The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Ms. Cortingham will now take questions from the audience.

—Yes, over there. Ms Whitfield, isn’t it? “What have you done to me?” Well, I explained it a bit while you were entranced. That’s all right. You aren’t very smart. I’ll explain again. A very wealthy and very unscrupulous man—you’ll meet him later—wanted to have you transformed into his personal sex slave. I’ve sculpted your brain and memories to suit his desires. It was a simple and very pleasant process. For me, in any case. Next question.

“Will I ever be me again?” No, Ms. Whitfield. The tools I used lobotomized you, in a very delicate and precise way. The damage is permanent. You are maimed. You’ll never be your old self again. The sooner you accept this and submit to your new status in life, the better. You are no longer Ms. Whitfield. You are Fifi. You are sexy, and submissive, and nothing more. Embrace it. Next question.

“Where am I”? Excellent question, my pretty little Fifi. You’re asleep in bed with me right now. A pair of pink leather cuffs with lacy trim have bound your wrists to my bedpost. You’re wearing a lacy pink sleep mask over your face that’s serving as an elegant blindfold. Aside from these extremely feminine bonds, you’re naked. As I promised you, you’re never going to wear clothes again. You’ve had a long, exhausting night. Jason and I trained you very thoroughly. You’ll wake up to my hand massaging your sex in a few moments. Next question.

“Who’s Jason?” You’ll remember that when you wake up, pretty little Fifi. He’s been terribly useful. He made quite an impact on you. Next question.

“Am I dreaming?” Yes, Ms. Whitfield. You are. You are mostly Fifi now, but I like to keep a tiny sliver of your old personality alive when we make these conversions. I like to let you peek through the bars of your cage, so to speak, in dreams. It’s hard to keep you humiliated without any memory of who and what you were. And it makes training simpler. Next question?

Anyone? Think hard, Ms. Whitfield, please don’t disappoint me.

“What training?” Well, it’s the same process by which I rendered you illiterate, really. (We’re going to have so much fun humiliating you with that.) We repeat a task, and you forget it. Your brain has been sculpted to do the opposite of learning. Any skill, any behavior—even something as simple as the ability to ask questions—can be removed in time.

Any more questions?

No?

Good. You shouldn’t ask questions, my pretty little Fifi. They’re difficult, and worrying, and you’re not smart enough to ask good ones. Just accept what is. Do as you’re told. You’ll be happy if you obey and behave like the good little girl you are.

You can wake up now, Fifi,and remember how last night went. We’ve got a busy day today.

Fifi wakes up with a gasp. If she dreamed, she cannot remember.

She panics for just a moment in the total darkness, but then she remembers, and feels the soft pillowy sleep mask over her eyes. She tugs gently at the bonds holding her wrists above her head, but doesn’t try the bonds too hard. No reason to fight what Ms. Cortingham chose for her pretty little Fifi.

She can feel long, strong fingers on her sex. She sighs, moans, shifts her thighs to open herself to their touch. It’s only been one night, but she already knows the feel of Ms. Cortingham’s fingers on her sex.

She licks her lips. Dry.

“May I please have some water, Ms. Cortingham?” Fifi doesn’t like to ask questions, but Ms. Cortingham made it clear early on that if she had a genuine need, or was in real pain, she was to make it known.

A low, throaty chuckle. “Such a brave girl, Fifi, to pipe up and ask for something.” The hand withdraws, gently patting Fifi on the thigh as Ms. Cortingham moves away. “I’ll get you some water and get the keys for your wrists, too. Time to clean you up and get ready for some brunch.”

Sounds of movement on the bed. A shift in weight on the mattress. Footsteps. Fifi is alone, naked, bound, blindfolded on the bed. Nothing to do but wait for the most important woman in her world to return.

She waits, and the memory of how she got to this place plays behind the blackness she has been left to stare into.

Ms. Cortingham produced a pair of shiny pink high heels for Fifi to wear as they left the building. It was hard to walk in them, but if Fifi took tiny, mincing steps she could move in them. Barely. The shoes forced her to stand in a very feminine posture, with breasts and cheeks on display. Fifi liked how the shoes made her feel. The heels and her tiny little steps brought a sway to her hips that showed off her pretty little bottom so nicely—tick, tock, tick, tock. She hoped Ms. Cortingham enjoyed the view. And if some random janitor walked through the halls and saw her strut, naked and collared, though the place she used to work... if Andy, the nice boy in accounting saw her, or Debbie in returns... well, that was sort of thrilling to think about. The humiliation of that... it was sort of exciting to imagine.

