Oh My Brainwashed Darling
by Divney
deeperforme@gmail.com
deeperforme.blogspot.com
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* * *If there is one thing I’ve learned about life, it’s that it will never stop surprising you.
The best surprise I ever had was Carrie. Around the time I turned 50, my friends stopped “joshing” me about being a bachelor. I had practically come to accept it too. I didn’t how it happened exactly: I have a good job managing a small bank, and unlike most of my peers I’ve managed to avoid “middle-aged spread” through jogging, situps, and a chin-up bar in the kitchen doorway. I have a sweet little house of my own, and I try to stay involved in the community, between the bank, my activities with the Braintree Business Association, and Toastmasters. But somehow the right person just never came along.
I had not “gone steady” with anyone for many years when Carrie walked into my bank. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen (and I still do!). I couldn’t believe my luck when it turned out we’d be working closely together. She had a complicated loan refinancing for her crafts store. A few days later, once the business was complete, I somehow got up the nerve to ask her to have a drink with me, and to my surprise and joy she said yes. A year later, she did me the incredible honor of agreeing to be my wife.
Now my friends were still “joshing” me, but they had a different tune to sing. With a wife almost 15 years younger, they teased me that she would give me a “run for my money” in the bedroom. And I have to admit, they were right! It seemed like she wanted to try everything under the sun. I say that some things are classics for a reason, and you can go through every page of the Kama Sutra and not find a position as tender and intimate as the good old “missionary”.
Once when we were getting ready to go to bed, I saw that she had placed the pink fuzzy handcuffs, that were a “gag” gift from her bachelorette party, on our plaid duvet. I chuckled, but then saw that she was looking at me seriously. I simply swept her into my arms and told her that despite what any magazine might tell her, I don’t need gimmicks to stay interested: making love with her will always be enough.
Not all the surprises of life are good. Sometimes life brings us things that are frightening and inexplicable. One morning in the third year of our marriage, I kissed my wife goodbye, as she got ready to drive to the crafting exposition in Norwood. When I got home at 5:30, the car wasn’t there, and as the hours went by, she wasn’t picking up her cellphone. I paced back and forth in our living room, trying to decide whether to call the police. It was after 10 when a taxi pulled up in front of the house, and Carrie ran out and into my arms. Her dress had a tear and her hair was out of place.
She told me what had happened. She had parked at the convention center parking lot, and began walking towards the building, when she encounted the glitter stall on the sidewalk. The man behind the table invited her to peer into one of the tubes of glitter, and to her shock it exploded in her face in a puff of gas! She felt herself losing consciousness, falling into the vendor’s arms, with just enough time to realize she was being kidnapped!!
The idea that they were targetting crafters chills me to the bone. I have never met such warm-hearted, “salt of the earth” people, and it pains me to think that their community will have to become more vigilant.
When she awoke she was in a dark room, with her arms and legs strapped to a chair. Suddenly half a dozen flat screen TVs lit up, all around her, with black and white hypnotic spirals spinning slowly everywhere she looked. A soft voice began to flow through her mind, with gentle, lulling background music. Before she could think to close her eyes, she told me, she was enraptured by the spirals and couldn’t look away! The voice whispered insidious thoughts about obedience.
I shudder to think how only a quirk of fate saved her from losing her will entirely, and likely being shipped off to some rich sicko. A Microsoft Windows error dialogue popped up on all the screens, and suddenly Carrie found that she had her own mind back. With a little effort she found that she was able to work one of her slender wrists out of the restraint, and freed herself. When she opened the door to the room, she discovered that she was in a trailer hidden deep in a wooded area. She avoided the car tracks and cut her way through the brush back to the main road, where she hailed the taxi.
After hearing this story, I couldn’t stop holding her close. I brushed the last traces of glitter from her face, and made her promise me, from now on, to stay away from Norwood. I have said it before, but I’ll say it again right now: only terrible things come out of Norwood. Would anyone miss it if it was wiped off the map? Only two months earlier I read in the Patch that thieves from there had stripped copper wire from a warehouse in Braintree. Clearly they hadn’t been the last of what that human cesspool had to offer!
