A Mind to Ensnare

'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.. I obey, I obey, I obey! I obey! I obey!

I obey!'

Lydia screamed out in her deserted apartment, the bright light of her laptop screen glaring out into the darkness of the room around her. As she came underneath her desk, Lydia's eyes gazed unblinkingly into the light of her screen, a light that pulsed and twisted in an endlessly circling spiral of multi-coloured lights that swirled and bubbled and waved in her vision in ways that captured her deeper and deeper into their hold. She screamed out again as the faintly visible text floating weightlessly in their centre, echoed in a silky smooth female voice in the headphones in her ears, commanded her to cum again, and she did so. Still unable to break her gaze, Lydia just kept chanting her new mantra - 'I obey! I obey!

I obey!

- again and again, the almost non-existent text comingling in her brain with the hypnotic whispers of the seductive voice as they played with her subconscious like a conductor plays with the many sounds of his orchestra, re-stringing her neurons like those on one of the many violins in it.

Eventually, at one final breathed instruction, as the voice faded into nothingness and the lights died down until her screen was once more filled with the boringly ordinary light of her web browser, Lydia's final, conclusive orgasm rocked through her and sapped her of the last of both her will, and her energy. Lydia's eyes fluttered shut and her head fell backwards in her chair as she burst once more, thanking her mysterious gift-givers the whole time with gasping, gulping breaths. Finally, when she had finished and was coming down off her extreme high, Lydia collapsed back, half naked in her chair, her fingers, seat, thighs and floor glistening with her wetness, her shirt ripped aside to bear her bosom to her free hand. Exhausted into fatigue, Lydia let herself drift away where she sat, not giving a thought to her surroundings or herself, letting tiredness - and one of the countless orders she had been given in her hypnosis - take her over.

The next morning, Lydia would inexplicably miss work. Her phone would not be answered, nor would her emails be read. Lydia would spend the entire next day watching that same video again, slipping more and more easily into deep trance each time she did so and sapping more and more of her own will away each time, stopping only when she passed out from tiredness or became overwhelmed by the sensory overload her body was under. It didn't take long for Lydia's unlit apartment to smell of fierce feminine sexual activity, and her screams and moans rang out in the darkness, punctured only by fervent pleas of obedience and slavery. Every half an hour or so, the sounds would settle, and Lydia would quieten. Then, just as they did every time before, her calls would kick off again as her video looped her through her programming all over again.

It wouldn't be until evening that Lydia's eyes would droop for a final time, and she would, after so long sitting in the same place in her thoroughly wetted chair, relax into a deep sleep, slip a little further down than she already was in her chair, and fall off the edge of it, her earphones snapping out of her ears as she collapsed. Utterly exhausted, Lydia didn't even stir when her butt plopped onto the carpet at the foot of her chair and she slipped sideways and backwards, the chair half supporting her limp head as she leaned her dead weight against it. It wheeled away, twisting as it went, and deposited Lydia's limp form flat on the floor, leaving a snail trail of her own semi-dry juices on her back as she slid off it. There, Lydia rested, dead to the world, her chest rising and falling, sucking in deep breaths, her hands still loosely draped over the parts of her body they had been working so hard on all day. Above her, on her laptop, the hypnotic video still played, the faint echoes of the feminine vocals sounding tinny and distant in the headphones swinging abandoned off the edge of the desk, although the same words rung out loud and crisp inside Lydia's brain. Occasionally, Lydia would twitch and mumble as she dreamed her altered dreams and relived her altered past few hours. But, after a while, the video faded away, and the voices stopped, and Lydia slept soundly.

@

Lydia woke, groggily. It took her a long time just to move her head, and when she did she found her neck stiff and cramped. In reality, the cramping helped wake her up from her deep slumber, and as the minutes dragged by, she slowly began to move the different parts of her body. She was stiff, and her eyes felt glued shut. It wasn't until she raised her hands to rub her eyes however that she realised how misshapen they were, and how achingly tender her muscles were in them. She felt like her dominant hand had been twisted into a zig-zagging pattern, ending with her fingers pressed together and tilted downwards at a sharp angle. Her other hand, too, was stiff, and felt like it had been clenched around a small ball like a tennis ball for a very long time. Groaning in pain, she gingerly wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, not bothering to un-crease them from the shapes that they seemed to be baked into retaining.