Two sharp, firm smacks on her bare cheek startled her. “Step along, pretty little Fifi. We don’t have all night.” Fifi tried to walk a little faster. Ms. Cortingham beat a steady tempo—tap, tap, tap—on Fifi’s oh-so-pert little ass with a short, thick riding crop. Ms. Cortingham tugged Fifi’s leash a little tighter.

Fifi couldn’t help but notice that the riding crop had a long, thick handle. Longer than it really needed to be, and certainly thicker than it needed to be, to fit in Ms. Cortingham’s hand. It was wrapped in black leather, heavy and sleek.

Fifi was frightened, and hopeful, and embarrassed by her hopefulness. She hoped that Ms. Cortingham has plans for the handle of her riding crop.

Ms. Cortingham paraded Fifi to the service elevator, tapping Fifi on her right or left cheek to make her turn. Despite her words, Ms. Cortingham took Fifi on a somewhat circuitous route to the elevator. Fifi was most definitely becoming aroused by this humiliating little parade, and Ms. Cortingham was enjoying the moment.

They reached the service elevator. Ms. Cortingham pressed the button. While they waited, Fifi looked at herself in the reflection from the stainless steel doors.

She was so, so sexy like this. She’d admired her naked body in the mirror before. Quite a lot in the past few weeks, if she was truthful. But with her arms crossed behind her back, in these shiny pink heels, and most of all wearing absolutely nothing but a pink leather collar, with a leash in the hand of a strong and powerful woman... Fifi was almost dizzy with pure lust.

She really, really hoped Miss Cortington had plans for the handle of her riding crop. Fifi ached. She itched.

The elevator doors opened with a chime, and a rumble. Ms. Cortingham paraded Fifi into the center of the elevator. The walls were covered with thick padded mats. There was a heavy industrial railing, all around the sides of the small room.

Ms. Cortingham pressed a button. The doors shut, and the elevator began to descend.

Halfway down the shaft, Ms. Cortingham pressed another button, and the elevator stopped.

“Lean over and grab the railing with your hands, dear little Fifi, and hold on tight. Don’t bend your knees. Spread your legs. Show me all of you. There is nothing left to hide.”

Fifi bent at the waist, slowly, and grabbed the railing, spreading her legs for balance. Her sex was straight up in the air, displayed. All hope of modesty, of dignity, was gone.

Fifi heard a click, and then a soft droning buzz. Ms Cortingham pulled hard on the leash, forcing Fifi to arch her back.

“Such a very, very good girl, little Fifi.”

A sudden, gentle touch. A finger, stroking her tight, hard nipple. Something at her mouth, a thin plastic tube.

“Suck, dear.” Ms. Cortington’s voice, Fifi could her her amusement. “Come, now, dear, I didn’t have to tell you twice while you were kneeling in front of David’s cock.”

A sudden, vivid memory of David: Not his face, but his huge erect phallus in front of her, moments before the sight was taken from her and her universe became about touch.

Fifi took the tip of the tube into her mouth and sucked, swallowed. Pure, clean, clear water. It was welcome. The inside of her mouth felt sticky.

A cool, wet fingertip, drawing a line down between Fifi’s breasts, towards her navel. She arched her back into the touch.

Ms. Cortingham made a gentle clucking sound, sucking between her teeth. “There, there, my little Fifi. Let’s take it easy this afternoon. David did a nice, thorough job with you, and your poor little sex has been used very thoroughly today.”

Memory. Something stiff, and leathery, and humming, brushing against her sex, slowly probing and massaging, finding the perfect spot. An explosion of sensation, a release. And then again, and again. Being led, nearly dragged, to the limo.

“I’ve got a bath drawn for you. We’ll have a late brunch. I’ll guide you through some stretches. You can rest your head in my lap while I read. Lawrence is coming to help train you tonight; we’ll focus on your mouth, and your kiss, and give your poor pretty sex a rest. Close your eyes.”

Hands brushing over her face, and light. “Open”. She opens her eyes; the mask is off. Se squints into the light. Ms. Cortingham is wearing a white silk robe; it’s not tied down very tightly at all. She straddles Fifi, reaches over her to undo to the cuffs. Fifi’s treated to the feel of Ms. Cortingtham’s sex on her body, and the sight of her barely covered breasts over her face. It suddenly occurs to Fifi that Ms. Cortingham’s body is just as artfully groomed and primed for sex as Fifi’s is. They would look very good together naked...

Free hands. She cups Ms. Cortingham’s face gently.

“Oh, thank you, Ms. Cortingham. You’re so good to me.”

Ms. Cortingham looks down at her and a smile twitches around the edges of her lips. She almost looks tender, or loving.

“Why, thank you, dear little Fifi. It’s so nice for you to say so.”