Our inquiries to the police went nowhere, since there was no sign of the trailer or of anyone matching the man’s description. All I could do was to be grateful I hadn’t lost her, and help her to feel safe in any way I could. Luckily my wife is “one tough cookie”, and although shaken that first night, seemed back to her old self by the next morning.
Well, almost. The next evening we were sitting together on the couch in front of the TV, as we are often to be found, watching “The Mentalist”. Never taking her eyes from the screen, my wife slid down off the cushion onto the carpet. She knelt there, back on her heels, with her back arched and her lovely chest pushing out her t-shirt. She laced her fingers behind her back. As she continued to stare up at the TV, her mouth sagged open until it formed an “O”.
I watched, baffled, for a minute or two, and then remarked, “That doesn’t look very comfortable.” She said, “Huh?”, turning her head toward me, mouth still hanging open. “Won’t you sit back up here?” I said, and patted the cushion. She seemed a little dazed, but soon got up and was tucked into my arm once again.
Once or twice a day after that the same thing would happen, usually when she was engrossed in a program or otherwise very relaxed, and usually a little reminder was all it took to hop back up on her chair, although once I had to shake her gently to snap her out of it. We attributed it to tiredness. I didn’t even see the connection to how, when I would ask to pass me the salt or dishtowel, she would stared blankly ahead and murmur, “obedience is pleasure”.
It was easy to deny there was a problem until the night of the Braintree Business Association dinner. This is always quite the “to-do”, and I wore my nicest suit, while she looked absolutely stunning in her black dress and heels. I was the proudest man in that town hall ballroom. The other business leaders’ wives had been quite cool towards my young wife at first, but her sunny personality had soon won them over, and she spent the whole dinner socializing with all the tables around us.
Then the DJ began to set up on the stage, and I knew there would be trouble. He was a young guy with a lot of tattoos, and soon his “tunes” were making conversation impossible and deafening us all. Why can’t we have music at a reasonable volume, and would it kill them to play some Tom Petty, or Alicia Keys?
But my wife loves to dance, and went out to the dance floor on her own. I was trying in vain to make out what my tablemate was saying about the library renovation project, when I happened to look over during a song that had particularly loud bass, and a scratchy-voiced rapper singing lyrics that were crude and degrading to women. To my shock, my wife was dancing very provocatively! Her bottom was thrust out and gyrating in the air, with the hem of her dress hiking itself up, and she tossed her hair back and forth. She made a series of lewd crotch thrusts, with her legs spread apart, and then rubbed her whole body against Bob Forster, LLC. He didn’t seem to mind, but by this point the rest of the dancers had stopped and were staring at her.
I pushed my way through the crowd, and called “Carrie! Carrie!” but she didn’t seem to hear. Even when I took her by the arm, she continued dancing sensuously to the beat, not even seeming to recognize me. Not until I had dragged her across the hall to the coatroom, out of earshot of the music, did her body relax and stop slinking and thrusting. Her eyes finally focused, and I said, “Carrie.” Black strands of her long hair were plastered to the sides of her face with sweat, and she looked up into my eyes. Then she took my head and gave me one of the steamiest kisses I have ever had! I think we would have continued “making out” like teenagers for quite some time if I didn’t protest that we were making a spectacle. We made passionate love as soon as we got in, but I couldn’t fully enjoy it knowing that this wasn’t natural.
It couldn’t be denied any longer: those Norwood kidnappers had partially succeeded in brainwashing Carrie. And the insidious thing was that they had keyed this particular music to turn my wife into a helpless, horny lewd dancer for as long as it played.
Making matters worse, that awful “song”—which I learned had the charming title “Show Me Them Floppers” and was by someone calling himself “Uncle Filthy”—was everywhere that summer. All it would take was a car driving by with the song booming out the window for my wife to stop short on the sidewalk and begin “bumping and grinding”, rubbing her breasts and behind all over me and anyone else who let her, or even objects such as lampposts and mailboxes. Again, she would snap out of it easily as long as the music was no longer in earshot, but it was a terrible nuisance, and I couldn’t help but think that it was hurting our reputation the community. Carrie didn’t seem so bothered, at least not right after these episodes—she was more concerned with love making immediately.
