The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The woman slapped Martin across the face, not too hard but hard enough. Martin scoffed at her before he switched to cursing. “Fuck you, bitch! I always knew you were a frigid whore!”

The woman was still angry, but she laughed wryly at that. “Frigid whore? Do you even know what words actually mean?”

Martin stormed out of the restaurant and left her to pick up the tab for their drinks. Too bad we didn’t order dinner already, he thought. I would have gotten the lobster or the steak and stuck her with bill for that too.

Martin rarely went on actual dates for this reason. When he talked to women at any length, it never went well. Of course, he still saw plenty of action. Tinder hookups were more his style—find ’em, fuck ’em, and free ’em—and they were cheaper too. Which was why it was so odd for him to agree to a blind date that a friend set up for the following Friday. He saw the woman’s photo, and she was a knockout, almost out of what Martin considered his league and way hotter than the woman who slapped him. And she looked young, thirty tops. He had maybe ten years on her. Martin like them young. Martin’s friend mentioned that the woman was a bit of a feminist, which intrigued Martin. If he could get through dinner with a feminist, banging her would be like winning some sort of prize. He one time fucked a black chick, so fucking a feminist would be another departure into exoticism for him. Most feminists, though, sized him up quickly, almost as quickly as he sized them up. His own little sister used to refer to him as a pig, a male chauvinist pig. She liked the fact that the term was so archaic. He liked its accuracy. He was a pig. He wore the nickname like a badge. Women are there to serve men. His father taught him that, and his mother drove the lesson home through her own disgusting behavior.

Martin’s upbringing and family life were what some would call fraught. His sister, Lizzy, was a good deal younger, and they hated each other. In fact, they had not seen each other in years, and he had no idea where she was or what she was doing. He figured she was homeless or hooking or married to some loser and living in a trailer. She was one of those ultraliberal types, a philosophy major at Vassar. Martin still laughed at that. A philosophy major. He could only imagine her capstone course where she would learn to say, “do you want fries with that?” What a joke. And what a bitch. Just like their mother. Martin was not taking any chances and majored in business administration at the local branch of the state college—no nonsense there, and saved a bundle of money. Now he was a midlevel executive of a family-owned towel company, which was a good and solid living. He was a success.

His father was a man’s man and took no bullshit from anyone. His mother left when Martin was 10 and Lizzy was three, and mom took his sister with her. Just as well, pop had said. She probably wasn’t his kid anyway with that blond hair. Martin, on the other hand, was his spitting image. His mom, Martin learned when she left, was a no-good slut who cheated on his father. Pop was no angel and had a couple of girlfriends on the side, but it is different with guys. You have to expect them to not totally settle. It’s natural. Broads, though, should stick to the husband and kids. The beginning of the end with Martin’s mom, according to pop, was when she went and signed up for a women’s studies class at the local community college. After that, she was insufferable, and Lizzy turned out the same way.

In his last encounter with Lizzy and their mom there was a lot of name calling on both sides. After he drove home, and still pretty drunk, he put it all over his social media that his mom and Lizzy had come onto him during his Christmas visit and wanted to have a threesome with him because they were debauched feminists. He put their faces on some porno images, and posted that as well. It was a crude effort, but he made his point. He then blocked them from his accounts and sent a heartfelt testimonial about what a sick monster his mom was to her employer and as many of her colleagues and clients that he knew about, which probably got her fired. It was a fucked up thing to do by even his standards, but, in his defense, he had been drinking a lot in those days. He thinks he got the whole idea from a video on PornHub. In the video, though, the mother and sister fuck the son in the end to make up. Yeech. He preferred his real-life story.

Now, at the age of thirty nine, Martin was not even close to settled. He was a little taller than average, a little smarter than average, and on the prowl. He looked in the mirror before he left for his date with Monique, the feminist. Not bad for an old guy, he thought. His brown hair was gelled and spiked the way he liked, and he wore a polo shirt and slacks that said, I am not taking this too seriously and may ditch you for a round of golf.

When Martin arrived, he started scanning the room for Monique but instead found himself checking out a hottie with her back to him, and what a back! The chick was wearing a black halter top, and her shoulder blades were about the shapeliest thing he ever saw. That was a first for him, getting turned on by shoulder blades. Her long black hair hung straight down her back and looked great against her slightly tan skin. He knew he should wait for Monique, but now he wondered if he could score with this hot babe instead. Just then she turned. It was Monique!

They talked at the bar, and he could not believe how gorgeous her green eyes looked. Her arms were thin but muscular. He stole a look at her breasts. Small but shapely. He liked them big, but, on the up side, she was not wearing a bra. When she stood to go to their table, he realized she was taller than he was. This would be another first. He was determined to nail her.

At the table they made small talk. Martin kept staring into her eyes for some reason even though he really wanted to stare at her tits. She told him she was a pharmaceutical chemist, and he made a joke about her hooking him up with some oxy. She responded with an indulgent little chuckle, which irked him. Still, those eyes!

They almost got into it when he implied she got through college because of her looks. He tried to put her on the defensive by suggesting she took the place of a male who deserved to be in college more than she did. He just could not help himself. She ended the argument by asking him a direct and clear question: “Are you trying to go home alone tonight? Is that what you want?”

He swallowed hard and he could feel the excitement rise in him at the prospect of going home with this beautiful, sexy creature. “No. I’m cool.”

She responded with that patronizing chuckle again. “That’s a good boy.”

He got up to go piss, mostly to break the tension. Monique was smiling for real when he returned. “What are you grinning about?”

She did not respond directly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us another round of beers,” she told him, pointing to the fresh bottle in front of him. He thanked her and took a long pull on his bottle. She looked at him quizzically. “That is your fourth beer. How does it taste?”

“Just like the other three,” he said, wondering if she was criticizing his drinking. She smiled smuggly and nodded before sipping her own beer.

When they finished their drinks, he insisted on paying the check. She pointed out she probably made more money than he did and therefore should pay, which really pissed him off. She had better be one fantastic lay, he told himself. In the end, they split the bill, which let him save face.

“How are you feeling?” She asked.

“Ok. Why?”

“Are you a little lightheaded?”

He thought about it and replied, “a little, but not bad for four beers. Why are you asking?”

“No reason.” Monique grabbed her purse. “Let’s get out of her. We can go to my place. I live around the corner.” He nodded, trying not to look overly enthusiastic.

As they walked to her apartment, he tried to sneak a look at her ass in the tight jeans she wore. She glanced back and scoffed condescendingly. “You really are a pig, aren’t you?” He smiled at that. She knew him well.

Martin sat on the couch in her large living room while she used the bathroom. He wondered how long it would take to get her into her bedroom. He could see the door standing open and wondered if she was a lights-on or lights-off kind of girl. This was a bit of a dilemma for him. He wanted to be able to see her gorgeous naked body with the lights on, but his nearly four decades on the planet had left him a little paunchy, so lights off. He would let her decide.

She returned and, squeezing in close next to him, looked him in the eye and seductively whispered, “before we go any further, I have a little secret.” Oh great, he thought, she’s a lesbian or worse yet a tranny! “Actually, it is a rather big secret.” Oh Lordy, a tranny for sure! Just his luck. He started contemplating his exit strategy, and she leaned in even more closely and more seductively. He was trying not to get turned on. “Did you notice how lightheaded you were?”

“Yeah. It was the four beers, I guess, but I am fine now.”

“You only had three beers. I told you that you had four. It was my suggestion.”

“I had four, but so what?”

“You only had three, and that last one, the third one, well, it was different.”

Now Martin was just buying time to execute a clean exit. This woman or whatever was nuts. “OK,” he said. “Why was it different?”

“I told you I am a pharmaceutical chemist. I have a little concoction I invented that makes people highly open to suggestion. I slipped a dose into your last beer, the third one.”

Martin outright laughed at her. She smiled sardonically, stood up towering over him, and said with an intensity he did not expect, “Don’t ever laugh at me, and don’t ever underestimate me. Understood?”

He sobered at her tone. “Um, ok. I think I have to go.”

She pushed him back firmly with her hand on his chest, straddled his lap, and gave him a lingering, passionate kiss. She forced his lips with her long tongue penetrating his mouth. When she was done, she continued to press him into the sofa and said, “You are not going to try to leave. You will stay.” And he knew it was true. And why would he leave at a time like this, a knockout of a chick coming on to him and all? Just then, she stood back up and said, “I’ll get you another beer. Don’t move.”

Why would I move, he thought. Now she is waiting on me without being asked. Some feminist. Crazy, to be sure, but a real slut. He took the beer when she returned, and she looked him in the eye and said, “drink up.” He did, and why wouldn’t he? He just about chugged the beer with her encouragement. When it was done, she told him, “that was the second dose.”

Martin started to wonder. Could she really be drugging him? She sat close, told him to relax, and kissed him passionately again. His anxiety decreased as his cock grew.

He spent the night with her, but she took the lead in a way that usually turned him off. She even had him spend a lot more time licking her pussy than he normally liked and made sure she got off before he could stop. He had never let himself be dominated by a woman like this before, and he was starting to enjoy obeying her commands. She told him to call her “ma’am,” and he complied.

In the morning, she gave him a bowl of cereal and a coffee and watched closely as he drank the cup down. When it was finished, she said, “dose three.” She told him to wash the dishes, and he did. This was not like him, but last night was like no other night. He just felt different, lighter, more at peace. And he got to fuck this hottie, he reminded himself.

That’s when she started to explain the drug she gave him. She showed him a small, partially-filled vile, which she said contained “sodiumchloridine.” He mouthed the awkward word. Monique told him the drug had no taste or smell. The vile was clear, as was the drug. She opened the stopper and held it under his nose to smell it. No odor as she said. She suggested he not taste it since he had already had enough. The drug, she explained, was a powerful inhibiter of an individual’s ability to think freely and choose. Under its influence, a person is susceptible to another’s commands, and disobedience becomes less and less possible the more doses the person consumes. Martin had had three doses in a short time, so he was already deeply under the drug’s influence, she said.

Martin looked a little befuddled. Monique sat him on the couch and, standing over him in a short satin robe, described his condition. “Your choices since that first dose may have seemed your own, but they were not. Until you build up a tolerance, the first side effect of the drug is a general wooziness. After you drank your spiked beer, I suggested to you that you had one more beer than you did so you would not be alarmed by your state. You were weirded out when I told you about the drug, but I made you stay, which you thought was your free-will decision. During sex, I dominated, which I am guessing is not your usual style. You did not object because I simply told you from the outset to let me take control. You indulged me at my command. In short, the drug I invented worked. You are not the first I have tried it on, but you are the most susceptible I have seen. I intend to expand my experiment considerably with you, and there is nothing you can do about it except enjoy the ride.”

She moved to stand right up against his knees, glaring and smiling malevolently down into his baffled face. “You have had three doses now, and you will have one-a-day from now on. You will find yourself longing for the dose each day. The drug is powerfully addictive, and you are a mere handful of doses away from being hopelessly dependent. The drug will make you obedient and submissive to me. There is no antidote. Your life is over. Do you understand?”

He started to laugh but then remembered her stern admonishment from the night before: “Don’t ever laugh at me, and don’t ever underestimate me.” He stifled himself. Why did he do that?

Monique gripped his face hard with her right hand. “Do you understand? Answer!”

“I, I think so.” She smacked him so hard his head snapped to one side, much harder than the woman from his last dinner date. The blow shocked him into another state.

“You call me ma’am, you little-dick bitch!”

“Yes, ma’am.” His cheek and jaw ached.

This couldn’t be real, could it? Had she actually given him some sort of mind control drug she invented? He was about to say, “fuck you, bitch,” when she slapped him again with even more strength. He heard his jaw pop at the blow this time.

“Don’t underestimate me! Do you remember me saying that, slave?”

He nodded, silent in his shock. Monique smiled. “Good, slave.”

Slave? Slave! What the fuck!

The next slap knocked him halfway over. “Never look at me defiantly again, slave!”

He couldn’t collect his thoughts. He whimpered pathetically, “yes, ma’am.”

The rest of the day was similar, with Martin trying to assert himself in minor ways and Monique instantly punishing him. When he was more conciliatory, she would praise him. A few times she kissed him as a reward, and once she rubbed his cock though his pants. Another time she crushed his balls in her hand as a punishment. She explained that she was conditioning his mind for servitude, that the drug only opened him up to her influence. He had to be shown how to become a fully realized slave, particularly since he was such an ignorant pig.

After that speech, Monique alternated calling him slave with calling him slave pig and then eventually just pig.

That evening, at six, Monique gave him his next dose straight from the vile, which he drank down after only the slightest hesitation. Once the drug had circulated through his system, she explained that he would receive a dose every day at six. Over a matter of a week or so, at that dosage, he would become so dependent that skipping a day would be impossible. The full experience of withdrawal could endanger his life. In between, he would serve her. She would send him to work where he would act as he always did, albeit with more respect to women, but he would return every evening a slave to her.

Martin could not believe this was true, but he wasn’t just getting up and leaving either, was he? He was doing everything Mistress, as she now trained him to call her, desired. Wasn’t that his choice, though? The thought of having another sexual encounter with this spectacular woman was why he stayed. Right?

That night, they had sex. This time, she straddled his face, and he licked until she came hard. She rode his cock for a while but suddenly stopped. “That thing is too tiny,” she told him. It does nothing for me. Instead, she reached into a drawer and pulled out a large dildo and harness, which she strapped onto him. She rode the dildo with an ardor he had never before induced in a sexual partner. It was like a scene out of a corny porno. He could not imagine being more humiliated.

Until the next morning.

Monique sent him to the shower, and as he emerged, toweling himself dry, she showed him a metal object in her hand. “It’s a chastity device.” She made him stand there while she merrily pulled his penis through a shiny metal tube. His cock was soggy, which made the task more difficult and a little painful. He winched. A ring closed behind his ballsack, and she locked the whole thing in place with a click. “It has a diabolical ratchet mechanism that, once locked, can’t be undone.” Martin looked horrified. “I guess I should have told you that before I locked it on.” She laughed with real delight.

This device would allow Martin to pee, but the metal tube was too narrow for him to ever get an erection. In addition, the metal was too thick and too close to the skin to safely cut it away with any tool. By way of demonstration, with her fingernail, Monique lightly scraped the underside of his penis head, which protruded from the tube. He could feel arousal building, but then he felt an ache in his cock and balls. The pain was growing the more she continued. He began to beg her to stop, but she would not. Soon he was doubled over trying to protect himself with his hands. Monique casually stood up, squared herself, and with the pointy toe of her boot, kicked Martin as hard as she could in the testicles, which were already in agony from the arousal and the tight ring. He nearly passed out from the pain.

All day long, Monique conditioned his mind, and at six, she made him put out his arm for his dose of sodiumchloridine, which she now injected. From then on, she told him, he would receive his drug intravenously and at a higher dosage. After that, she went through a similar routine as that morning and aroused his penis with her fingernail. This time, he did not get nearly as excited. He was learning. Later, she straddled his face again until she came and then rode the strap-on with more abandon than the night before.

The next day was Monday, and Martin went home for his suit before heading to the office, his chastity device locked in place beneath his clothes, of course. The day was not unlike most, which were tedious. Martin secretly hated his job. Indeed, despite all his swagger and boasting, pretty much every aspect of his life was miserable, especially his active but unsatisfying sex life.

At work, the only change was that, as his Mistress ordered, he no longer openly ogled his female colleagues, nor did he show them disdain or disrespect. In fact, he was flat-out courteous and even deferential. It was the talk of the office. That evening, after his injection, Monique put him through the same routine with her fingernail, but beforehand she said, “this time, you will feel no arousal at all.” And he did not. After teasing him a long while, she stood up, glared in his eyes, and said, “You will never feel arousal in your penis again. You will never have an erection again. You will wear that chastity device forevermore. You will want to wear it forevermore.” Martin nodded absently. For some reason, he just accepted the truth of what she said.

“One more thing, pig. Tomorrow you will give your two-week’s notice, and then you will break your lease and live here. You will sleep in there from now on.” Monique indicated a very small room, not much bigger that a closet. It had nothing in it but a bare single mattress on the floor, which took up most of the space. Monique’s apartment was immense, sumptuous even, so being exiled to this closet was another humiliation. He complied, of course.

Monique smiled with deep pleasure as she stood in the doorway to his closet. Tomorrow, she told him, she would make him take the door off the hinges. Pigs don’t get doors and sleep on the floor. Maybe she would have him get rid of the mattress too.

Pig, was enrolled in what his Mistress called a “finishing school.”

He had lived with her, served her, for over a year in exchange for a steady and regular supply of the drug that had made him so compliant. He never contemplated whether the drug was physically addictive or if the suggestion that it was addictive, under its influence, made him think it so. It didn’t matter at all. The effect was still the same. One time, the evening of the last day at his job, his Mistress purposely denied him the drug. The pain, as she had warned him, was excruciating and increased with every minute that passed. He shook uncontrollably and writhed on the floor with a violence he could not have anticipated until she injected his arm. Instantly, his tremors passed, and he lay still on the floor. The next morning, she woke him at dawn and ordered him to close his bank and retirement accounts and turn the money over to her. He complied without hesitation. He sold his car and gave her the money. He had nothing.

More than once in the evening, Monique was traveling and delayed by traffic, which made her late for his injection. Each time, pig was left writhing helplessly, foaming at the mouth, and in agony. Each time, when his Mistress arrived, she stood over him watching and laughing wryly before giving him his injection. Each time, the moment she injected him, his symptoms abated. She had ordered him never to observe or remember where she kept the drug and never to search for it, so he had no way to administer it to himself. Over a remarkably short period, with the daily abuse and injections, she wiped his mind of any will or ambition. He forgot his past and, with her conditioning, was struggling even to read. His mind was being erased and rewritten.

Monique’s favorite thing was the tail. She had attached a large metal coil, like from a boxspring, to a butt plug. She made Martin crawl around with his curly pig tail wiggling all the time. Sometimes, to further humiliate him, she taped the tip of his nose back with cellophane tape, pressing it flat back against his face and flaring his nostrils. He really looked like an oinker then. She told him to squeal and grunt like a pig, and he did.

At the finishing school, pig was just one of many slaves, mostly men, but he was the most pathetic. The others had chosen this life at some point, but he was the only one who was forced and enslaved by a drug. He was the only one with a coiled pig tail. Each evening, one of the other slaves gave him his dose at six although some of the more sadistic ones delayed the injection to watch him suffer. Even sex slaves have to have some fun. Pig spent most of his days and every night in a cramped dog kennel at the finishing school. He could not stand or stretch out fully in the kennel and moved with painful stiffness outside of it. He left the kennel only to serve the Mistresses who ran the finishing school or to be raped by the slaves. The male slaves fucked his mouth and ass, and the female slaves straddled his face or penetrated him with massive strap-ons. The Mistresses at the finishing school would not deign to touch him. Martin was the most defiled and degraded sex slave any had ever seen. He was forever on the bottom, filthy and disgusting. His mind only knew sexual servitude and the drug.

Pig’s Mistress had informed him when she sent him to the finishing school that it was his final preparation before being sold. She had grown bored with him and could use the money. Even though her drug, sodiumchloridine, could probably make her a fortune, she thought it would be too dangerous to allow others to know of it, she told him. No, she would not sell the drug on the open market, but she would sell it to select women who wanted to dominate their men. She said that slave was the proper role for a man, and Mistress was the proper role for a woman. It was the natural order of things. Pig readily agreed. He had all but forgotten his real name.

One day, one of the female slaves told him with a laugh that he was to be sold the next day as she reamed him from behind with a colossal dildo. He took the news the way he took the fucking, passively. That evening, the same slave was to give him his injection. She sat bemused outside his kennel with the syringe while he flailed about helplessly, bashing himself against the bars and begging. Soon more slaves came to see the spectacle and laugh at him. Pig could no longer bear the pain. He felt his bladder empty and smelled the piss he was now rolling around. One of the male slaves reached between the bars and pulled his pig tail butt plug out in one merciless move. Pig felt ripped in two, and shit instantly poured from his body. The smell and feel of it would have been unbearable, but pig’s attention was entirely on his need for the drug.

After a long time in this state, more time than anyone ever thought he could bear, one of the finishing school’s Mistresses came in to see what all the commotion was. She winced and covered her mouth and nose with her hand at the stench of pig, and then order the others to give him his drug immediately and clean up the mess. Before the Mistress could even turn to leave, the female slave with the syringe obeyed by pulling pig’s arm through the bars of his cage and shooting him full of the sodiumchloridine. Instantly, he felt relief as the drug coursed through him and his body calmed. He was so serene that he barely reacted when one of the slaves hosed him down with frigid water. He spent the night sleeping in a fetid puddle. One of the slaves had replaced his tail, which had long ago become a comfort, reminding him of his status as the lowest of the low. No matter that he still reeked of shit and piss and vomit (his own and that of two of the more squeamish slaves). He was content in his place and looked forward to his next owner.

His Mistress! The next day she opened the door to his room, instantly turning her face away in disgust at the reek. After she recovered, she walked over to him, literally holding her nose, leaned over his cage with a sort of contemptuous affection, and said, “this is the big day, pig. You are to be sold to a new owner.” Pig would have wondered if this new owner was male or female, a Master or a Mistress, if he were still capable of wonder. He could only accept.

His Mistress left him for a long while. Two slaves came in, one carring a bucket and mop and the other grabbing the hose. They filled the bucket, which foamed with soap bubbles. Between the two of them, they managed to scrub him enough so that his odor, while still repugnant, would not instantly cause others to gag, and they left him in a puddle of clean water to wait for his new owner.

Much later, the door opened again, and his Mistress walked in with another woman. She was shorter than his mistress and had long blond hair. He would have thought her beautiful if his mind had not been conditioned to never assess women in any way and only to fear and obey them. The blond leaned in to look more closely. “Oh! He needs a serious bath.” His Mistress told him to get in his pig pose, which he did on all fours. This new Mistress got to twang his metal pig tail with a giggle. He was told to roll on his back, and the blond Mistress asked about the metal tube around his cock. His Mistress explained how it could never be removed. The blond Mistress forced herself to look more closely and said, “It really is a tiny cock. But that’s not my thing. I have two slaves already, a male and a female, and I am definitely not into that.” Pig had no idea what she was referring to, nor did he think much about it or anything else.

His Mistress asked why the blond Mistress wanted to purchase him if that was the case. “I thought that was your kink,” she said.

“Oh my god! Oh no! Ugh, no way.” The blond Mistress laughed awkwardly. I just want to see him in a perpetual state of humiliation, which he deserves. Also, he will keep my other slaves entertained sexually, I mean once he is disinfected. It is good for them to have something to look down upon.” His Mistress nodded. The blond Mistress added, “he has always been a male chauvinist pig and has treated our mother and me and all women like shit his whole life. I told you how he tried to ruin us with disgusting slanders. Only the most misogynistic and perverse mind could have even conceived such a thing. Now I will own him. I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to see him like this.” She paused and looked down before continuing, “although I can do without seeing his disgusting naked body.”

His Mistress nodded. “It took some real fortitude and sacrifice on my part to break the disgusting creature,” she said, “not to mention the expense of upkeep and of enrollment in this fine establishment.” That was her segue to start haggling over pig’s price. They left the room to continue.

Although the blond Mistress inspired a small degree of recognition in pig in what remained of his longterm memory, his mind was incapable of sustained contemplation, and he lost the thread. Just then, two of the male slaves came in. They had decided to take advantage of the absence of his Mistress and the other woman and use his mouth and ass simultaneously one last time.

Soon after they finished with him, his Mistress came back with the blond Mistress. His Mistress squatted down to his level, a condescension she rarely afforded, and said firmly with a smile, “that’s it, pig. Our business is done. I am no longer your Mistress,” and stood up.

The blond Mistress, grinning ear to ear, leaned over toward his ear and whispered, “that’s it, alright, Martyboy. I guess your pathetic ass belongs to me!” She laughed malevolently and kicked his balls just hard enough to make him collapse in pain. “Your former Mistress said you liked being kicked like that,” which was not quite true since he had neither likes nor dislikes. His new Mistress then turned from him saying, “Monique, don’t forget. You need to show me how to do the injection.”

“Of course, Lizzy. We need to wait until six. Six-fifteen if you want have some fun and witness his withdrawal.”

The two women left again and did not return for the whole day, which afforded the other slaves the time to use him viciously. By the time his former Mistress and his new Mistress came back, his tremors were becoming violent. Lizzy looked on in wonder. “That’s amazing. Only fifteen minutes late, and he is agony. How does he even know what time it is?”

Monique showed Lizzy how to fill the syringe. Pulling pig’s arm through the cage bars and, holding it tight, she talked Lizzy through the injection process. As soon as the syringe was emptied into his arm, pig started to calm. “Really amazing,” Lizzy said, shaking her head.

“Six sharp, every evening or you could end up with a mess for pig to clean up,” Monique explained.

“Don’t forget to give me the supply of the, uh, drug. What do you call it it again?”

“Sodiumchloridine.” Monique handed her a large bottle.

“Wait! Don’t let him see the label!”

Monique laughed. “No worries. It would mean nothing to him even if he still could read.”

“I still can’t believe it actually works,” Lizzy remarked. Just seeing her bully of a big brother reduced to this pathetic state alone was worth all the money she was spending. She had made her fortune writing books about women’s empowerment and sexual empowerment. Her experiences with her father and brother, traumatic as they were, inspired her new expertise. Lizzy chuckled to herself at the thought that her big brother would instinctively scoff at and eschew such books and would therefore have no awareness of how successful she had become. Her books appealed to a wide array of women and quite a few men. She was no man-hater, far from it. Good branding and marketing and lots of media exposure had made her more than enough to keep her own sex slaves, though. That was her kink.

“I still can’t believe that he reacts to the injection that way. How could he be so addicted and controlled?”

Monique smiled, “I keep telling you, deception and discipline, deception and discipline. That is the real formula.”

“Well,” Lizzy responded, “you’re the behavioral psychologist.”

Pig had a dim memory of his former Mistress saying she was a chemical something. Or did he? He certainly did not care enough to ponder the question.

His new Mistress held the bottle up to admire the label, shaking her blond head in awe and laughing with a little snort. It had one word printed on it.

SALINE.