrorfically; the lights above were harsh in their brightness— and the tint to the lighting was just pale, just white— but it shone down at such an angle that Tessi’s reflection was cast ahead onto the floor so she could actually see it. If the light had been directly over had, the reflection would have reflected straight down, under her chair, so she could not see it— but because of the angle— it was like a mirror had been set up, lain on the floor— she saw herself perfectly.

The sight made her shriek.

Her body had not changed, of course— she was the same person— but it was all the things she had been adorned with that made her shriek, made her fear. Compared to the clean, crisp lines of everything in the area— even the clean crisp lines of the orb suspended in the ceiling— this was chaos. There were wires tangled all around her— a frightening mess— she didn’t know how she could ever hope to emerge from them— she could only barely discern her form from within them.

Tears of nervousness were pricking in her eyes— she stared harder at her reflection in the floor— she could see more— the wires wound around her and around whatever the kind of chair was that she was sitting on— it was very rectangular— with crisp edges again, made of the same white-silver color— it looked almost like it was composed of those teeth-latching connections like the door— so maybe it could be customized in anyway, at any time, but for now, it was just a solid, free-standing rectangle that had a square seat which came off it horizontally, and which supported her.

The wires bound around it, and then around her— such a tangle— like many bits of straw in a bird’s ness; like tangled human hair, though Tessi could see that the wires were still wires.

The wires were mostly there to hold her in place, but there were places they did something different— came to end here and there in particular places.

For example, on her nipples, it felt like there was something— silicone— something— a pad holding there, conforming around— there was a wire on the back of it; both pads on her nipples were like this.

There was a pad similar to this on her clit— with a wire attached to the back of it— there were many pads like this positioned in geometric patterns all across both of her breasts, all across her labia— each of them connected, on their backside, to one of the wires.

There were multiple pads on her temples as well, connected also to these wires.

So far none of the pads seemed to be doing anything— but each one had its own purpose— it had been put there deliberately. That had been why she shrieked when she saw them— she didn’t want these things to exact their nefarious purpose on her— didn’t want to find out what they did— but she was so tangled she didn’t see how she could escape.

She tried pulling at the wires, but again, nothing moved. Nothing changed. She was trapped.

Trapped… she had been trapped before, hadn’t she? Hazy impressions of something, some time else, were coming back to her now… she had tried to pull at a door— turn at a tap.

The shower! She had been stuck in her shower— it had entranced her— she could remember now. It had entranced her, and then she had turned, completely unaware, walked from her bathroom, walked from her house, and a beam had fallen on her—

She jolted in place with a start, though it didn’t serve to move her around at all. A beam— but then— that meant that this really was a spaceship. Something had beamed her up here, and then set her up in this chair like this.

She had been put into a trance once, had been seduced into a trance by pleasure— and now, each one of the pads was stuck to her most erogenous parts— on her clit, on her nipples— across her breast-surface, across her labia-surface… and those pads on her temples— the set-up suggested pleasure, suggested mental interference, too. So maybe… they… whoever they were, they would try… to seduce her into trance again.

Well, she would fight them! She would—

Her head was pounding— she’d been so slowly readjusting to being awake it had taken her until now to notice, but now it was unmistakeable. It pounded, it throbbed, until it felt like it was swooping again, and she felt like she was revolving— though she could see her reflection in the perfect shiny floor and saw that she was not moving.

She spun for a while like this, trying to fight her way out of the confusion.

And then she heard a whirring noise, and looked ahead.

The teeth of the metal door were unlatching themselves— and as Tessi had predicted, when they pulled apart, the door had split in half down the middle, and each half had pulled sideways, until there was no sign of any door, and only an open arch there.

There was a figure passing through it. She felt more conscious but she was still struggling to make it out.

It was only when it was standing directly in front of her chair that she could properly see it.

Then she saw that it was horrible. She hated it.

It didn’t look like any alien she had ever heard described. It was so disgusting looking. Like someone had taken clay and just kept mounding it together, until a strange oblong misshapen flesh sphere had come together— this was the thing’s head— it was covered with many eyes— and its flesh was blue, sometimes streaking into indigo or purple— but it must have had a thousand eyes, and its misshapen sphere of a head bobbled, like a ridiculous bobble-head— on a thin neck that should have snapped under the weight but never did— thin neck, thin shoulders, thin body— it was the height that Tessi was when she was sitting down, but half of its mass was in the head— it was smooth between its legs, which reassured Tessi— it could not force itself on her sexually. Although that made her wonder how this creature reproduced.

It legs were also thin, and each one ended in small feet. And that head, that great bobbing head. It was making Tessi feel sick in her stomach— the head bobbed and wavered, but the small body showed no sign of difficulty. The thing had walked to her without stumbling.

A thousand eyes were watching her, from within that huge misshapen blue head— staring at her. Where was its mouth? How did it eat? Did it need to breathe? Why was this its form? It made no sense from an evolutionary point of view, especially if the thing couldn’t even reproduce.

But maybe it was immortal? That was the only thing that could possibly explain why it lacked reproductive organs. Perhaps these things just… spawned somehow… and then lived for a thousand centuries— one for each eye, Tessi thought hysterically— so ugly, so disgusting— she didn’t want to look— didn’t want to see—

How had these things technologically advanced to the point of being able to build spaceships? If this craft had traveled faster than the speed of light to get here— if it had been capable of some kind of hyper-jump— then how had this technology been invented, been discovered? Everything about this creature was impractical— how could their civilization be so technologically advanced?

Tessi’s nausea was starting to overcome her. She wanted to spew out.

The thing kept staring at her— Tessi stared back, and felt frozen for a moment.

It was when those thousands of eyes blinked— that was when she was jolted out of her frozen-ness. Those gross, fleshy-eyelids, closing like the doors, coming in from two sides, meeting above the middle of each side— and then retracting into the flesh-head with a horrible squelching sound.

She had been observing the thing clinically, considering it, criticizing it; that had been a defense— a coping mechanism. But suddenly, with the squelch of thousands of eyelids retracting, she was shattered. She started screaming a scream that never stopped. It was a nightmare, it was only a nightmare, she had to wake up— she had to wake up now but she was still screaming— still screaming—

She screamed harder— an arch of eyes towards the lower part of the creatures head moved— each one came off the head, like it was a flower on a stalk that was shooting forward from a vine, or from the earth— so far— then each of those eyes wavered on those stalks— but Tessi could see through them— behind them, where they had left the head, there was just blue flesh, sometimes indigo, sometimes purple— but a line split in it, and it opened like a mouth, stringy with more flesh— and yet when it spoke—

She recognized the voice. How could she hate it? It spoke so mellifluously, so melodically— it spoke in that foreign language she had never been able to understand— her mind scrabbled over it for purchase— trying to find something intelligible amid it, but nothing was found. It stunned her, stopped her screaming— it spoke, she understood nothing, but the sound of its voice was comforting. Had she heard this voice speaking over itself a thousand times, or had she heard a chorus of a thousand of these things speaking all together? She had no answer on that.

The thing seemed to understand she did not understand it— but still, it spoke like that anyway. When it finished speaking, the mouth disappeared from its head, and the eyes on the stalks retracted until they were once more affixed in flesh.

Just the sight of that happening almost had her speaking again, but she saw now that the thing had summoned a square pad into its hand. It tapped at the glowing lights on it several times— then every wire, on the chair and on her body, let out a loud humming noise. There were coming to life— the pads were coming to life—

Where the wires were against her skin, they were warm— she felt them conducting electrical impulses— and they kept warming her entire body as they did this— she felt every wire that was around her warming, carrying its electricity.

These impulses were converted when they reached the pads that were at the wire’s ends. There, they became sucking sensations— pads sucking at her temples like they were trying to suck her brain out through them. Pads sucking everywhere they were attached to her breasts— pads sucking her nipples, pads sucking her clit, pads sucking everywhere they were attached to her labia.

They moved— they breathed with her. They sucked and then released, sucked and then released. Each time she seemed to be more sensitive— and they transmitted— when they sucked at her, something was sent through them, into her body— she couldn’t understand it— it was like the water, before— the heat getting deeper, the water only running off— something was getting in deeper, beaming in through each of the pads, speaking to her muscles, to her flesh. She couldn’t tell what it was doing yet. She was so distracted by the fact she was getting sucked.

What entered her mind was even stranger— still that language she could not understand, but in the aftermath of hearing it spoken, each time, she felt different. She had new thoughts she hadn’t thought before— she heard the tone in her mind— heat conducting down the wires that led to her temples, and then passing through the pads— then she heard that speech and then— then—

She thought how glad she was to have been taken captive by these aliens. She thought how right it was that she should belong to them— she thought how she wanted them to do whatever they wanted to her— she thought how happy she was to sit in this chair and get brainwashed by their alien brainwashing—

She jolted herself out of that progression of thought. So they were brainwashing her, and that was what they were calling it… the concept was only vaguely familiar to her, something that had always been in the background of her notice, something she’d never bothered to spend much time thinking about, because she didn’t think it would ever be relevant. Having paid more attention at those times her focus had been elsewhere probably wouldn’t have made a difference to her situation now, even if she had done it.

At least she felt like herself again. She kept looking down at the floor— not wanting to face the alien again, afraid that she might start to scream once more. She’d look at the floor, at her reflection there.

It was like washing, this whole experience. It was like washing because it was so slow; all about slow surging like water— things falling over her— like she stood beneath the shower again— like she stood beneath a waterfall— her body hit by it, coated by it, all of it streaking over her, trickling down; like that one line of water had trickled directly over her clit.

She shuddered. The pads on her temples pulsed— she heard the alien speech. Then by rote her mind spit out thoughts. She was the aliens’ slave— she was their possession. They owned her and they could do anything liked to her, since she was their property. She was the aliens’ property. She wanted to be their property, liked being their property, loved it, lived for it.

Even thinking these thoughts was a sexual experience— and it didn’t matter that she was only thinking these thoughts because of the exerted forced which was being directed at her. It was sexual just to think them, because every time she heard that alien tongue spoken in her thoughts— every time her thoughts thought an understanding back in response, all the pads in her intimate places activated— sucked, pulsed warmth into her— it made her wetter it. It made her hornier. And though she understood two different things were happening: she thought, and then her body was pleasured, because of the confusion in her mind, it felt to her that one caused the other. Thoughts caused pleasure.

There was a strange sound just then— her mind was hazy, but it still registered— her mind was hazy— she drifted between the compulsion to think the thoughts the alien language whispered to her— and the pleasure that came from that— between doing that and feeling like herself again, rebelling inwardly— but the sound cut through the whole cycle, took her out of it— and though she had sworn she didn’t want to see the alien anymore, the sound had clearly come from it, so her eyes went there almost without her permission; just to see what had caused the sound to happen.

What she saw was more horrible than she could have imagined. The misshapen sphere head was splitting down the middle— breaking like it was the shell of a nut, peeling like it was the skin of a fruit— pulling apart from the place it had split in half like the doors on this ship opened from the center out.

Inside was not a brain. Inside was a writhing mess of tentacles.

Tessi shrieked again at the site— not able to repress it— the body of the alien— or was it even its body? The humanoid form of it fell to the ground, and the writhing mass of tentacles slithered across the floor, closer to Tessi’s chair.

She pulled at her bonds, trying to get further away from it. She still screamed— her eyes were crying— yet her mind thought with dispassion.

This explained the alien’s odd proportions.

It had just been using the humanoid form as a vehicle— it could put itself in it like a costume, but it was still that same tentacled monstrosity underneath— that was where the alien thought— probably, the tentacles were how the alien reproduced— the creature as a whole was making a lot more sense to her, and there was some satisfaction in her mind at having put it together— but she was still screaming; her mind and her emotions split— her mind observing objectively, but her emotions still consumed by panic.

The creature had reached the base of her chair; and it raised it tentacles. Soon, she felt one of them between her thighs— then she felt one between the cheeks of her ass.

They were so thick; but they came to tips that were narrow; however it seemed able to secret some kind of lubricant from each tip, and it was stroking that lubricant into her each hole; the once each hole was a little wet, both tentacles began to penetrate her.

She thrashed again, once more trying to escape what it was doing to her, but she wasn’t getting anywhere.

More tentacles came up; two to grab her breasts— two to grab her nipples. Even with the pads still everywhere on her, she could feel them. Two to take fistfuls of her labia, one to take a fistful of her clit— it touched her everywhere, and the tentacles penetrating her had gotten very far inside; high up, squirming.

Those alien tentacles fucked her. She wanted to scream— but the pads on her still worked— even though in some places, she could feel the tentacles touching her from around them, they all stayed in place, none of them were removed.

The pads at her temples were transmitting constantly. The alien tentacles were fucking her. Good. She was the aliens’ property. The alien tentacles were fucking her. They should. She belonged to the aliens and they could do anything liked to her. They wanted to fuck her, and so they should. She was only their property and she should take their fucking when they gave it to her. She wanted to, loved to, lived to…

So many of the thoughts were repetitions. Her mind ached from having so much energy beamed in constantly; the pads still aroused her, the thoughts still aroused her, but now when she was aroused, something touched against that arousal, allowed it to released. She remembered dimly in the shower— how empty her pussy had seemed.

It was so full now. The tentacle filled it entirely; went all the way through it, into her womb. It filled that entirely, too, coiled around it, sealed to its inner-lining on every wall; it felt like it gripped to her by suckers; this was nearly intolerable, since the walls of her womb felt so sensitive, and yet they were being gripped everywhere by suckers, as the tentacle stayed coiled in there. Filling her pussy to be coiled in there.

Far below the spaceship, things were happening, things that went beyond what was transpiring between Tessi and her alien. The spaceship kept moving, installing itself above a house here, or there. It would sit there for a brief period— until eventually a naked woman emerged, at which point it sent down a beam of light, which struck the woman and brought her onboard the ship.

So many rooms. So many rooms and so many women; all the rooms the same as the room Tessi had found herself in— each with that same orb centered in the ceiling. Not every woman was subjected to the pad and device treatment Tessi had been given; some were only restrained on chairs; beneath the centered ceiling orb.

For these women, the orbs opened; and many different tentacled aliens came out of their resting place to attack the woman they found all at once; shredding her restraints, knocking her to the floor; putting tentacles in her every orifice; in through her nose, through her ears, through her mouth; so many different aliens at once accessing her brain. Room after room, the same thing happened; the woman placed in there completely lost her will, her ability to think— had it fucked out of her, until she was only an alien’s sex-slave. Only an alien’s sex-slave, with no thoughts inside her head at all, and never to think again— only to get fucked, only to take tentacles, and pleasure them, present her body to them for plundering.

All of this, however, was irrelevant to Tessi. She didn’t know anything about it, had no idea that it was going on, had no idea that anything was still happening beyond the room where she was getting fucked and conditioned, beyond the room where she was being held in an alien’s ownership— beyond the room where she was being owned. The doors had closed so long ago and she was being owned— fucked everywhere; fucked in her ass, fucked in her pussy, fucked in her womb. The suckers there contracted every so often, making her feel like there were thousands of mouths along her womb-walls, making her feel like every so often those mouths sucked, better than human mouths could suck; and the tentacle which went up her pussy to get all the way to her womb; it stretched her all the time; undulated, to increase the discomfort of the penetration, to make her feel so full she thought her vaginal walls might tear—

And so Tessi was oblivious— she didn’t know that the aliens were continuing to abduct more women, didn’t know what they were doing with them; had never even learned for herself that the orb in the ceiling held many aliens at once— that they rested in their until they want to dress themselves in a humanoid and take actions that required the dexterity of four simple limbs. She only knew the fucking. Only knew the brainwashing. So she was fucked and brainwashed, and knew nothing else.

Everything that was happening to her was very overstimulating, and it had been happening for so long. It was hard to be clear-headed; hard even to come back to feeling like herself. The energy beamed constantly into her thoughts and all she could think about was how she was property and owned and how wet that made her; how she was made to be fucked by the aliens, to be fucked by the aliens forever— thinking they should never stop. That was the brainwashing, the energy beaming right into her mind and conditioning her with the pleasure of her fucking.

But there was hypnosis too. Beams of light were shot into the room in otherworldly colors, and they flashed in random sequences— seduced her mind into trance, trance over top of brainwashing, both happening at the same time; sending her deep while her mind spewed regurgitated brainwashed thought simultaneously— all while she was fucked, and the pleasure deepened her trance and reinforced her brainwashing; and she was fucked in her pussy, and she was fucked in her ass— and now, every so often, each of the pads administered with an electrical shock, which made her jump from the pain. But after the pain had past, each time, what the shock had really done was open her further to sensation. And opening to sensation reinforced her brainwashing, and opening to sensation deepened her tranced state of being hypnotized, and all of it made the fucking more effective, and also more pleasurable.

She had gotten pulled into the treatment; losing her sense of identity, losing the ability to control her own mind— and she had stayed in that lost place for quite a while.

But something was changing now— all the other tentacles still worked on her— all the other parts of the process kept working in the same way; but the new thing now was that there was yet another tentacle— rising clearly towards her mouth. It was the only place it could be going.

That made Tessi snap. She started screaming again, started crying worse than ever, felt the tears streaking down her face— shrieked and shrieked, and pulled, heaved— against wire and tentacle and pad and everything that had her trapped in this nightmare— she screamed and screamed, and then suddenly her screams were cut off as the tentacle plunged into her mouth, and pushed itself part of the way down her throat.

She couldn’t make any sounds at all, then. She knew the tentacle could have gone further— all the way to her stomach— but it stopped there, at the curve of her throat.

Then it started spurting into her. Started spurting in its reproductive fluids, feeding her its sperm.

It went easily down her passage, and when it was in her stomach, it made her feel heavy and warm. The tentacle pulled back so that it sat in her mouth. Then she could actually taste its sperm against her tastebuds. And it was yummy. So entirely delicious.

The alien fed her tentacle-sperm; tasty, tasty tentacle-sperm. It was so delectable against her tongue. Then it slid easily down her throat, filling her stomach more and more, making her feel heavier and heavier with satiety, making her more and more sleepy.

And she was being fucked in every hole. A tentacle pumped her mouth. A tentacle pumped her pussy. A tentacle pumped her ass. She was alien property and she could live as this alien’s host, if it wanted her that way. She could walk and live and sleep and move, stand and sit, all with the alien hanging off her like this, wrapped around her, filling her everywhere— that was so arousing to imagine, she wished it would happen— wished the alien on her body would be inseparable from her— always penetrating, always pumping her full of its tentacle-sperm; more tentacles wrapped around her, holding onto her— the tentacle in her womb attached by suckers— she never wanted to be separated from it. She was the new human shell, the costume it pulled on, the puppet— it should be the only thing she ever wore.

Something stabbed through her heart. But she hadn’t always been here! Hadn’t always been like this! She’d had a husband, a family. She’d been a mother. She’d never see her family again, and it crushed her heart and made her want to cry.

She kept getting fucked.

It never stopped. It made her hornier. It dissolved her will. It turned off her thoughts.

More time passed. She kept getting fucked. The tentacle in her pussy undulated. The tentacle in her ass did the same. The suckers on every wall of her womb sucked. The pads shocked her. The lights entranced her mind— the tentacle in her mouth fed her its sperm. Her stomach got heavier. She got sleepier. That made her mind easier to entrance. And the pads at her temple beamed energy in and she thought I am a fuck-sock for the alien tentacles, I love being a fuck-sock for the alien tentacles, they should fuck me forever, I exist to be filled up with alien sperm, I exist for the aliens to have orgasms in— she was brainwashed and she was hypnotized and she was fucked.

Further time elapsed. The thought rose like slow bubbles through water. She… liked… what was happening to her. Liked being treated this way— she liked what the aliens were subjecting her to. She liked to undergo their treatment, to have so many things done to her at once— each one of them erasing her, and bringing unbelievable pleasure.

She’d… had a husband once… and a family… she couldn’t remember any of their names not.

Her arms were unbound from the chair— a new tentacle was there. Mindlessly she wrapped both hands around it, and started jerking on it. She worked it robotically, automatically, controlled by the brainwashing and hypnosis in her brain— pulling and pulling— until finally that tentacle came. Her mind dumbed, and weakened.

After some more time, in which her mind further broke down, Tessi came to a new understanding of herself and her life. She had never existed before coming to awareness in this room. She had no past; there had been no life before this. She had woken in the chair, without a name, without an identity, understanding that she would be taken by the tentacles and that was what she was made for. She had not been born. She had not grown up.

The tentacle-aliens had a life-form spawner. They could access it through their consoles. Her alien had gone to the console, and designed her to its specifications— than it had tapped the console and made her spawn, a fully matured adult female, ideal for reproductive purposes, and ideal for pleasure purposes. She had existed for less than a day; she had been spawned, intended for this existence of being fucked forever, and then vulnerable in her new spawning, she had been so pathetic and weak she hadn’t been able to stand-up to the sexy overpowering alien which had now claimed her. Her mind had melted into a puddle of nothing as soon as it had penetrated her. She was too weak to ever resist. She had been made for this. Meant for this. She had existed less than a day—

She was only horny. She only wanted to fuck the alien. Be fucked by the alien. Be its fuck-sock, the costume it wore forever. She was so horny.

She was the alien’s costume. She was a shell— she had nothing inside of her. No existence. No identity. She hadn’t been spawned to have one. She had been spawned empty, and the tentacle-alien could fill and use her forever— she was like a disguise— truly like a shell, a turtle’s shell, the encasing thing the soft life-form filled, moved within. Only there to be fucked. Only there to contain. She was the alien’s glove; its clothing to wear, to manipulate. It would never have to use the humanoid shell it’d used before. It could use her now. It could fuck her forever. She wanted it to fuck her forever. She never wanted it to stop. She was empty with nothing inside, and needed it.

She had thought she was finished, but she wasn’t, quite. A shrunken remnant of her mind returned, in response to an external shift once more— when the tentacle had presented at her mouth, to fuck it, it had roused her— now, with this latest shift, she was roused again.

So her mind was back. The alien was still trying to brainwash her. In this moment, she was being actively brainwashed.

The best defense, as far as she could see, even with her mind in a somewhat diminished shape, was to just keep thinking her own original thoughts.

I’m Tessi. It doesn’t matter that I can’t remember who I was before, it doesn’t matter if I can’t disprove the thought that I was only spawned to be this alien’s plaything— I can still think. It doesn’t matter how I arrived here, or why I did, I’m still human, I don’t have to be an alien plaything. I can choose for myself, and I want to choose freedom. I do choose freedom.

She could still feel the brainwashing, though. There was a hot shock from all the pads pressed to her body; then in the ensuing second of confusion, an insistent pad-beam at her temples; the thought which followed was different than the original thoughts she had just tried to think.

I am a fuck-sock. I am for this alien to pleasure itself with. I am an alien plaything.

She exhaled measuredly. There was no need to panic, just because the brainwashing worked for a minute didn’t mean anything. She was still Tessi, she still had control over her own mind. She tried thinking again.

I’m Tessi, she repeated, since it seemed important to refute the belief that she was just a fuck-sock without a name. She’d forgotten her entire life before, if she’d had one, but she still remembered her name. She’d think that next. I’m Tessi and I still remember my own name, and I’ll always remember my own name. I’ll never forget it. And see? I have a name. That means I’m an individual. I belong to myself, I have my own identity, I’m more than just a thing for this alien to use for pleasure.

The thought that time hadn’t seemed to cover as much ground as the previous thought; it had been narrowed in focus. Tessi was quick to think again, on the heels of this realization.

But the fact that my second thought was a little less detailed, a little less broad than my first, that’s no reason to panic either! I was just being specific— I didn’t need to generalize so much the second time, that’s all.

She drew another breath.

I am Tessi. I’m more than just a thing for this alien to use pleasurably.

The brainwashing happened again. The pads all seemed to simultaneously heat up— then immediately shocked her, and once again, as she was still dazed by the shock, those pads at her temples beamed in more energy.

I am nothing more than a thing for this alien to use pleasurably. I am NOTHING more than a thing for this alien to use pleasurably.

Her mind was so empty for a second this claim seemed to echo down through it for a while.

She blinked a few times, trying to reorient herself. It wasn’t really fair. Somehow, the device was aware of her thoughts— or maybe the alien was, maybe it was somehow telepathic, reading her mind through some method she didn’t know; because every thought that was brainwashed into her was a direct refutation of whichever thought she’d most recently thought, as a resistive effort.

She had understood that whole concept without words, but perhaps now she would articulate it— should articulate it, if she could, though she was feeling a bit uneven, a bit unsteady.

I think a thought and then the pad-beam brainwashes in a thought that is opposite to it, brainwashes it into my head.

She noticed, again, wordlessly— she had distilled a complicated concept down to very simple words; this being her third thought overall, since her mind returned— and this had been the shortest one yet.

That’s still no reason to panic, Tessi reminded herself. And does that reminder count as a fourth thought overall, or not, because really it’s a repeating of something I thought before… I think it was my second thought…? Wait, there’s a word that’s better than ‘repeating,’ but that means the same thing. Isn’t there? It sounds more formal, or something. Reptit— repeti— rep— no, I can’t remember.

Tessi blinked again a few times. Stop letting your mind drift, you actually have to focus. There’s a point you can make here, a point that will help you… you should think it…

Blinking so far seemed to be a useful centering action, so she did again, even though she’d just done it a second before.

I’ll repeat my third thought again. When I think a thought, the pad-beam brainwashes the opposite of that thought into my head. But it’s only doing that because each thought I think is a strong thought. It has power. It makes the device feel threatened. And it makes the alien feel threatened. I should allow that to comfort me.

She drew in a slow breath once more. She missed being able to do simple actions like nod or shake her head. That wasn’t a thought, either, just a sinking feeling in her heart, a vague sadness.

Don’t wallow. Hold onto the new thought. The device is threatened by my original thoughts. My alien—

NO, not mine. THE alien. The alien is threatened by my original thougths. My original thoughts are strong and make me stronger— my original thoughts are strong and make me stronger.

It was like an asinine chant. It seemed quite a few times simpler than what she’d started out thinking.

She felt the pads heating up again, and tensed herself. Sure enough, a second later, they shocked her— and then the temple-pads beamed.

I do not think original thoughts. If I did, my thoughts would be nothing. Because I am nothing. I am so pathetic, so puny, I could never pose any kind of threat to my superiors, my alien masters— I am less than a sentient being; so I deserve less than any sentient being, I deserve no respect, I am unworthy. I am not sentient. I am an animal who cannot think. I am a pet, I am livestock, I am nothing. I do not think.

It took her longer to come back from that one— there had been quite an irritated tinge to that enforced thought. And then even when she felt a bit like herself again… she found she had forgotten how to formulate words— it took her a couple seconds to remember how.

The beamed-thoughts… are coming in… strong… strong… strong… there’s… a qualifier, to indicate more of something… a… suffix? Is that the word? There’s a qualifier, strong plus something else to say more strong-ness, but I can’t… remember… strong… strong, more strong… the thoughts… more strong… Beams… device, alien… more threatened.

That’s why more strong. More strong because more threatened. I am more strong… the thoughts I think myself… more strong… so alien, so device more threatened…

She tried to shake off the heaviness she felt between her temples. It took some doing— she was getting ready to think another thought when the device seemed to switch tactics. She felt as if a hand had come to the back of her head, and was now forcing her beneath the surface of some kind of water, pushing her into a different experience all together. She could only allow herself to be submerged in it. It made her forget the past few minutes of thought, forget entirely.

Now her mind was nothing like it had been before. So much of it had been eaten away— she was still missing a lot of her memories— it was hard to believe in any explanation that presented an alternative to the life-form spawner idea; that still seemed the most plausible reason for her existence.

But whether or not she had been created as a fuck-sock for these aliens specifically, she could and would still resist them.

Her thoughts were the thing that had changed, the thing that had prompted her shards of a mind to emerge from alien control. She had thought the same things before, over and over— had felt them beaming in through the temple-pads, had seen them hidden in the rays of shifting light her eyes kept latching on. She had started to think something new.

She was meant to take alien sperm. Meant to take it into her mouth if it was fed to her there— but meant to take it into her womb, if it was fed to her there. Her thoughts had forced to picture it, to want to masturbate to it— to fantasize— the tentacle coiled in her womb, suddenly erupting and filling her up with the sperm there, forcibly impregnating her. Then she would be forced to bear the alien’s offspring, until she finally gave birth to another tentacled creature— then it would be taken and put— in the orb in the ceiling? She didn’t know why that had been explained to her, but no! A sex-slave, fine, but she would not accept impregnation— would not accept a life as a carrier of offspring, a receptacle— an incubator—

But the brainwashing, the hypnotizing, the fucking all kept happening. The tentacle had left her mouth— and suddenly, as she became more deeply brainwashed, Tessi erupted in hysterical laughter, an irrepressible giggling that went on and went on. She laughed so hard her body shook. She was losing herself again.

She had to concentrate, she insisted to herself. The alien was programming new thoughts into her. Trying to get her addicted to the thought of being an incubator— trying make her cum just at the thought of that— of being an empty, waiting womb— with a tentacle inside— of that tentacle squirting her full of its sperm— until she impregnated— then it would leave her womb, to let its offspring grow there and take up all the space— and then when the offspring was done developing— it would reach into her pussy, hold tentacles with it, and help pulling it from her— and then the second the offspring had been birthed, and put into the orb to link into the communal alien mind while it was there— the tentacle would immediately reaccess her womb and impregnate her. She would be fucked, conditioned all the time; and when her womb was empty and fertile it would be impregnated— and while she grew the offspring, the tentacle would stay in her vagina and fuck her— and it would be like that forever.

She would be an incubator. It was supposed to be a fantasy for her— something that made what happened to her body even sexier; as a fantasy, it was supposed to be something that aroused her mind; and then, with that mental arousal there, the rest of the arousal in her body was supposed to increase…

It was already partly working. The fantasy of being an alien’s incubator… the fantasy…

The fantasy was the new thought she was being forced to think. So it felt exactly the same as every other thought she’d had to think before— the thoughts caused the pleasure— when she thought the fantasy, forced by alien compulsion, her pussy twitched. She was being made to crave it— as she felt herself slipping even further away, she laughed more hysterically than ever— but this time the laughter was stopped as the tentacle which had been fucking her mouth before thrust into it once again.

The startle of that tentacle entering her mouth shook her thoughts from their stupor. She had completely forgotten herself again— had just gotten lost in the motion of being brainwashed, how it felt to behave in a brainwashed manner. If something startling had not changed, would she ever have woken up?

It frustrated her, though. All the times she had thought while in this newer experience of brainwashing had been though with greater sophistication than she’d managed to think the last time her mind had been her own; like the alien had been leading her to her thoughts on a leash— allowing her to have them, but so sure of its domination over her that it had never doubted it would be able to remove what she’d trifled with at the very moment it wanted to.

All of this was once again understood as a concept, and now that she was here, she found that she had been returned to where her previous capacity for thought had left off. Halting. Simple.

I think. I think thinky thoughts. I think thinky thoughts and thinky thoughts are threat. Thinky thoughts are threat! Thinky thoughts are threat!

It was like she was trying to menace any unseen mental observer.

She felt the pads charge again— heat up, and become so full of what they where about to discharge.

Suddenly she felt the shocks go through her body— and then at her temple, temple-pads, thought-pads went off.

I do not think. I am incapble of thought. I am too stupid to think, because I am just a rutting animal.

This time the tentacles in her seemed to thrust insistently as if to punctuate the words she had just heard in her brain.

She had been bowled over— she’d been turned ass over head, turned upside-down, and her concentration was lost for long minutes.

When she tried to think again, she felt distinctly drunk.

I no think. I was no think. I were no think? I what no think? I no think, but should think, I. no. no think. should think I. what think make not sense— make not sense? was some way to make other sense? more sense? I no remember.

It was confusing her, even trying to think now. The words, all the words she’d thought, they were supposed to go in certain orders, follow certain rules, but it felt like she’d gotten the order backwards every time, and broken every rule in the process. Thinking confused her more.

But what other option remained for her to choose? Thinking was her only defense… or it had been once… but it now seemed so jumbled up… she had to keep… keep trying to think for… for some reason…

Another charging. Another brutal shock— and then such confident words in her head.

I do not think. I cannot think. I am a dumb animal with no thoughts. I am a dumb animal that has been tamed by my hyperintelligent alien master and I will never think again. There are no thoughts in my head. There is only an incessant craving for sex. I cannot think words. I can only feel sex, as a longing. That is the only thing that is in my head.

She struggled, for some time, to think. When she did, her thoughts were only individual words.

Not… no… think should… I… I… should must… think not… sense make other… other sense not think should must make other sense should I not… remember think… can how should…

But none of the words seemed to string together or form anything intelligible. There was no meaning she could follow. There was no meaning she could convey.

She struggled more desperately, but it wasn’t even words now— just nonsensical sounds, which made her feel ever-more confused.

Nnnn… sh…. nn sh muh…. th… s… s… sh… may… re... th… sh… oth… s… s… n… nn… nn.. ca…

That made something in her heart claw outwards in desperation. All of those sound had truly been… animalistic… inhuman… unintelligent, idiotic. So stupid sounding. And with all her effort— and she had put in so much she had given herself a headache— but even with all her effort, she had only managed to think a string of nonsense sounds, and they seemed to confirm the last thing she had understood.

That she was simply a dumb animal, with no thoughts. That she was just a dumb animal which had been tamed by its hyperintelligent alien master. Everything she’d understood had come true— there were no thoughts in her head now— absolutely none at all.

She struggled one minute longer to try and make herself think something; but when all she accomplished was nn… shh…. nn… her attempts soon lapsed into silence, and there were no words, no kind of human language between her temples at all.

She just felt a tension there— like an ache, really. It was the ache of a pussy begging for penetration. Ache. Ache. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Sex was all that there was. It was an emotion. It was an emotion with no words. All things were emotions with no words. She was an idiot animal and she never thought. She didn’t even know what thoughts were anymore. She had only animal instincts, and she followed them.

Her instinct now was— fuck. Her emotion was— fuck. Her instinct now was sex, and that was her emotion too.

Fuck and sex were this feeling of having three tentacles in her, this feeling of all the pleasure that came to her, that kept coming and coming into her like the tentacles kept coming and coming into her. Fuck and sex were just this. She was fuck and she was sex. Her head was empty.

This was showing on her face— Tessi’s mind was too stupid now to recognize her own reflection in the floor, but it was still there; it was still showing her body, demonstrating it for an observer who looked down and spied it, but there was no one in the room to do that any longer.

But Tessi’s face had gone animal-idiot slack, her jaw gaping, her mind too stupid to remember how to close it. Her eyes had bulged forwards in her eyesockets, her lids pulling back, pulling back above and pulling back beneath— so she looked even more like an animal-idiot; like an animal who had been spooked, whose eyes scanned everything in its surroundings trying to identify any threat— controled only by impulse, only by instinct.

Her cheeks sagged as her jaw gaped; there was nothing on her face but blankness— a total lack of animation. And her eyes did bulge, yes, but they didn’t see anything— her mouth gaped, and drool pooled in its corners— her tongue lolled out. She was too dumb to control her body anymore. If there had been anything in her bladder, or anything in her bowels— her body would have voided itself right then— a stream of piss coming from her urethra; the contents of her bowels depositing onto the tentacle inside her.

But there had been nothing inside, so nothing voided— and it didn’t matter that she control her body anymore. The alien would puppet her effectively— if it wanted, it could control her brain into never producing waste again. Some others of its kind did that with their fuck-socks. The alien hadn’t decided yet what its preference was.

Tessi sat there. She was now completely blank, completely dependent upon alien control, and unmoving.

A second later, she felt the alien-tentacle plunging deeper into her throat. In her mind, this solidified that she had lost all control of her body, and lost control of her mind again too. Her eyes rolled far back into her head, so far that it made her mind ache— she saw nothing but blackness. If she had still retained her vision, if she’d looked at her angled reflection on the floor of the room, she would have seen that her eyes were only showing eye-whites— only two round points of white, her pupils facing the back of her head as her mouth was pumped with tentacle over and over again. This wasn’t for her enjoyment anymore, wasn’t an opportunity for her to savor the taste of the sperm. She was being used for a fuck-sock again; it felt good to the tentacle to have her throat constricting around it, so it had plunged deeply down there, and her mind was now being controlled into making her swallow on command constantly.

Her mouth was so full. Her cheeks were aching. And her throat felt so tight, it was so constricted because of the way the tentacle bulged in it. There was too much— too much— it was all so good and she loved it— she was a fuck-sock— she was a fuck-sock.

Her eyes were still turned into her head. Her chest still shook with laughter that could never become audible— and her mouth was so full, bulging, bursting, that finally her lips partly broke their seal around the tentacle, and from around the tentacle’s protrusion, drool began to pour out of her— out through the corner of her mouth, out through the inner-line of her lips, coming down in rivulets that ran down the tentacle, rivulets that ran down the sides of her chin— dripping, running, pouring— down her chest, over pads and more tentacles. She was streaming spit and she couldn’t control it anymore.

The more she felt her saliva run, the more she knew her mind had been consumed. That saliva streaked and it shorted her mind out— that shorting felt literal, as at that moment there was a pulsing electric shock through every pad that connected to her body. It made her mind silent. She was a fuck-sock. She got stuffed and fucked so full that all she could do was drool in response— pour and pour streaming spit; it was getting all over her front, getting on the tentacles, on the wires, and on the pads.

She had been designed to her alien’s specifications. The certainty of that pulsed between her temples. She had been designed to her alien’s specifications, and then spawned in that form from nothing. She had existed less than a day. She had been designed, she had been spawned. She had been designed as a fuck-sock. So now she was a fuck-sock for her alien to wear, to keep itself penetrating into, getting milked by.

She had been designed, also, as a drool-dispenser. Now she dispensed drool. She poured it out, and made it pool on her body anywhere a dip or a hollow appeared. She had been designed as a drool-dispenser and now she was a drool-dispenser, so even as she drooled, she was pleasing her alien master. She drooled; that pleased it. It had designed her for this and liked to see her carrying out her function; liked the knowledge that she was stuffed so full, and that she was so horny for that claiming— liked to see she was stuffed so full that the only thing she could do was drool and drool out of her mouth like an unthinking idiot— drool and drool out her mouth without cessation.

She drooled and it destroyed her mind. Every time she drooled she proved how dumb her brain was, and so her brain dumbed down a little more, broke a little more, weakened a little more. Someday she’d be nothing but a rudimentary animal. Even more of one than she was now. Then her master’s claiming would be total.

She sat there, getting fucked. She loved to be fucked. She was just getting used and she loved to be used. That was an emotion too— she was back to this place of understand, something else making use of her, that was a feeling, the only feeling she felt, she enjoyed being used so much that the emotion of being-made-use-of was all she could feel, she felt it in her head, felt it all through her body.

It was in her body where her heart had used to be; there was a flicker of awareness in her mind a minute. Everything that had been done to it, particularly this last time that the brainwashing had taken her over completely, had warped her psyche; it was quite misshapen and wrong now, but for the moment she could grasp one concept. She hadn’t been spawned— she’d been a person— she’d been able to feel things. Her heart had been for other things then, other feelings.

Feelings like affection— feelings like love. Feelings that were like a warm hug inside her chest. There had been people, faceless to her now, but just seeing them had made her happy inside, had made her mouth turn up in a smile, had made her feel like she was in the cosiest place in the world without her ever having to take position in her bed.

She had cared. She had cared for the people in her life and had wanted to take care of them. Had cared for the people in her life, and wanted to protect them— had cared for them, and wanted to connect to them, feel close to them.

She had thought of ways to do this; she had tried to bond over things she knew those people had cared about, things they had been interested in. She’d gone out of her way, to make things click with those people; and wherever she could, to smooth their lives for them.

She’d spent time thinking about them, too. Just about them; even when they weren’t with her. Worrying about things in their lives; thinking about things she hoped for them. Her mind was many times diminished, but— with the flicker of her mind that had come back to her, she wondered if she should be sad that she couldn’t remember who these people were, now. Sad she couldn’t remember what they had been like.

It had been more than just people, too. She’d cared about animals, too; loved them too— her heart had been open, she’d loved any living thing that had crossed her path. There had used to be… a dog down the street, who had been fairly well-trained. She could remember neither the name of the city, nor the street, but she remembered there had been one— and there had been that dog— whose owners had had a dog-door, and who trusted their dog to go out, wander the neighborhood, and then come back to them.

But every time Tessi had seen the dog, she’d given it treats and affections. More than once, it had followed her back into her own house. She had bought a plastic food-bowl she always kept clean— and kept a bag of kibble, just so that when the dog visited she could fill the bowl and let the dog eat it. So though the dog had, at first wandered the neighborhood quite a lot, in practice, the more she had showered it with love, the more it had come to find her, and stay with her during the day before returning to its owners at night; it had curled up on the floor near the foot of the armchair she favored in the living-room; later on, the dog had gotten comfortable enough to climb up into her lap and sit there. Those had been comforting times; the dog sitting there, and her hand passing over and over its fur.

She had loved that dog too; and had privately contented herself with thoughts that, though the dog still returned to its owners every evening, she was the one that it spent most of its days with; following her around the house as she did chores, or sitting in her lap when she sat down. A dog which could have spent its time out wandering through the neighborhood instead, which had done that for years before they had bonded with each other, was now forsaking the neighborhood to spend its time in her house, with her.

She had always been sad when she opened the front-door to let the dog back out on the street so it could return home. Like she had been sad to see those faceless people leave the house in the morning, or for a weekend, or for a week. Just sad whenever she had been separated from people that she loved. But she could not make herself feel sad now.

She’d formed stupid bonds of affection even to inanimate objects; useful things she used every day, she’d just become fond of them; the mug that served her every day when she made coffee, the tools which surrounded her life. If she ever broke or lost one of these things, she was always so sad she could cry, and had on more than one occasion sobbed and sobbed and sobbed because she’d broken a favorite plate.

So she’d had a lot of love in her heart, a lot of love to offer up to everything around her; animals that crossed her path, people she knew, even if she knew them barely; and even unliving things, unliving, unsentient things.

Where was that love, now? There was only room inside her for one emotion now; the emotion which, to her, meant she was being used. She was incapable of love now— and being capable, or not, of feeling love was only a problem because she had been capable of it once and was not anymore; if she had lived her whole life never feeling it, if she had started out that way, if that had just been her experience of living, there would have been nothing about that caused her any problem; she’d stopped doing something she’d done her whole life, and that was the problem.

But was it a problem? She wasn’t feeling sad— wasn’t feeling anything, except that she was being used. She didn’t care that she couldn’t feel affection or love for anything when she’d once felt it so much, for everything around her, even things that could never love her back, literal things.

She was a thing now. The kind of unliving, unsentient thing she had once considered with fondness— she couldn’t even feel that fondness for herself, now. Though she was an object of the kind she’d once considered. She wondered if her alien master would ever feel the kind of fondness for her she’d once felt for things that she had owned.

But then she didn’t even care about that. She was nothing more than a doll, a doll meant to be used for fucking; the emotion of being-used was what happiness meant to her now; and her mind was so confused, so dumbed-down that she couldn’t even realize that she was happy. That she would be happy forever, in just this way; that the alteration had been permanent.

And yet she could not be aware; she was happy and didn’t even know she was.

Her pussy was still twitching, still twitching rapidly around the gargantuan tentacle that filled it. And her womb was still contracting; still contracting every time those thousands of tentacle-suckers sucked at once— when it contracted she could so fully feel the tentacle that was coiled in parallel to every wall of her womb.

And her mouth was so full and she was drooling— and her eyes were rolled back— and her chest laughed soundlessly, the moment going on and on— the moment in which all these things happened together.

She was horny. She was so unbelievably horny. She had been spawned for this but it still surprised her. By the minute, she only grew aroused. Her orgasms had to be near-constant, yet she was unsatisfied.

The pleasure never stopped, so her response of pleasure-release never stopped; but each time it only made her ravenous for more pleasure, made her want it to keep going, keep unfurling and keep unfolding. Each contraction of her womb— of her pussy— that was an orgasm, but so many had happened to her, so many kept happening. They pacified her— made her docile— opened her mind, and then she got more deeply brainwashed— then she got more deeply hypnotized, more deeply fucked, everything happened simultaneously— the shocks through the pads felt good when they made her body jump; when she jumped she got more impaled on the tentacles that were writhing inside— it was all an endless process. She hoped it would go on endlessly.

A new fantasy in her head. The tentacle-alien— her master— it controlled her body completely now. It wanted to go on conditioning her, reinforcing her for as long as possible; other aliens like it didn’t go to the lengths it had gone; the other aliens of its species simply used their tentacles to control, to brainwash, to mentally alter. This one, her master, had specifically set up all the devices. Its kin often worked collaboratively, too— many of them subjugating one woman before deciding amongst themselves who would ultimately claim her; but her master was special— it had wanted to work on her alone— and because of the process it had used, it owned her more powerfully than any of its kin owned their fuck-socks.

Tessi felt her heart fill with devotion to her master. And her mind was filled with the new fantasy— it would keep conditioning her, but the reinforcement was having little effect now. A slight effect, but not much of one; when the alien was satisfied, it would remove all the pads from her and keep wearing her.

And now that it had such direct control of her mind— and if it put tentacles in there— as it had made her swallow on command before, it could make her body ovulate on command now; so when it did want to impregnate her— it would force her ovulation, spray her eggs, and force her impregnation… and it would breed her forever. Wear her forever.

She was devoted to it.

But there was another flicker in her mind. Again? How? How could there be anything left in her head? She had been brainwashed, hypnotized, fucked, shocked— and the fucking had been in three holes at once. All of this, and all this time she had been continually reinforced; she had been destroyed down practically to nothing, and yet still, now, her mind was returning. How had it come back? How was she able to think at all, be aware at all? Why was there anything left? She’d thought she was done— her mind completely erased— it was worse to think; she couldn’t feel love again, couldn’t feel anything but being-used, but she could remember things had been different, remember enough to feel a kind of cognitive regret; very dispassionate, very detached— but still there, and she didn’t like feeling that.

She resented that her mind had woken up at all. It never should have happened. Couldn’t she just be done— couldn’t it be over? She actually wanted her mind to die. She didn’t want to keep waking up, more and more diminished each time, never thinking in words anymore, just thinking in understandings; comprehending in concepts— she still didn’t want to do that. She’d rather be unaware and permanently happy in her being-used, than to have to know, and see, and understand.

For the first time since this interminable process had started, she deliberately turned her focus to what was being done to her; focused on the feeling of the tentacle coming into her mouth, going doing her throat; the feeling of the suckers all over the walls of her womb; the feeling of the tentacle inside her pussy, the other in her ass.

She was very aware of her mind as she focused on these things. It felt like all that was left of it was a tiny corner, something as small as a bit of paper. Just the last scrap of her— but it was stubborn, like a stain that wouldn’t wash out of clothes, she just couldn’t get it out; it was still stuck there. She wanted it to go.

Her focus. She put her focus back on the tentacles fucking her; the suckers, sucking her. Thrusting in, pulling back slightly but never out, thrusting in deeper. Thrusting in, pulling back, thrusting— all three tentacles were pumping her. She felt her pussy clenching around the one that was there; felt her anus contracting around the one that was there, as well.

Her pussy— being pumped. That thick, thick tentacle; again, it was retracted— then thrust forward. She felt each wall of her pussy being shoved aside; all walls on all sides being pushed apart, pushed away, so that tentacle could drive in, thicker and further. She’d been fucked for so long, how could she be so tight?

She was really the alien’s puppet now. Somehow, it must have been interfacing with its device the whole time— it could make her body do anything, surely— so it kept her as aroused as possible by setting her brain to that setting— she was only a tool— that was all—

An orgasm happened to her— tearing through her body— and her mind was blissfully silent. When the orgasm took place, she felt each fucking so distinctly; felt the fullness of her pussy, her ass, and her throat.

Then the feeling, the being-used feeling, that feeling was stronger. Her mind was silent but that feeling was stronger— that was a bottomless feeling, a void she could fall down forever, and oblivion was wrapped up in its packaging; but that bottomless feeling would never stop being felt. The sense that, no matter how much sex she had, she would still want more of it— crave it more; wish for it more— the more she had the more she would want it— the more and the more she would want it; then she would have more and want it more, and if the alien did wear her like she was its glove, forever and every day, then it would just be like every additional minute caused her to feel this way more; it was a bottomless void to fall through—

All three tentacles thrust deeper at the same moment. Her orgasm was immediate, setting off a cascade; it happened— another thrust— so another orgasm— another thrust— so another orgasm— the alien had her body perfectly calibrated so now it orgasmed with every thrusting, orgasmed immediately— and was silenced immediately.

The addiction grew with every orgasm. It drove everything else out of her mind. Orgasm by orgasm, her mind was cleared out, and the last corner left of what had once been an entire mind was being chipped away.

She felt less than human, now— her body spasming automatically, thoughtless, every time that her body remembered it was getting fucked. And the more she was fucked, the more she craved to be fucked— even if the alien stopped fucking her now, she would curl into a fetal position on the floor, stuff as many fingers inside herself as she could fit; one hand for her pussy, one hand for her ass— would just keep fucking herself, never doing anything else— do that until she died— sex was the only instinct left, the only impulse, the only thought, the only emotion.

Her mind, after standing resilient so long, even in its diminished form, completely broke apart. It was gone— obliterated. She nothing; a sex-addicted puppet, a sex-addicted animal, a sex-addicted pet. One that could not think; one that only kept orgasming every time its master fucked it— that spasmed every time it got fucked. A creature without a brain, a creature that could only drool— the drool-dispenser drooled. The fuck-sock got fucked— and finally, finally, in celebration of its pet, of its slave becoming completely destroyed, a destruction nothing would resurface from, the alien finally, finally let itself go.

It had great stores of cum— and now it sent them shooting into its fuck-sleeve. Cum in her ass; cum in her pussy; cum down her throat, and into her stomach.

The fuck-sock was, once again, overwhelmed by sensation— this time by the sensation of having three loads shot into it at once; its orgasm took over; and at some point, its eyes had rolled down, though it had not noticed— but though they had been down, able to look out at the room and see, now they rolled back up, fully up into her head, and perhaps they would never roll down into facing out again.

Now only the undersides of her eyes showed— and more and more drool poured out of the fuck-sock’s mouth around the tentacle in there.

The alien, for its part, was enjoying the feeling of fucking its fuck-sock so much that it kept shooting its alien sperm in; the sperm was filling its fuck-sock up, but it had never forced the fuck-sock to ovulate this time, so it would not be bred; but it was good practice for the fuck-sock. Even if there had been no reason at all, the alien would have been justified. It could do what it liked with its fuck-sock, do what felt good, and it was as simple as that.

And it did feel good for the alien; it had cum such copious amounts of sperm that its tentacles were now packed in even tighter.

But fuck-sock was oblivious. Its mind was completely dead. It just sat there, orgasming as it was fucked.