Not long after the Business Association dinner, there began another disturbing trend. I woke up one morning to a wonderful feeling of warmth and wetness down at my genitals. I looked under the bed sheets to see the top of the head of my wife, performing oral sex on me in a steady, emphatic rhythm. I enjoyed this for a little while, but then a thought struck me. “Carrie?” I said, “Carrie?” No response, and she kept her ministration. I gently pulled her head off my member, her eyes closed and her head continuing to thrust forward in the air with her mouth open and drooling, and called her name until she seemed to wake up. She had been pleasuring me in her sleep!
As with the dancing, she didn’t seem as concerned as I thought she should be, even when I pointed out that this was almost certainly an effect of the brainwashing.
When the same thing happened the next morning—with me barely stopping it in time before I came to my point of crisis—I began to set my alarm clock earlier so that I could wake up before she did. I witnessed her begin to stir, then mindlessly slip under the sheets and down towards my crotch. So this time I had plenty of notice, and was able to wake her up before she reached her objective. She didn’t even thank me, and that morning was tense. I tried out a joke to lighten the mood, saying “I guess the early bird doesn’t always get the worm!” It was like she never even heard me. Normally she likes my jokes.
This approach worked well for a while, but soon I had to keep setting the alarm clock back even further. The lost sleep made us cross with each other sometimes, and mornings were positively frosty.
I was glad that a few months before, Carrie had signed us up for a project together, decorating the Braintree Business Association float for the Fourth of July parade. Sometimes I get caught up in my work at the bank and we don’t spend enough “quality time” together, even including Mentalist and Bones evenings. So I enjoyed being her assistant as she applied her expert crafting skills to “sprucing up” our float.
What started out looking like a simple flatbed truck, after a few weekends of work in the warehouse now had a handrail, a papier mache Uncle Sam, and a plywood shield of the Association. Carrie was off to the side handpainting a sign, looking lovely even in her sweats, while I attached more bunting to the sides. As we chatted and joked, it was easy to forget about our recent difficulties. “Carrie, my darling,” I said, “would you fetch me that hammer forthwith?”
She had already started to turn when her whole body shuddered. She stopped for a second. I said, “Carrie, are you ok?”
Still standing completely still, she said, “Yes... but something just happened. Brian, I think something you said was a hypnotic trigger. It made me feel really, really good.”
“Something I said?”
She turned toward me. “Say what you just said, Brian, slowly.”
I repeated myself. She gasped, closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Yep, that’s the word.”
“What, ‘forthwith’?” She shuddered and gasped more loudly. “Yes, honey.” One hand had absentmindedly drifted up to her breast.
“So whenever I say, ‘forthwith’ it feels good?” This time Carrie gave a little cry, and squeezed her thighs together.
Sounding a little out of breath, she said “Yes, but you need to stop saying that word, or we are not going to get any more work done!”
Suddenly I grasped the full meaning. Just like the rap song, “forthwith” had triggered a reaction that had been implanted by those evil kidnappers. Was there no end to their vile interference with my wife’s mind?
And now that I knew words could be triggers too, I began to flash back to strange behavior from the previous weeks. For example, when we were in True Value Hardware earlier, I had joked that she was a slave to her smartphone, at which point she had taken on a glassy look and said, “I’m your slave. I await your orders.” I laughed, but she didn’t, and it took me a few seconds to get her attention again.
Another time in our kitchen, I had made an innocuous remark about the peaches in our farmshare. I didn’t connect it at the time, but it wasn’t like her to demand that I “Fuck my ripe ass,” as she did a few minutes later. She was insistent about this, to the point of pulling off my pants, covering my penis with KY jelly with eager hands, and then swiftly posing on all fours on the bedspread with her behind in the air, begging me to hurry up and fill her ass. She even yelled at me when I said I wanted to “Google” some instructions first.
