The thing I'm becoming is so wonderful.
I can see her when I look in the mirror now, staring back at me with empty, placid eyes that catch and hold my gaze for what feels like hours at a time. I know that once, the woman in that reflection looked sharp and smart and confident; everything about her radiated determination, intelligence, a fierce and unashamed desire to prove herself to anyone and everyone she met. That skeptical scowl cowed men and women alike, pushing obstacles out of her path like leaves in the wind and leaving no doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with.
That woman is fading away. I see her less and less each day. Those bright blue eyes that once glared out in an icy glower at anyone who underestimated her strength, her intellect, her willpower now gaze softly back at me, hypnotic and hypnotized at the same time, lulling me into drowsy pleasure every time I look back at her and allow my lips to curve into a small, sleepy smile under their influence. She looks so happy to be thoughtless, to be captured by that dazed and vacant stare that makes her pale cheeks melt into vapid emptiness. She makes me want to be blank like that too.
It's not that I don't know she's me. I understand that I'm looking at my own reflection. The pretty blonde girl with the cotton candy lipstick who's slowly, languorously sliding down the shoulder straps of her black cocktail dress to reveal sheer, almost transparent lavender underwear is the same woman whose fingers I can feel moving of their own accord to strip off everything but my wet, clinging panties and sink into masturbatory bliss. It's just hard not to think of her as the object I'm becoming instead of the person I am.
No. That's not true at all. I'm not becoming her. I'm being turned into her. Day by day, step by step, the pleasure I feel when I stare into the mirror and sink into my own hypnotized reflection is ratcheting my mind more and more tightly into my Sovereign's control. It's eroding my strength like a steady stream of water carves even the strongest rock into a bottomless chasm simply through the inexorable power of patience, melting away the resistance I thought I would be able to summon and leaving in its place a timeless, thoughtless rapture that leaves me open to being remade. It's stronger than I am. Or maybe I'm weaker than it is. I feel so very, very weak right now.
That explains why my legs give way, why I sink to my knees in front of the floor-length mirror and sigh in comfortable, drowsy relief at no longer having to hold myself up any longer. It's because I'm weak, because my Sovereign has drawn the willpower out of me one gentle tug at a time until I can't stop my fingers from drifting between my thighs and lightly, carefully rubbing my slick labia through my soaking panties. My pleasure makes me weaker still. There's no doubt in my mind anymore that I can't resist that slow, sleepy pull on my will. No matter how hard I try--and I do still try, albeit with the helpless resignation of a victim who loves her own insidious corruption--the arousal always defeats me.
It's that same arousal that made me wear panties so sheer and translucent that I can feel my finger skating over my flushed, tingling labia through them as if they weren't even there. The old me, the woman who becomes a more and more distant memory with every session in front of the mirror, she didn't care what she wore under her dress. She wore sensible, practical clothing as if it was armor against the world, reveling in the severe and strait-laced look of her outfits and the tight bun of her raven-dark hair.
She's... almost... gone now. I have to look closely to see her inside the bleach-blonde girl with the vacant smile and the long, loose hair that curls down to the small of her back. There are still hints of her inside my eyes, a look of bewildered confusion that isn't quite the same as the sleepy, dazed stare I know I'll manage to perfect someday. She doesn't quite know what happened to her, how her toughness and intelligence and confidence has slowly been taken away and replaced with soft, simpering eagerness to please her Sovereign. My Sovereign now, I realize. The awareness makes my cunt throb even harder.
I don't know what's happened to me either. I can't quite seem to make myself remember what initial act drew me into the sway of my Sovereign, whether we met by chance at a coffee shop or whether I was the target of a careful, organized campaign of insidious degradation by one of my rivals who knew they couldn't challenge me directly and knew how much my Sovereign loved reshaping girls like me. For all I know now, I asked for this--I can't believe that the woman I was would ever have given up control, but everyone has their breaking point. You can only be strong for so long before you crave the soft, comforting embrace of weakness like a drug.
Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to make it easier to accept my commands. It's all just the loosest of guesswork, anyway. I can't remember how my Sovereign gained a hold on my mind any more than I can keep myself from staring vacantly into my own gaze and masturbating. Trying to concentrate on the moment I first slipped into that slick, decadent bliss that holds me in its power only makes me think about how much I want to deepen that control. That makes me rub harder. I'm pushing my panties into my soaking cunt now as my finger slides up and down that warm, wet channel between my pussy lips.