Her body, too, was equally as stiff - Lydia's legs were like stilts, and though they didn't seem to be twisted about, her backside and back were horribly tender. She felt as though she'd been placed in some kind of hyper-tension device - a bit like the old torture machines, the ones that stretched you by the hands and feet to make you taller - except this one was shaped in a way that made her chest and butt stick right out and her hands curl in two unique ways. Taking some time to bend and stretch her fingers, she massaged her hands together, working the blood through them and snapping their frozen formations. Slowly, she regained motion, and when she had, she sat up, squinting horribly. Her back screamed in protest as she did so, but she tried to ignore it.

Had she gotten drunk and fallen asleep?

She could just make out now that she was on the floor - her carpet was soft, but not that soft, and explained some of the stiffness - she didn't remember any plans she'd made, and even if she'd gotten completely neutered, she would have remembered meeting her friends and finding a good club, the parts before she'd started drinking.

Glancing about, Lydia noticed it was day. Bright light streamed through her blinds, sending horizontal shafts of blinding laser beams cascading onto the floor to her side. It had to be fairly late in the morning, she thought groggily. Although her window faced the morning sun, she was several floors up and the sun shone at a steep angle through it right up until almost afternoon. For it to be on the carpet by her side meant it was at least well into ten o'clock.

Noticing this basic fact also reminded her of her own position, and as she sat up straighter on her endlessly complaining backside, she found she was lying in front of her desk, with her legs from her knees down under the edge of the desk, sticking into the sitting cavity there.

Sitting up like this also brought Lydia's muggy attention to her body, and glancing down at herself she realised her chest was out. Her breasts bore thick, deep purple finger-marks in them, and as she noticed them she realised those too ached badly. She gingerly touched one of the welts with her hand, and pulled back as the slight touch sent stinging pain shooting through her bosom. She looked at the hand she had touched herself with, and silently pondered the possibilities it presented. As a dark and heart-stopping thought seeped into her mind, Lydia gingerly held her fingers over the bruises in her tit, hovering her grasping digits over the same marks in her skin. As she did so, she could feel the aching deep in her tendons as she formed a shape that her hand felt like it had been in for too long already. The bruising was like a purple shadow of her own palm-print on her breast, and together it put some slight rest to the sensation she hadn't wanted to think about. If these were her own hand's marks in her breasts, at least it made it less likely she had been raped.

Exploring further still, Lydia switched hands with the one propping her upright, and shook her dominant vigorously. It complained at her, but after a moment it relented and she felt the relief of mostly normal motion in her fingers. Re-forming the shape that her hand had been pressed in for what apparently was a long time without a break - the motion carried a strange soreness to it, as though she had kept it this way for quite a while - Lydia found herself forming the very same shape she made with that hand every single time she had diddled herself since she was fourteen. With four of her fingers squeezed together in a shallow, bent cone shape and her thumb hooked upwards so that she could flick her switch as she fingered herself, it appeared as though Lydia had done a lot of personal handy-work on herself last night. Thankfully, this too added proof to the evidence against a possible rape, and despite how strange it all was, Lydia was thankful for that. No one could ever really know just how one such evil attacker could prey on women, and for all Lydia knew, her apartment had been broken into, herself drugged, and her body had someone's way with for as long as they pleased. She was thankful this didn't seem to be the case.

Waking up more fully now, Lydia also came to realise that she was naked. Or, mostly. She was bare from the waist down, her pants tossed on her bed where she always threw them after work - Lydia lived alone, and quite preferred the safety and comfort of nudity, even semi-nudity in the cold weather - and her shirt, while not off, had been viciously torn aside to reveal her now painfully bruised chest. All that remained of it was a thin strip around her waist, and half of one sleeve, hooked over the bicep of the arm that had been stuck to her chest. She had managed, somehow, to tear it completely away from her own bosom. How was still a mystery to her.

Attempting to stand, Lydia felt the full force of her aches hit her at once, and she gave up, flopping her head painfully back down against the floor. After several moments, she tried again, and managed to push herself, shakily, to her knees, first by sitting up, then by rolling on her side, and then tucking her stiff legs up under her butt and resting herself back down on her shins. It was clumsy, and accompanied by a lot of painful aches and cramping that made Lydia start sweating, but it woke her up some, and she found she felt a little better for it when she completed the manoeuvre. As she collected herself, she decided her shirt was only weighing her down, and she lifted the few remaining torn shreds hanging onto her body over her head and let it slip off her arm. Fully naked now, she reached up for her desk's edge, and rallied herself for the final push.

As she cycled deep breaths of air in painful lungs, Lydia discovered a new puzzlement to ponder - the scent. Upright now and with her nose closer to the carpet under her desk, Lydia caught whiff of the heady stench of womanly ejaculate that was thick in the air underneath her desk. Leaning forward to touch the floor, Lydia found her carpet to be crusty and covered in a thick patch of what was apparently her own ejaculate, unless some other woman had sat in her chair while she'd slept. What really gave Lydia pause was the width of the mess she'd seemed to have created - there was a dried puddle about as wide as the space her desk provided for her legs, and it seemed to extend right up to the edge against the wall, or at least almost that far. Whatever had happened, Lydia had absolutely sprayed like a fire hydrant, something of a rarity in itself for her. She had done it before, a few times in fact, but it had always taken a lot of arousal, much edging and teasing, and generally more work and circumstance than she cared to put in. Although it was always a thrill, she had to have the right porn, tools, and sometimes the right partner too, and for Lydia, often she just wanted to cum and go. She was never normally more than a light leaker at best outside of those times.

For her to have cum this strongly would have meant some utterly intense arousal, and probably something more than she could have done herself. She'd have needed toys, restraints, and a very,

very

skilled man or woman going to town on her to get this much out of her, and probably many times over. How she had come to do this all herself she didn't yet know.

Discarding the thought for now, Lydia put her arms on the edge of the desk, and with a few mighty heaves, pulled herself to her feet. Wobbling like a baby giraffe, she would have almost toppled over immediately had she not kept her upper body bent over the desk, supporting half of her own weight through her chest and arms. She tried her best to keep her breasts clear of the desk, but they still stung as they drooped on the cold varnish of the desktop. Turning stiffly to look behind her, Lydia saw her chair sitting a few steps behind her, turned slightly to one side as though she'd wheeled away from her desk and stood up to move to her bed. Realising quickly that her muscles were far too tired to hold her up, she took a breath, tensed as best she could, and pushed herself off the desk, wobbling drunkenly backwards the three or four steps it took her to reach the chair. It was all she could muster, and she collapsed into the seat weakly, almost not making it that far, her legs all but giving out from under her.

What the fuck did I do to get this sore? I feel like I've run a three-day-long triathlon. I can barely walk...

Lydia relaxed back into the chair, feeling utterly drained after such a rudimentary exercise. She tried to relax as she made sense of it all, but as she did so, she discovered another new observation. A cold wetness on the front edge of the chair was sticking to her butt, and as she looked down between her legs to investigate it, she suddenly saw herself for the woman that had cummed in her seat sometime earlier. There, naked, slumped over, Lydia sat, a slick of dried wetness caking the chair between her legs. Turning her chair with her outstretched heels, Lydia faced her desk, and took in the scene. There, sitting innocently right at her eye-level, was her laptop, her headphones dangling out of the aux jack and hanging in front of the desk, the slightly darker patch of carpet perfectly aligned with where her body's 'blast radius' fell off the edge of the chair, a radius in which anything that came out of her body from certain orifices would spray directly down onto the floor.

Now, Lydia saw it, and as she did so, the memories started flashing back. Bright screens. Blistering light. Gorgeous colours that flowed and mixed together. Arousal. Pleasure. Her own hand inside her, working her, twisting her to her own peaks. Her hands the hands of bliss, guided by someone other than herself, intent on bringing her right to the edge of total ecstasy.

Lydia felt a surge in her heart as her body suddenly warmed rapidly. She felt her breathing quicken and her skin prickle, and all of a sudden her seat felt far more comfortable and inviting than it had when she'd sat in it. She could see it now, her fingers curling into that familiar pattern she'd designed as a little girl hitting puberty, that perfect shape that gave her just the right kick. She almost let her hands make that shape as she imagined it, almost allowed her fingers to drift towards a snatch that had inexplicably heated itself, opening up for her like the doors of her sacred castle, inviting her inside. All of a sudden, the smell hit her again, the smell of her own arousal, drifting up from her own crotch and filling her nose with her heady scent. She could almost taste herself, and it tasted blissful.

Lydia caught herself before she lost to the sensation.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

She asked again in her head, although far less certain of herself now and far more doubtful. Trying her best to ignore the rush that was washing up through her body, Lydia slowly and painfully wheeled herself over to her laptop, trying not to listen to the slight crunch the wheels of the chair made on the carpet as she positioned herself once more at her desk. Tapping the power button, Lydia turned her laptop on, retrieving her earphones as it woke from sleep and curling them up by the machine. Logging in, Lydia found the last screen she had been on to be an empty content player, embedded in an email. There was a new email waiting for her.

Closing the stopped player without thinking to look at the file queued, Lydia read the subject of the new line.

"Urgent For Lydia, With Kindest Regards from Mistress." Her inbox had asked her if it was spam based on similar titles, but she ignored the query and opened the message. Her heart pounded In her chest as she did it, and she dared not think about anything at all. She wasn't sure she'd think the right thing if she did. All she knew was that she wanted to know what was in that email, that somehow it was at the heart of this mysterious morning for her, and nothing around her was going to stop her. The message opened. There was a simple line inside.

"Your final reward waits inside this video, slave." There was no name, either addressing the recipient, or naming the sender. Lydia didn't care. Her heart picked up the rhythm as she moused down to the attached video file, and she almost had the file downloaded before she even realised she'd clicked it. Within seconds, the download finished, and she opened it.

Instantly a familiar darkness occupied the screen, and Lydia almost anticipated what would follow it. She was already leaning towards her earphones as the tiniest twinges of light flickered at the peripherals of her vision, and faint, twisting words materialised from nowhere. She had her earphones in her ears before the words were even fully present, and as she settled the last one in, her eyes widening into glazed, washed-pupil stares, the soft, whispering echoes of the bodiless voice thanked her and praised her for her obedience. Lydia silently relaxed into utter placidity as the voice soothed her right to her core. On the screen, the all-too-familiar swirling colours pulsated and twisted into Lydia's very soul, capturing her already totally compliant brain. She was gone before the instructions even started, her mind far to trained into the scene, far too tuned to the anticipated trance, far too programmed to seek it and let it take over.

This time, Lydia's instructions were clear. The video was shorter, too, and no screamed orgasms or gasped prayers of obedience and slavery rang out from her lips. She simply drank in the sights and sounds and words and instructions and orders and praise and rewards as they were soothingly spooned into her head, until, almost anti-climactically, the words faded, leaving her starting emptily into the screen.

Lydia didn't move. Her hands hung limp by her sides. Her body was completely relaxed, slumped deep in her chair. Her eyes glazed further, until it almost appeared as though she wasn't even focussing on the swirling colours dancing on the screen any longer. Her breathing came in long, docile strokes, and her head lolled almost lifelessly against the headrest, her body only barely using enough strength to keep her looking at the lights. Not a single muscle or tendon was tensed; Lydia was completely docile, empty, dead to the world in her tranquil stupor.

Time passed. Lydia stared. Nothing happened.

The room was eerily silent. Not even the computer dared disturb the stillness that hung in the air, not needing to spin its fan up under such little load. Lydia's breathing barely made any sound, save for a barely audible rasp she had acquired during her totally antithetical violent ravaging of her own body, under the influence of the first video.