I now realized that hypnotic triggers were the only possible explanation!
“I am so sorry honey. I will avoid saying forthwith—gosh that’s hard, sorry again!—that word from now on.”
The situation only got worse. More and more hypnotic triggers emerged, sometimes at the most inopportune times, words that would make my wife fall into a deep sleep or cry out in pleasure in the produce section of the Whole Foods. I would come in the front door to find her peacefully kneeling on the carpet with her mouth open to an “O” at crotch height and arms behind her back, apparently without a thought in her head. She was alert and herself once I roused her, but at any stretch of inactivity beyond a few minutes she would slip back into that same pose.
Eventually it was hard to spend an evening’s conversation without accidentally saying one of the hypnotic triggers. It all came to a crisis on July 3rd, when Laureen sent her home from the craft store because she was cheerily telling each customer, “obedience is pleasure,” as she handed them their change.
That evening we sat at the kitchen table, and I finally did what I should have done a long time ago: ask her about it. She told me, “Giving into the triggers feels good. It feels...right. Oh Brian, I never mean to obey, but I just keep doing it.” She burst into tears.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, and told her, “It’s OK honey, it’s not your fault. Those hypno slavers knew what they were doing. But we can beat this, together!”
I went to the sink and took the dish towel. I came back to the table and handed it to her. “Please give me the dishtowel.”
She put it into my hand, and said blankly, “Obedience is pleasure.” Then she looked at me, and said, “What?” Then, “Did I say it?” She had no idea.
After about 10 minutes of handing the dish towel back and having her give it to me, she finally gained a dim awareness of what was coming out of her mouth. With another 20 minutes of practice, she was able to catch herself during the phrase. Well, most of the time.
Next, with her permission, I moved on to the pleasure trigger. “Forthwith,” I said, and she shuddered and grabbed the edge of the table. “Honey,” I said, “Try not to feel that pleasure when you hear the word ‘Forthwith’.” She bit her lip and moaned quietly. “Just block it out, I know you can do this.” She looked up to me mournfully. “Here, I’ll give you a few chances. Forthwith. Forthwith. Forthwith. Forthwith.” With each word, she seemed to lose herself in pleasure more, writhing on the wooden kitchen chair. I kept saying the word over and over, reminding Carrie that she had to resist in between.
But she had trouble with that part, because after a while she was moaning in full voice with her head flung back. Her knees came up and her right hand went down the waistband of her pants. After a minute or two she started to shake, and then despite my loud reminders to Carrie to fight it, she orgasmed powerfully, nearly thrashing herself off the chair and leaving a visible damp spot on her pants.
Other triggers went little better, though she could fight them for up to ten seconds. I was touched by my wife’s toughness and resolve as she would sit, mouth set in a line, doing battle with the impulses of her mind. Finally I looked at the kitchen clock and it was near 10 p.m., so we agreed that would have to do for now. I could only hope it would get us through the next day, the Fourth of July.
I had gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth, when Carrie came in behind me, looking nervous. Even by the fluorescent bathroom light, she looked lovely.
“Brian, is this the right approach? Like for example would it really be so bad if you didn’t... stop me in the mornings?”
I told her, “Carrie, this isn’t you! I know who you are, and I love you. We can get you back to your old self! It will just take some time.” I gave her a big hug, and said, “Now what we could really use is a good night’s sleep.”
The next morning was beautiful, with a glorious blue sky and only a few tiny puffs of cloud. It was easy to brush off the morning’s skirmish with Carrie’s oral programming.
We parked at our assigned spot near the parade staging area on Washington Street, with the air full of the sound of bands tuning up, and joined the other members of the Business Association with their spouses. Everyone was wearing their Sunday best, with sun hats and flowers in their lapels, and a couple of our “dandy” members even in seersucker. There was much smiling and hearty handshakes as the members of the Association boarded the float. Carrie looked a little shy, since they hadn’t seen her since the unfortunate event at the dance, but they went out of their way to show her it was “water under the bridge.”
