The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

It has been a long day for Cynthia Royal, Amazon Warrior Princess, known these past seventy-odd years by her call sign: Majestic Woman, known for over twenty-four hundred years before that simply as Kynthia. She had foiled two robberies, one at a bank, another, oddly, at an army munitions depot. And she had answered a Legion of Heroes call to deal with yet another two-bit supervillian, a weather-maker whose grandiose name she can’t even remember right now. She, Magic Lamp, and Sea King had stopped him from generating a series of category 5 hurricanes aimed to level the entire eastern seaboard.

The outcome was never in doubt, but it was still hard work for all three of them. I had been piggybacking along with her all day; I knew she was tired. Of course, she had no idea I was there, or that I even exist. I guess you could call this eavesdropping part of my “super power”, but I don’t really think in such terms.

And so she puts on some night clothes, not particularly sexy, alas, and slips between the covers. In no time at all I can see that she is deep asleep, lost in her dreams. As is normal for dreams hers are fragmented, a miasma of images, feelings, desires, fears, all logic-free and without narrative, very loosely tied to events of the recent past. As is normal for a person who lives a life of danger, Majestic Woman’s dreams are violent. I decide to strike when her dream has her naked except for her tiara and boots, in the grip of a giant translucent blue fist generated by Magic Lamp; except that Magic Lamp has the face of Ares, her sometimes nemesis, a rogue “Greek God”. If you knew what I know, you would know why I use quotes. In any event, none of that has been my fault. Her true dreams are her own. But it’s a perfect opening, and so I take it.

It is a simple three-body in-place swap. I have been doing them for much longer than there has been written language. First I swap with the slave girl, then from the girl’s slavebody I swap with Majestic Woman, then from Majestic Woman I swap back to “my” body—actually a male slavebody that I am riding. This leaves my slave in Cynthia’s body, the Amazon in the female slavebody and me back where I started (that’s the “in-place” part). Call it another part of my “super power” if you must. In fantasy or science fiction stories, this is often called “mind swapping”, but of course from my perspective, my “mind” is always with me, so I think of it as “body swapping”.

Hence this wonderful tableau: Cynthia lies before me naked. Her knees on the floor but spread apart, her lovely rear raised high, her head bowing down to touch the floor, her arms stretched out on the floor in supplication toward me. The slave body I chose for Cynthia to occupy is a duplicate of Cynthia’s own body, though clearly without her powers or physical training. I’ve worked decades to breed such a duplicate from within my slave-stock: those piercing brown eyes set in that beautiful face, that flawless Grecian olive skin, those wild cascading blue-black curls, that amazing hourglass figure, topped with those huge yet gravity-defying mammaries, bottomed with that generous heart-shaped, um, bottom. Since this is one of my slavebodies though, there are a number of “bonus features” in this body that are not in Cynthia’s body. For example, even if I had not had the slave masturbate almost to orgasm before the body swap, this female slavebody would very sexually aroused; the apartment is permeated with the smell of my male slavebody’s pheromones.

Now it’s time for me to deploy another “power”: seed thoughts. I can plant them, but I can’t make the receiving mind believe them. I use this ability carefully and sparingly; it can backfire (remind me to tell you about Isaac Newton some time). But I don’t think this seed will backfire: «I must be dreaming» Seed planted. She eagerly accepts the thought as her own. She wants to believe it.

She is sprawled worshipfully before me. She’s more horny than she has ever been in her whole multi-millennial life. She thinks it’s a dream. So far, so good.

At the risk if interrupting whatever...activities you may be engaged in at the moment, I should probably explain myself. I, as I think of myself, was born approximately 12 thousand years ago somewhere in Eastern Europe or Western Asia. Sorry, that’s the best I can piece together at this point in time. We didn’t exactly have GPS smartphones back then. There were rolling forested hills, green meadowy valleys, and snow-capped mountains in the far distance. The body in which I was born lived a mere 15 years, but I live on.

My name was Jovan, and, like every other young man I knew, I was a hunter. In point of fact, at the tender age of 14 summers, in only my third summer of hunting, I was the lead hunter for the village. I always seemed to know where the herds and the predators were. I always seemed to know which animals would be easiest to cut out of the herd. And, perhaps more importantly, I knew the other men. I knew their strengths and their weaknesses; I knew their thoughts and their impulses. I knew how to meld these men into a team.

Of course, I was not yet at the peak of my physical prowess, but neither had been my predecessor. The lead hunter before me, my uncle, had been an ancient man of 37 summers. His mind was sharp; his experience, invaluable. But he was old and his wind was failing him. Over the years he kept leading shorter and shorter—and hence less and less successful—hunts. When I took over, our fortunes improved dramatically.

So I was a leader, a provider, a good and—in my way—strong man. And I was in love. Although I had known Navya all my life, suddenly she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen: long, tangled sandy brown hair atop a perfect heart-shaped face, a beautiful shy smile, and at 18 summers, all the bodily charms a stone age man could want. Furthermore, I knew—knew—that she wanted me too. I knew she saw scrawny Jovan as a man who would one day lead his people. When she smiled and looked at me with outward innocence, behind the eyes I saw avarice. It disturbed me, but I had to admit that the things I felt about her were not altruistic either.

Even so, the cunning I saw behind that pretty face froze me with fear. Spear in hand I could face down a charging elk, but I could not face Navya. 14 was still 14, even back then.

Of course, the other men gave me no end of grief about it. I remember the playful taunts of my older brother Eevan. “We wonder that you can see our thoughts, magic boy”, he teased, “but when you look at Navya, every man can see your thoughts.... We see them rising up between your legs!“

This of course brought gales of laughter from the entire hunting party. I marched stoically on in silence, ears burning red. I was the leader, but a leader among friends. Some days I was the joke, some days the joker. But this was my team, my hunt, my world, and it was a good one.

It was in the spring before my 15th summer that my life changed forever. Following a herd of goats on the hillside—yes, it’s not all aurochs and mammoths; sometimes it’s goats—I was crouching behind a rock about the size of a small table, reaching my mind into the herd, looking for the easiest kill. The rock that hid me had probably stood there for endless eons, but it chose that moment to give way. I tried to jump to the side, but it caught me anyway, crushing my foot.

Eevan carried me all the way home. I was screaming in pain, then moaning in delirium, and finally, mercifully, I passed out. In the village, our wise ones treated me as best they knew how. When I awoke Eevan was there. “You scared away the goats,” he joked, but his eyes reflected my pain. In my pain I tried to joke back, “I guess even I can’t see into the mind of a rock.” Yeah, we were a laugh a minute.

My foot was mangled beyond recognition, and soon it was infected too. For about a month, no one was sure whether I would live or die. Navya came to see me every day. Her words were hopeful, but inside she was saying goodbye. She thought I was dying; she never said it, but I knew. So I stopped wanting to know what she thought, and so I didn’t.

After all, it did take me some act of will for me to penetrate a mind. So it was easy not to “hunt in others’ heads” while I was in agony.

Slowly I got better, by Midsummer I was standing with the help of a stick. By Leaf-fall I was walking with an improvised crutch, trying to find some way to be useful. I even tried to help with the women’s work, but the women just shooed me away like the child I had once again become. Eevan took over the hunt. I was happy for him; he was a good leader. But I didn’t see much of him after that. Even when he was in the village, he was avoiding me. I saw Navya almost every day, but the pained look on her face told me I still didn’t want to know what she thought, and so I didn’t.

One day Navya found me alone in the bachelor’s hut (yurt? yaranga? tipi? lodge? The word we used wouldn’t mean anything to you). She told me that Eevan was back from the hunt and wanted me to meet him at the falls. There was a rocky outcropping overlooking a nearby waterfall that had been a favorite place of ours as boys. I struggled up the path to the cliff’s edge as best I could with my crutch, eventually dropping in exhaustion and pain next to my big brother, happy to see him, legs dangling over the precipice, watching as the river fell endlessly onto the rocks below.

I saw the pain on Eevan’s face as he began. “Jovan,” he said, so serious, and stopped as if searching for words. And then...I knew.

I knew Navya loved him. I knew he loved Navya. I knew they were going to share a home and a life and children, and that this is what he had come here to tell me. In that moment I hated my brother. It was the boulder, not him, that had taken my life from me, but he had been more than happy to step into my place. I wanted to kill him. No, I wanted to be him. A stabbing pain blossomed behind my eyes, and I passed out.

When I awoke, I sat up, but something was different. I looked down at my two perfect feet, attached to a larger and more muscular body than the one I knew. I felt the full beard on my previously boyish face. And then I saw...me.

The other me had also fallen unconscious, but was wakening. My other self looked up at me, clearly confused. “Jovan?” he asked. It was the last thing my brother had said to me before we blacked out. And even in that higher, reedier voice, my voice, I knew it was my brother, speaking to me with my lips, looking at me with my eyes. And I was looking right back at him, with his eyes. I was still confused but I remembered my pain, my anger. Eevan had the life that I wanted. Eevan had the life that I deserved. But now...now I was Eevan. Grabbing my frail and crippled former body, I looked my older brother in the eye and threw him off of that cliff.

But enough about me...where were we? Oh yes, that Fabulous Femme, that Amazing Amazon, that Luscious Lady, that Super Slut. Majestic Woman—well, a woman with Majestic Woman’s mind—lies naked and prostrate before me. Of course, she doesn’t stay that way, more’s the pity. She shakes her head slowly and rises unsteadily to her feet, disturbed by her nakedness but still certain she is dreaming.

“Whoa, Cynthia girl, this is a bad one,” she says, shaking her head, trying to take in her surroundings. It’s clearly a man’s apartment, a large, luxuriously appointed one. Turning she sees the spotless, well-lit kitchen. Further, a wall of windows, ceiling to floor, displaying the sweeping city skyline. It’s not a skyline she recognizes: Portal City, or Cosmopolis, or Carthage City...or London or Los Angeles for that matter. But it’s clearly “civilization”. Turning further yet she sees a massive entertainment center, a giant wide-screen displaying...ugh, a football game. Completing the circle she sees the front door, the hallway to the rest of the apartment, and, apparently for the first time, me.

The slave body I’m using at the moment is a large man with short blond hair and a close-trimmed, sandy brown beard; she can see that I’m clearly much taller than her and solidly muscular. She sees me lounging on a huge white sofa watching the game. She instinctively tries to cover her nakedness. As she looks at me, lightly touching her nipples and her sex, she cannot help but notice the hardness of her nipples, the hairlessness of her groin, and the dampness between her legs. Looking at me she feels a twinge of...desire? Now she’s confused: «No, that can’t be right!»

My slave had done an excellent job of preparing this body; I had felt it myself as I passed through during the body switch.

Most women, finding themselves naked before a physically imposing man, a stranger, would feel at least a touch of fear...but she’s Majestic Woman. Besides, I’m clearly not threatening or even noticing her. Now she’s more convinced than ever that she must be dreaming. Normally men can’t take their slimy eyes off of her. Now here she stands naked and this...gorgeous...man can’t even take his eyes off the game.

“Excuse me,” she says.

Ah, that’s my cue. “Get me a beer, bitch.” No eye contact. Still watching the game.

Cynthia goes from zero to boiling in an instant. She is no longer using her arms as fig leaves. Now she is holding out her fists in a fighting stance. Except, her arms look...thin, no bulging biceps or muscular forearms. She looks down her body, voluptuous breasts but no hard pectorals beneath them, flat stomach but no hint of washboard abs, sleek, sexy legs but no hard muscle. In fact, no hard muscle...anywhere. The only hardness she sees is in her nipples, standing out from her breasts like two reddish-brown rubber bullets.

Now angry and flustered she snarls, “Exactly who do you think you are? And who do you think I am?“

I finally turn to look at her. “Well,” I say, as if explaining to a child, “You’re the naked slut standing in the middle of my living room, and I’m the guy telling you to get me a beer. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Beer.”

Suddenly the trained warrior is moving, but...too slow. Screaming her battle lust, but...quavering. Now, I’m standing, ready. Her fist is coming for my jaw, but I’m already grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her around. Her back slams hard into my chest. As she bounces back, I pin both of her arms behind her.

She bucks and kicks wildly trying to escape my grasp, but I anticipate every move. Even as she struggles I hear her inner voice trying to calm herself, «It’s just a dream, a bad dream.»

Time to plant another seed. I was hoping this thought would occur to her on her own, but it’s forgivable. She’s been a bit busy since she woke up in my apartment. «He doesn’t know who I am! He doesn’t know I’m Majestic Woman!»

For a moment she stops struggling in my grasp. The thought appeals to her pride. «This thug doesn’t know he has subdued a superhero.» The thought makes it easier to submit, since no one will ever know that “Majestic Woman” was captured with such ease.

Easier to submit, maybe, but she doesn’t. She still has her pride and renews her furious attempts to escape my grasp. Grabbing a handful of her wild, jet-black hair, I jerk her head back. Again, she pauses. Her chest is heaving. She looks up and back into my eyes, still furious but now silent.

Looking down at her I calmly whisper the word that will soon make her knees weak with terror. Just one little word that really doesn’t sound so frightening at all: “Discipline”

After dropping my little sound bite into Cynthia’s lovely ear, she and I are off to my training room. A simple two-for-two swap with my waiting slaves already there, but for Cynthia, it is a TV scene cut. Out of the frying pan and into the dungeon. The surrealism of the sudden change of scenery re-enforces her belief that she is dreaming...only dreaming.

The training room ambience is intended to evoke the ghost of Torquemada. There are whips and chains, bludgeons and branding irons, pincers and thumbscrews and racks, all tastefully decorating the torchlit dark stone walls. But they are really just decoration. Part of the idea of the training room is to make the threat of discipline ultimately more powerful than the discipline itself. But I don’t actually use the crude methods on display. Yes, I do use torture, but I torture efficiently and effectively, not extravagantly.

When most people think of torture, they imagine pain. But pain, if used, is just a means to an end. What I am really trying to produce is fear, a specific and directed fear that I can use as a lever to move a human mind in the direction I want. I’m good at this. I’ve been doing it for a long, long time.

That doesn’t mean that I rely on old-fashioned methods. Like most modern practitioners of the art, I rely mostly on waterboarding. It’s very effective. It engenders a truly primal fear of drowning. If done correctly, it causes absolutely no physical harm. And, unlike most pain-based torture methods, the subject has no way of building up any sort of mental tolerance. The subject’s mind and body can ultimately become “pain fatigued”, and it becomes harder and harder to get the fear you want out of the same pain-producing stimulus. However, if there is anything that the human body absolutely has to do, it’s breathe. The mind really can’t trick itself into believing the “not breathing” is acceptable. So unless you just like pain for pain’s sake—you sick fuck—waterboarding is the way to go.

So, Cynthia finds herself in my delightful training room, completely restrained, legs apart at a small angle, one hand over her hairless cunt. The other arm is locked at her side holding a small cylinder with a thumb button on top. The surface upon which she is restrained is “form-fitting” and comfortable. Although it is metal it is not cold. The restraints, while completely...restraining, are padded and, again, comfortable. I don’t want anything to distract her from what I am actually doing.

I am present in my “dungeon master” slavebody. This slavebody is also large and muscular, but completely hairless except for brows, lashes, and a black Van Dyke. I am the visage of evil incarnate. Cynthia can see me as I walk up to her.

She is lying at a downhill angle; feet higher than head. The restraint is hinged to rotate—roughly along the axis of the spine—180° and lock, so I can put her face up or face down at a moment’s notice. Beside her head are clips to hold the water hose (which is running into the drain grating below her head), and a towel (which is dangling down loosely at the moment). She is wearing a ball gag with a front clip release, not because of some fetish, but because I wish to speak uninterrupted. She makes her anger known anyway, but it’s muted enough that I can speak over her.

“In your left hand you have a signaling device, a clicker. The button is on the top. I have taken the liberty of super-gluing it to your hand so that you do not lose it. I am rather a fan of the Socratic method, so I will ask you questions or make statements that require a response from you. When you wish to cooperate you may press the clicker. Satisfactory responses may be rewarded. Unsatisfactory responses will be punished. Shall we begin?“

With that I remove the ball gag and wrap the towel over her face, ignoring her angry screams, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You can’t possibly get away with th-urrgle-gurgle—”

BRAP! I’ve sounded the universal game show “wrong answer” noise and deployed the water hose. Majestic Woman clearly knows what is going on. She knows how waterboarding works. She’s as composed as she can be while seething with rage. Ultimately that doesn’t make the technique any less effective. Ultimately she has to inhale. She tries, fails, panics. She tries to cough out the water flooding her throat and nose to no avail, the wet towel holds it all in. Waiting...Waiting...

Click-ick. In a well-practiced motion I flip the table, allowing the towel to fall from her now downward-facing face. She coughs the water out of her airways and begins a long string of curses.

BRAP! Flip. Cover. Hose. Wait.

Click-ick. Wait.

Click-ick. Wait.

Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick. Flip. Cough-cough-cough.

“You said that you’d—". BRAP! Flip. Cover. “Nooooo!” Hose.

As she drowns helplessly I speak. Casually. Conversationally. This is nothing to me. She is nothing to me. “I said to click when you are ready to co-op-er-ate. You apparently don’t know the meaning of the word.“

She begins continuous clicking, but I’m in no hurry and continue talking over it. “Furthermore, I never said that I would stop when you clicked. I stop when I feel like it. Your discipline session is not going well so far. I suggest you try something different. Are you ready to cooperate?”

Flip. Cough. Silence.

“I said, ‘are you ready to cooperate?’”

More silence, then she whispers, “Yes.” Only the certainty that her defeat is anonymous cushions her shame.

“Yes, what?”

“Look you bastard...” BRAP! Flip. Cover. “Oh, no...NAAGH!” Hose, needless to say.

Click-ick. “Just a reminder that you are pondering the question, ‘Yes, what?’". Wait while she stews...and suffocates.

Click-ick. Flip. Cough. “Yes...sir,” she croaks.

BRAP! Flip. Cover. Hose. “Ooo, so close.“

I think you get the picture of the...physical aspects of this repetitive process, so from this point I’ll just recount the conversational elements.

Click-ick. “Please don’t make me...” BRAP! And may I just interject at this point how much I love that word “please”?

Click-ick. “Yessir, yessir, yessir, yess—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “I don’t know what you wa—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Please, I can’t—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Yes...m...m...” The suspense is killing me. “...My Lord.“

Well, clearly I am going for “Master”, so I almost buzz and drown her again, but instead a warm feeling creeps over me. I rather like “My Lord”! It has sort of medieval, feudal ring to it. I remember “feudal” and smile; good times. Yes, I think the bitch has actually exceeded expectations!

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Believe me, the game show surrealism actually serves my purpose. Every little bit convinces her more that this is a dream. But I won’t deny that it’s a hell of a lot of fun too.

“Good girl! You may pleasure yourself.”

Her hand twitches above her snatch. “Wha?”

“Oh surely I don’t need to train you to masturbate, do I?”

“No, I’m not gonna—” BRAP!

Click-ick. “Dammit, I’ll never—” BRAP!

“What should you do when I reward you?”

As one might expect, our heroine is reluctant to jill herself off in my presence, and continues several cycles of ever-weaker protests, until...

“I should accept your reward.” Exhausted, defeated, she begins to touch herself.

“STOP! ‘I should accept your reward’, WHAT?”

“MY LORD! I SHOULD ACCEPT YOUR REWARD, MY LORD!” Fear and shame suffuse her being.

Ding! “Better...You may begin.“

Her hand begins to rub her sex, or so it appears. Oh, the devious slut! She’s trying to fake it; she’s not even touching herself.

“My, my, it appears that I will have to train you to masturbate after all. I do believe contact is central to the exercise. Am I right?“

“YES, SI...MY LORD! Please...I’m doing it now...MY LORD!” True to her word she begins to see to her pleasure in earnest, thinking «Great Hera, when will I wake up?»

Now that we have established a baseline of reward and discipline, things progress a bit more quickly. After less than a minute she begins to strain against her restraints. Soon she is moaning softly. I have bred my female slavebodies to stay on the cusp of orgasm for a long, long time so I’m tempted to just let her wear herself out trying to crest the never-ending hill of pleasure, but I am impatient to continue.

“Stop.” With a long moan she reluctantly pulls two fingers out. «Oh GODS! Don’t make me stop.»

Silence. “What do you say when I reward you?”

“Th-th...Thank you, My Lord.”

“Good girl.” Thinking this is a reward, and eager to finish what she has started, she begins to touch herself again.

“Uh-uh-uh,” I admonish. Hand trembling, she stops. Very good.

“Now, having established who I am, we should explore who, or rather what, you are. What are you?“

Fear pierces her. «Is he trying to break my anonymity? Expose my secret?»

“Um, I’m just a normal woma—” BRAP!

Immediately she is clicking feverishly, anything to end the helpless nightmare of drowning. But I take my time. I need to establish context. “I don’t want to hear from you what I can see with my own two eyes. I want you to describe what you are to me.”

Even as she suffocates, relief sweeps over her. «He’s not trying to unmask me.» Relief is followed by the most burning shame yet, as she realizes what I am demanding of her, clearly based on what I have already been calling her.

“I’m a...a...I’m a...". She stops. I’m willing to give her a bit of time on this one. I can feel her crumbling on the inside. Besides, she is almost desperate to give attention to her throbbing cunt, still on the cusp of release.

“I’m a bitch, My Lord.”

I let the shame and the need within her marinate in silence, but I’m not done.

“And?” I prompt.

“I’m...I’m...a slut, My Lord!” She spits the words out like she is expelling something vile.

“And?”

“I’m...w-w-w-weak. I’m needy.” Fear stabs her as she realizes she almost forgot, “MY LORD!”

“Needy?” I ask.

“I’m...I’m...AAAAH!” She can’t bring herself to say it, but she will. She struggles, she fights, but finally the dam breaks. “I’m horny, My Lord. I’M HORNY. I’m a horny bitch, a desperate, empty cunt, a needy, whining animal. I...I...please, My Lord!” Now she is in free fall, within a bottomless pit, plumbing the depths of need...and fear...and shame.

“We’re almost there. You’re doing very well. Now, what are you...to me?”

She gets it with no further prompting at all; she’s cast adrift, hopeless. Pleasing me is the only solid ground she can find. “I’m your...OOOOOOH...your s-s-ssslave, your...toy, your plaything. USE ME NOW, MY LORD!” she screams. But she’s thinking «Fuck me now.» She’s certain that this is what I have been building up to. She’s certain that I’ll take her, rape her, quench her burning need.

Ding! “Good girl. You may resume.“

“I...What, My Lord?”

“Pleasure yourself, slave.”

With a shriek of...everything she has inside: fear, shame, lust, bewilderment...she dives back into her sopping hole, wondering why I didn’t take her, helpless, broken, literally begging for it. Soon she is again whimpering and moaning for release that is so, so close.

“Stop.” She screams! But stops. There is an audible sucking sound as she pulls her hand out of herself.

“Please, My Lord, PLEASE!”

“We’re almost there. How should you greet me?”

“I...uuungah...What, My Lord?”

“Earlier today when you came into my presence, you stood before me and said, ‘Excuse me.’ That hardly seems like an appropriate way for a slave, a slut, a needy animal, to greet her Lord, now does it?”

“No, My Lord...”

“Well...”

Fear building, pulse quickening. She doesn’t know what to say. She knows she will be punished. She says the only thing she can think of. “Hello...My Lord.”

BRAP! Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick. “Greetings, My Sovereign Lord!“

BRAP! Click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick-click-ick. “I love you, My Lord!“

BRAP! Over the clicking I sneer, “I don’t want your stupid ‘love’, idiot twat!“

She’s desperate. She’ll say anything, if only she knew what to say. I give her the seed, and she clings to it like a literally drowning woman.

“How...how...” Burning, deep shame is offset by primal fear and unquenchable need. “How may I serve you, My Lord?”

“Very good, girl. You may resume.”

Hand dives into cunt once again. In no time at all she is again at the edge of cumming, but somehow just can’t quite get over the hump. I have to time this carefully. She has to learn: All discipline comes from me. All reward comes from me. All release comes from me.

She watches in horrified fascination as I take out my huge, stiffening dick. To her shock I lay it across her upper lip, right against her nostrils. The smell is overpowering her, the male presence that she must have to send her over the top. The moment is almost here. Gently I say, “Cum for me now, my little fucktoy.” Immediately she erupts into an earth-moving orgasm, screaming then moaning then whimpering, her rock hard nipples rising and falling with each ragged breath.

She’s confused. «Did I need his permission to cum?» she wonders. «What has he done to me?»

Even so, she finds herself truly grateful for the orgasm. “Thank you...My Lord,” She whispers between gasps.

“Are we ready to try again?”

“My Lord?”

“Are we done with your discipline now? Are you ready to return?”

“I don’t understa—,” she starts. And then she remembers the penthouse apartment where this nightmare began. It’s not over yet.

“Yes, My Lord.”