Soon the parade was underway, and our float was on the move. We were sandwiched between the Joseph Case High School Band and the Antique Auto Club. We had a grand old time waving from the railing at the lines of people on either side, and throwing hard candy for the kiddies. Carrie and I couldn’t stop grinning at each other from either side of the float.
Then, just as we turned onto Pearl Street, the high school band launched into a tune that made my heart sink as soon as I placed it: it was an arrangement of “Show Me Them Floppers”!
I pushed through the crowd of Association members to get to her, but it was too late: her body was already moving in a snake-like rhythm, with her hands running up and down her torso through her sun dress. She threw one leg over the railing and began—I’m afraid there’s no better word—humping. The town’s citizens were staring in shock. And the band was playing an extended mix!
I finally got to her, forcefully elbowing past Bob Forster, LLC who was staring a little too hard for my taste, but there was no way to get her off the railing safely. She wouldn’t listen or respond to me.
Finally, I had an inspiration. I put my lips to her ear and said, “You are a slave.”
She froze immediately, and followed my instructions docilely as I helped her down. We stood by the Uncle Sam model for the rest of the ride, with her in a blank, obedient state, and I made my excuses and took her home before the hot dog BBQ in French’s Common.
“Slave mode off!” I said, once we were in the front door, and that seemed to do the trick.
I told her what had happened, and then I said I was willing to try it her way. She said, “Oh, thank god.”
That evening was like a twin to the previous evening, and yet completely different. I laid her down on the bed, and I used every one of the hypnotic triggers we’d discovered, with her responding fully and without resistance. She went to a place of complete ecstacy, with more orgasms than I could count, and I took control of her body and mind. It was difficult at first for me to boss her around like that, but between each trigger she cheered me on, telling me how good it felt. I found that song on YouTube, and received the first lap dance I’d ever had, from my wife who now could be mistaken for a sexy dancer from a Lady Gaga video.
Afterwards we made love in our bed just like we always have, but with a new passion and tenderness, and as we reached our moment of peak excitement we could hear the fireworks over Sunset Lake.
The next morning we both had the day off, and I let her complete the morning oral sex compulsion. We both fell back asleep and didn’t wake up again until 11 a.m.! We made waffles—she did the batter, while I made real whipped cream and strawberry sauce—and practically danced around the kitchen we were so happy.
After that night, Carrie has almost never said “Obedience is pleasure” in public again. She doesn’t give me oral sex in her sleep more than two or three times a week, now that she is able to complete it. Even when trigger words are said to her by accident, I can see her fighting for a few seconds, but then her willpower wins—if she wants it to. The song still has its powerful effect, but luckily its popularity faded quickly after the summer, and when it does play, she’s able to snap herself out of it within a minute or two.
And it’s all thanks to our private time, where I give her hypnotic triggers a good “workout” every day. Slave mode is good for getting through chores she hates, like washing the floor. As I have been known to say, I wish I had a slave mode to get through pruning that rotten hedge! I’m joking of course.
It certainly adds a unique flavor to our love life. Even after our breakthrough, it still took me a long time to accept that when she knelt on the carpet in that pose, it was OK, in fact it was encouraged, for me to use her mouth. As with the other elements of the programming, when she gets a chance to express the impulse, it’s easy for her to control it.
I wonder how my friends in the Business Association members would “josh” me now if they could see us at home: me controlling her and ordering around the house like a puppet, her gasping in pleasure and repeating mantras about slavery and obedience. Especially the image of her kneeling and pleasuring me, with my hand firmly holding the leather collar we chose together on the Internet (and me in those darn leather pants she finally convinced me to get into).
I’ll bet they would be pretty surprised!
While I hope those kidnappers will be brought to justice someday, and I still refuse to set foot in the godforsaken wasteland that is Norwood, I can’t deny that the hypnotic programming added a surprise, of the nice kind, to our marriage. And as our fourth anniversary approaches, I think about what has become “our song”, and how different Uncle Filthy’s words sound to me now: