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kallie-den · 2 days

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Marital Aid Ch. 5

Clea puts the very last touches on Isabella new sexuality, as the two of them settle in to enjoy married bliss

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“Mistress?” The sound of Isabella’s voice brought Clea back to herself. “Are you alright?”

Clea noted with pride the way Isabella’s voice didn’t falter as she called her ‘mistress’. The older woman barely even blushed. All of this, including their kink dynamic, had become completely normal to her now. Just as it should have.

“Yes, of course,” Clea assured her. “Just a little distracted, that’s all.”

It was true. As Clea had been standing at the door to their kitchen, looking in, watching Isabella cook for her, she’d become distracted by just how perfect her life had become. It was strange; after such a long time spent yearning and hoping, Clea didn’t know what to do with herself. She had it all. All her dreams had come true. What came next?

Clea decided there was nothing left to do but bask in the afterglow and enjoy her newfound domestic bliss with the older woman she’d hypnotized into a loving, devoted, submissive lesbian.

“Anyway,” Clea said, as she walked over and pressed herself against Isabella’s back, “are you sure you won’t let me take care of that? You should really take the weight off your feet.”

She reached around and rested a hand on Isabella’s full, round, pregnant belly.

“No thank you, mistress,” Isabella replied, pausing for a moment to rest one of her hands atop Clea’s. “I love making food for you.”

Clea just smiled. She’d known Isabella would say that, of course. Even six months pregnant, she insisted on doing her fair share of the housework, despite the long hours she was still spending at the office. The two of them had an unusual dynamic - at work, Isabella was still Clea’s boss, but in private, their dynamic flipped and Isabella was the submissive one. She liked to joke that cooking and cleaning was the least she could do to make up for spending all day bossing her mistress around.

The main reason Clea let her was that Isabella was so clearly flourishing in their new life together. She was dramatically, visibly happier than she had ever been with her husband. Having a partner who truly appreciated her made all the domestic work Isabella did incredibly rewarding, and she was able to put all that energy back into her professional life as well. Everywhere, Isabella was excelling. She’d received more than a few comments from coworkers about how much happier and more fulfilled she seemed ever since the divorce from her ex-husband had been finalized. Clea had never been more proud of her.

Except for the day they had received the happy news that Isabella was pregnant.

“You know, I can’t wait to have kids with you,” Clea said softly to Isabella. “We’re gonna be great moms.”

Isabella blushed. Clea knew hearing that meant a lot to her. “’Kids’ plural, huh?” she replied playfully. “Are you sure you’re not getting a little bit ahead of yourself? I’m still working on number one here.”

“Nope,” Clea told her confidently. “You’ve always wanted a big family, right? Well, me too. Two boys and a girl.”

“Two boys and a girl?” Isabella echoed. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Clea admitted. She stretched forward and kissed Isabella’s cheek. “It just sounds good to me.”

“It doesn’t sound bad,” Isabella admitted. Then, with a touch of theatricality, she sighed. “I guess I’m just gonna have to get used to carrying all this extra weight around, aren’t I?”

“You sure are.” Clea giggled. “Now we know how well IVF works for you, I intend to exploit it to the fullest.”

After just a few months, the fertility treatments Isabella had started to undergo had paid off. Finally, Clea was giving Isabella what she’d always wanted: a family of her own. Working together to deal with the pregnancy and prepare for the baby had brought the two of them closer than ever before. Clea had never felt happier.

And it helped that pregnancy looked really, really good on Isabella.

“You know, in my book, the extra weight isn’t a bad thing at all,” Clea murmured into her lover’s ear. “I love how this maternity dress makes you look,”

She started rubbing her palm back and forth across her belly. The way the fabric of the long, blue dress was stretched taut over Isabella’s growing baby bulge was utterly enchanting. Clea couldn’t keep her hands away. Dressed like that, standing in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand, she was the very embodiment of classic, mature femininity. Anyone would have thought so.

The only detail that might have raised their eyebrows was the conspicuous leather collar kept permanently fastened around Isabella’s neck.

Isabella responded with a low purr of appreciation. “Thank you, mistress.” She hesitated. “I feel huge. I think this one’s getting a little small on me.”

“Yeah?” Clea replied, voice breathy. “Well, I like it that way. Really shows off how much of a MILF you’re turning into.”

“Goodness!” Isabella giggled. She was leaning back against Clea eagerly. “Stop!”

“Nope,” Clea shot back playfully. “How could I? I know you’re cooking, but you look good enough to eat.”

Her hands were roaming up and down Isabella’s body now, exploring her hips, her thighs, her chest… she was getting bigger in all the right places. Clearly, motherhood suited her.

“M-mistress! Isabella’s voice started to take on a needy, whiny, high-pitched quality as Clea felt her up. “That’s not fair!”

“Oh yeah?” Clea couldn’t stop grinning. She knew Isabella was enjoying this just as much as she was. “Why’s that?”

Isabella moaned sharply as Clea rested a hand on one of her swollen, sensitive breasts, then giggled as euphoric pleasure washed over her. “A-ah! You k-know how crazy my hormones are these days! T-this is… unff… really d-distracting.”

“Sorry.” Clea giggled too - but she didn’t stop. Not yet. “I guess I should let you get back to cooking, huh? Maybe after dinner, I can help you blow off a little steam.”

Isabella paused for a long moment. Clea kept groping her. She knew the decision her lover was struggling to make, and was more than happy to keep putting her thumb on the scales.

“Actually,” Isabella said slowly, eventually, “this could really do with simmering for a little while. So… maybe right now, we c-could…”

Clea let out a smug laugh and then kissed the back of Isabella’s neck. “Bedroom’s just upstairs, darling.”

After Isabella turned down the heat to keep the pot at a bare simmer, the two of them walked hand in hand up to their bedroom. Happily, Isabella had been awarded the house in the divorce. It meant lots of space for both her and Clea, and plenty more to spare for when the baby arrived. Unhappily, now that she was on the threshold of her third trimester, Isabella had some amount of trouble navigating the stairs. Clea, though, was always there to help her, step by step, until the two of them made it all the way to the top.

“Goodness,” Isabella sighed, as she slumped down onto their king-sized bed. “I swear that gets harder every day. I might need a minute to catch my breath. Sorry, mistress.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Clea told her firmly. “Understand?”

“Understood,” Isabella immediately replied, and nodded submissively.

“Good.” Clea perched next to her on the bed. “Besides, I have something for you to do while you rest up.”

Isabella looked at her quizzically.

Clea reached into her pocket and retrieved her phone - and a pair of earbuds. “I have one last meditation music video I’d like you to check out.”

“One last…” Isabella lit up at once, although she looked surprised. “Wow! I thought you were done with these a long time ago.”

“I know it’s been a little while,” Clea acknowledged. “But, what can I say? Recently, I got the itch to make just one more. For the road, I guess.”

“You won’t hear me complaining.” Isabella was already untangling the earbuds. “Why only one more, though? I’m curious.”

“I just…” Clea paused for a long moment to consider her answer. “I just don’t think we’ll be needing any more.”

Isabella was visibly puzzled, but seemed to accept Clea’s answer for what it was. “I see. Well, like I said, no complaints here. I’m just glad to have one more I can add to my regular playlist!” She looked at Clea and smiled. “Thank you, mistress. I’ve really loved having these to listen to.”

Clea giggled. “You’re welcome. Although, you know, it’s actually my friend Bruna you should be thanking.”

“Aren’t you enigmatic today?” Isabella teased. “Fine, I’ll thank her - but later. I’m eager to listen. My life is a whole lot less stressful without my ass of an ex-husband, but I could still do with a little relaxation.”

Clea gestured for her to lie back and get started. She helped Isabella get into position: lying flat on her back, head on the pillows, blanket folded under her pelvis to help with her aching muscles. While Isabella got the music video loaded up, Clea pressed close to her side and then, once it was ready to play, took the phone out of the older woman’s hands and held it up for her to see.

“Ready?” Clea asked.

Isabella nodded.

Clea hit ‘play’.

This was far from the first time Clea had watched Isabella enjoy one of her specially tailored, hypnotic videos, but no matter how often it happened, it was always a joy to watch the older woman’s face as she succumbed to trance. Clea could practically count the muscles beneath her skin as, one by one, they completely relaxed, leaving Isabella with a slack, mindless, blissfully calm expression. There was something captivating and unspeakably beautiful about it. This was exactly how tranquil and peaceful Isabella always deserved to look.

But it was far from instant; the trance took hold slowly, and there was an entire, wonderful performance to the way it happened. Every few moments, as the video playing in front of her drained all the will and awareness out of Isabella, she tried to gather herself - not to fight or resist, just to stay focused on Clea’s gift. Her eyelids would force themselves wide open, only to sag again after a couple of seconds. The light would return to her eyes, only for the spark to quickly fade into an absent, glassy sheen. Each time, each cycle, Isabella slipped a little deeper, unable to renew herself fully, until eventually, she stopped trying. Stopped struggling.

Stopped thinking.

Clea kept her gaze fixed carefully on Isabella’s face. She couldn’t risk looking at the music video herself. The risk of catching splash damage was too great. But she could certainly see the way Isabella’s face was being bathed in spinning, kaleidoscopic patterns; more and more with each passing moment, as the complex patterns playing on the video unfolded and unfurled in entrancing, ever-shifting formations. At the same time, in sync with them, Clea could hear deep, pulsing, binaural beats leaking out from the earbuds; as much as that, she could feel them, the vibrations passing through Isabella’s body and into hers.

Isabella was hopelessly weak to all of it now. She’d embraced that weakness, succumbing willingly to Clea’s gifts. She loved going into trance for Clea. She loved the relaxation it brought her. She loved feeling Clea’s voice wrapping around her like a warm hug. Clea liked to think that, even if some part of Isabella’s subconscious mind had figured out that she was being hypnotically altered by the music videos, she had decided to accept it.

After all, she was so much happier now.

And to make sure she stayed perfectly happy forever, Clea needed to alter her just a little more.

You are a lesbian, Isabella

Though muted, Clea could still hear her prerecorded voice clearly as the video pumped it into Isabella’s ears. More alteration would come later. First, Clea wanted to be sure to reinforce some other key suggestions.

You are attracted to Clea

You cannot resist Clea

Obeying Clea makes you feel good

Clea knows what’s best for you

Isabella’s face registered not even the slightest hint of resistance or rejection. After many months of constant repetition, she had long since accepted each and every one of them. They had become part of her. In all likelihood, they’d remain true even if Isabella was never hypnotized again. Once you accepted something deeply enough, it became self-reinforcing.

You are a submissive lesbian

You crave sexual contact with Clea

You are in love with Clea

Clea can give you a family

Clea loved the way a faint blush was visible in Isabella’s cheeks as she contemplated submission to Isabella.

You don’t like men

You cannot orgasm with men

You don’t need your ex-husband

Those ones were even less likely to need further reinforcement. They were barely relevant to Isabella’s new life. But Clea liked feeding them to Isabella anyway. A harmless little pleasure.

You are confident

You are proud of being a lesbian

You are comfortable with people knowing you’re a lesbian

You need to marry Clea and have her children

Watching that last particular set of suggestions become true for Isabella had been indescribably wonderful. Despite all opposition and prejudice, inside and out, Isabella had come to completely accept her new life and her new identity. She was out as a lesbian to everyone now. In her day-to-day life, she was rarely seen without a little lesbian pride flag pin somewhere on her clothes. At work, she had taken charge of organizing the company’s pride events.

Isabella was such a lesbian. Clea loved it.

Finally, after all the rest, Clea had planted a few new suggestions she thought would help to ensure Isabella’s happiness.

You love belonging to Clea

Clea is your lesbian mistress

You love being Clea’s submissive lesbian slave

You are proud of being Clea’s lesbian wife

No resistance to those either. Not even a flicker. Isabella remained completely and totally focused on the phone screen. After everything else, why would she fight? Why would she even question? Isabella already liked the idea of all of those things - especially the kinky stuff.

Clea could see the acceptance in her blank, hypnotized eyes as the mantras washed over her.

You crave being bred by Clea

Being pregnant with Clea’s children turns you on

You never take off your collar without permission

Clea’s pussy is the most delicious thing in the world

Clea giggled quietly to herself. Those final few hypnotic suggestions were, admittedly, completely self-indulgent. Were they essential for Isabella’s happiness? Perhaps not. But they wouldn’t hurt. Clea knew that she was going to enjoy them.

And moreover, she knew Isabella would too.

In fact, by the looks of it, she’d already started. As each of those suggestions was fed into Isabella’s ears, her cheeks started to develop a telltale, rosy glow, and her deep breaths took on a faint, panting, needy tone. Without waking, she shifted just a little, rubbing her thighs together. Clea grinned. She knew those signs very, very well by now.

Isabella was turned on.

How could she not be? Every new desire Clea was giving her was already being inflamed and catered to. She belonged to Clea, she was wearing her collar - and, above all, she was pregnant with Clea’s child.

Now that she had such an intense kink for that, Isabella was going crazy.

Clea was very, very tempted to start playing with her right away. But she managed to restrain her eagerness and simply watched patiently as the music video started to loop the new suggestions over, and over, and over.

Eventually, though, it came to an end. After many long minutes, the music video had run its course. Once the suggestions were firmly planted in Isabella’s mind, the shifting patterns and colors on the phone’s screen came to a halt, and the binaural beats playing in Isabella’s ears faded away to silence.

With nothing keeping her in a trance, Isabella slowly began to stir. Her eyes, no longer held transfixed, started to blink and flutter as awareness returned to them. She started shifting around a little, and let out a few heavy, sleepy noises. Isabella arched her back and stretched as she situated herself, and when she noticed Clea lying next to her, she smiled warmly at her beloved.

“Hey,” the older woman said in a distant, dreamy voice.

“Hey yourself,” Clea threw back.

“I’m sorry.” Isabella rubbed at her eyes. Her brow furrowed for a moment as she tried to remember what had just happened. “What was I… oh, your meditation video! I guess it worked a little too well on me, I must have drifted off. That’s so embarrassing, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clea told her. “You deserve all the rest you need. You’re resting for two at the moment, right?”

Both of them giggled. Then, Clea reached across the bed and rested a hand, affectionately and possessively, on Isabella’s pregnant belly.

Isabella’s reaction was instant. She squeaked, and a sudden, hot flush hit her cheeks. Clea could tell exactly what was going on in her head. That gentle little touch had reminded Isabella of her situation. Her pregnancy.

And how intensely hot she suddenly found it.

“P… please,” Isabella whimpered.

Clea licked her lips. She couldn’t resist having just a little fun.

“Please?” Clea tilted her head, playing dumb. “Oh, you need more rest? Of course, my love. We can play around later. For now, you just stay right here and rest.”

“Nooooo,” Isabella whined, reaching for Clea. She was hopelessly weak to her lover’s teasing.

“No?” Clea could barely keep herself from giggling at Isabella’s plight. “Well, no, I guess we don’t have to have sex later either, if you really don’t want to.”

“I… need…” Between the blistering arousal and residual fogginess, Isabella was struggling to form words. But her intent, as she blushed and panted and reached desperately for Clea, was extremely clear. “Need… you… to fuck me.”

Clea smirked at her. In her mind, the older woman never looked prettier than she did like this. “Ask properly, darling.”

Isabella’s blush renewed itself, and she nodded submissively. “Yes, mistress. P-please fuck me, mistress.”

Clea licked her lips again. “Gladly.”

She propped herself up on one arm, and the hand Clea had rested on Isabella’s belly started rubbing and stroking, movingly slowly down the pregnant woman’s body as it did, reaching closer and closer to her sensitive places. Isabella whined. She was torn between gratitude that she was getting what she wanted, and impatience that Clea was still teasing her with gradual foreplay.

“You’re so hot,” Clea breathed. “Always - but especially like this.”

A loud moan forced its way out of Isabella’s throat. She looked embarrassed, and surprised at herself - surprised at just how hot she was finding Clea commenting on her pregnancy.

“You know why?” Clea told her, still fondling her belly. “Because this is mine. You’re having my child. For me. Because of me. And that means, even more than all the rest of you, this belongs to me.”

“Oh my god,” Isabella moaned. She looked overwhelmed by her own arousal as that thought wormed its way into her head, stoking the fire of her new breeding kink. “Yes! Yyyesss!”

Clea giggled again. “And I love that you love being owned and bred by a younger woman. You’re such a submissive dyke.”

Isabella just nodded enthusiastically. She was practically feverish with need. Desperate for some kind of relief, she reached down with her own hand, straining to touch herself.

But Clea swatted her hand away.

“No,” she told Isabella, gently but firmly. “That’s my job. Understand?”

Isabella let out another little whine of protest, but obediently let her hand fall against the bed. She wouldn’t touch herself without Clea’s permission. Clea loved that. She loved the bond of trust and care it represented. Clea took it very seriously, which was why she wasn’t going to be too mean.

But she knew Isabella loved it when she dragged things out just a little.

“But, you know what?” Clea said teasingly. “I seem to remember you telling me earlier all about how much you love servicing me and doing things for me. So, how about this? You make me cum first. Then I’ll fuck you.”

Isabella’s only response was yet another throaty, needy whine at the unfairness of Clea’s command. She didn’t complain, though. The older woman was rapidly sinking into subspace; the deep, all-encompassing mindset of complete, unquestioning obedience to her mistress. That clouded-over but adoring look in her eyes filled Clea’s heart with delight.

She decided to give Isabella a little extra incentive and test out another of her new post-hypnotic suggestions in the process.

“Don’t worry,” Clea told her. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Clea reached down and slipped a hand into her pants. She was already wet, of course; seeing Isabella this turned on and submissive always did that to her. Clea took a brief moment to gratify herself, dipping two fingertips into her pussy until they were coated and dripping with her own juices. Then she stopped - and presented the hand to Isabella’s lips.

She didn’t need to say anything. Isabella knew exactly what to do. She stretched up, opened her mouth, and started to suckle.

An instant later, her eyes flew wide in amazement.

“Oh my god,” Isabella panted around Clea’s fingers. “That tastes - you taste - amazing!”

“Thank you.” Clea giggled wickedly to herself. “Just noticed?”

“No, it’s…” Isabella was still lapping frantically at Clea’s hand, eager to enjoy every last drop. “Um, did you change your diet without telling me or something? T-this is…”

Clea raised an eyebrow. This was proving even more effective than she’d expected - not that that was a bad thing. Isabella’s own arousal was all but forgotten amidst her newfound thirst for Clea’s taste. She kept licking Clea’s fingertips until she was absolutely sure that no trace of her new favorite flavor remained - then a fresh hunger seemed to wash over her as it occurred to Isabella that plenty more of that delicious ambrosia was dripping from between Clea’s thighs.

“Mistress,” Isabella breathed. Her gaze was fixed on the spot. “May I eat you out? Right now?”

“My, my,” Clea commented, amused. “You’ve really changed your tune, my love.”

“I just… it’s…” Isabella couldn’t seem to fit it into words. She was frantic. Like a cat for catnip. “You wanted me to make you cum, right? S-so…”

There was something so very intoxicating about watching Isabella, a woman older and more senior than Clea, the woman she’d been pining after for so long, thinking of nothing but how much she desperately wanted to lick Clea’s pussy. It was the greatest possible turn-on.

“I did,” Clea allowed. She reached across the bed and stroked Isabella’s face affectionately. “But given how demanding you’re being, I think you’re going to have to convince me.” Her smile twisted into a smirk. “Beg. Like I taught you.”

Isabella shivered pleasurably for a moment. She loved Clea being confident and dominant just as much as Clea loved her being submissive and obedient. “Yes, mistress.”

With some effort, Isabella got upright and clambered up to her feet. In an efficient, unhurried way, she started removing her clothes - her dress, then her leggings, then her underwear - carefully folding each garment and setting it down beside herself in a neat pile as she did.

Once Isabella was completely naked, she started to kneel next to the bed. Clea soon noticed, though, that thanks to the increasingly large bump on her belly, she was having trouble. Clea immediately got up to assist her.

“Here,” she offered. “Let me help.”

Isabella nodded gratefully and took Clea’s arm, letting her mistress take some of her weight as she helped lower to the ground. Once there, Isabella folded her legs beneath her, straightened her back, and then bent forward at a stiff angle.

“Please, mistress,” she said simply. “Let me eat your pussy.”

Looking down at her like that, Clea had the best possible view of Isabella’s naked body. She saw it every day now, but that didn’t make it any less special or any less beautiful. Somehow, motherhood had only made Isabella’s gorgeous, mature curves even more appealing. Her fantastic figure was even more stunning; her hips were wider than ever before, and her boobs had grown at least a full cup size. Her rich, brown skin had a fresh glow to it - and, of course, her belly was full and heavy with her pregnancy.

In Clea’s eyes, she was an avatar of fertility and motherhood. She was so beautiful. And Clea couldn’t wait to have her between her legs.

“You may,” Clea told her.

“Thank you, mistress!” Isabella replied gratefully.

Isabella raised her head and eagerly shuffled forward, towards Clea. Clea, every bit as impatient as her, quickly unbuckled her pants, shucked them down to her knees, and then perched on the edge of the bed with her legs spread wide apart.

The older woman grinned proudly as she noted that Clea was just as wet as she was.

Clea’s panties were completely soaked, and Isabella wasted no time pulling them to one side and bringing her lips to Clea’s cunt. The very first touch reminded her just how wonderfully addictive she now found her girlfriend’s taste. With renewed eagerness, Isabella started kissing, licking, and worshiping with all her energy.

Clea threw back her head and moaned. Fuck, it felt incredible.

Over the brief but passionate course of their relationship, Isabella had gone from a virgin pussylicker to a practiced expert. Thanks to Clea’s firm teachings, she knew exactly how to best pleasure her mistress’s body. The right touches, the right rhythms - all of it was muscle memory, but for Clea, the experience was heightened even further by the sheer, unnatural desperation with which Isabella was eating her out.

It was like she was dying of thirst, and Clea’s wetness was all she had to drink. Isabella was barely pausing to breathe as she kissed Clea’s pussy and pressed her tongue as deeply as she could inside her. All of Clea’s breaths were coming out as moans, and a wild grin was spread across her face. She couldn’t believe how well this particular hypnotic suggestion was working out.

Once Isabella’s initial thirst was sated, she settled in a slightly steadier rhythm, pausing occasionally to adore Clea’s inner thighs with deep, loving kisses or to tease and suckle on her clit. Soon, as the pleasure rose in Clea’s body, her entire body started heaving and shuddering and each one of her moans forced all the air out of her lungs. Clea’s climax was coming.

“F-fuck!” she panted. “I l-love that I made you so good at this!”

Isabella’s only response was a delighted purr that Clea could feel echoing through her own body.

“Yeah,” Clea moaned, as Isabella’s tongue touched a particularly sensitive spot just inside her. “Right there. Right there.”

She was usually content to simply sit back and relax as Isabella ate her out, but with her orgasm approaching, Clea reached down and rested her hand on the back of Isabella’s head, using it to guide the older woman and control her pace. Sensing Clea’s intent, Isabella redoubled her efforts, and with her tongue moving so quickly and eagerly, Clea soon felt herself cresting the wave of her orgasm.

“Yeah! Right there!” Clea repeated breathlessly. She clamped down with her hand and her thighs at once, forcing Isabella against her body, denying her air. “Good girl. Good girl! I’m - fuck!”

Clea came. The pleasure hit her with such a fierce intensity, she needed to grip the sides of the bed with both hands just to keep herself upright. Instead, as she rode out the orgasm, Clea crossed both of her legs behind Isabella’s head, squeezing her like a vice, forcing the older woman to keep eating her out until her pleasure slowly, finally ebbed away - not that Isabella needed much forcing. She was just as eager as Clea to prolong her pleasure and heighten her orgasm.

Anything for her beloved mistress.

Eventually, the strength drained from Clea’s body and she let her legs fall apart, finally allowing Isabella to come up for air. The older woman gratefully slumped back a little. She looked like a total mess. Her face was covered with Clea’s slick, sticky wetness, and her eyes were as glassy and blank as Clea had ever seen them. Isabella had been so caught up in worshiping Clea, she was all but hypnotized.

It was just about the hottest thing Clea had ever seen.

“Good girl,” Clea sighed once more, her breath coming back to her in fits and starts. “OK, my love. Your turn.”

She reached down and helped Isabella back up to her feet. Isabella obeyed effortlessly. She was like a doll, just waiting to be posed. Once Clea laid her down on the bed and clambered up between her knees, though, she realized what was going to happen. A deep blush hit Isabella’s cheeks. She’d had her fill of Clea’s taste; now the near-forgotten need in her own body was coming roaring back.

“Please, mistress,” Isabella whined. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

“Don’t worry,” Clea replied lovingly. “You’ve been very, very good for me, Bella. You deserve every reward in the world.”

With that, she pushed her face up between Isabella’s perfectly soft, appealing thighs and started to kiss her.

Just like Isabella, Clea knew her lover’s body intimately and expertly. She knew exactly how best to make Isabella feel good. After all, she’d already gone down on her dozens and dozens of times. However, the approach she took was very, very different.

Clea had promised to make Isabella cum. She hadn’t promised to do it right away.

“P-please,” Isabella begged incoherently as Clea started kissing her way up her inner thighs, tortuously slow. “Please. Please, please, please!”

Clea wasn’t to be rushed. She kept a steady, gradual pace, kissing and nipping, inching ever closer to Isabella’s pussy. Isabella squirmed and writhed madly from the teasing pleasure, bucking her hips in an effort to shift herself down the bed, closer to Clea’s lips - but Clea wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she just giggled at how much Isabella was dripping down her own thighs.

“Wow,” she commented, “you really need this, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Isabella barked out. “G-god, yes!”

“Cute,” Clea purred. “Tell me, Bella, did you ever think you’d be like this? Knocked up and owned by a younger woman? Lying on your back, begging her to lick your cunt?”

Isabella’s needy thrashing intensified as she tried to cover her face and hide from the burning-hot shame that assailed her. After a moment, though, Clea stroked a single fingertip across her pussy, and Isabella was forced to grip the bed sheets, exposing the submissive, embarrassed, lust-drunk look on her face.

“I… I… nooooo,” Isabella protested. “I… I’m… you’re… n-not fair!”

Clea giggled. She was right, of course - but only Clea knew why.

“Yeah?” Clea teased. “I’m not fair? How does that explain how much of a mess you’re making? You’re dripping all over the bed, babe.”

“Nooo,” Isabella howled again in futile denial. “You… y-you… did something… to me!”

“Oh, I did?” Clea put her lips very, very close to Isabella’s skin, letting her warm breath tease her. “What did I do?”

"I… don’t…” Isabella gave up and simply moaned. She couldn’t think, and both of them knew it.

“No, c’mon,” Clea told her. “Tell me. What did I do?”

“You… you… I…” Isabella was trying her hardest to muster an answer, but Clea wasn’t making it easy for her. Whenever Isabella looked like she was close to spitting out a word longer than a syllable, Clea dragged her tongue across her cunt in a slow, languid stroke that turned the older woman’s mind to mush.

“You can do it,” Clea teased. “Answer me. What did I do?”

Eager to obey, Isabella eventually managed to summon a response. “You… m-made me… a… lesbian!”

Clea blinked, surprised. She paused for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what it f-felt like.” Without Clea distracting her at every moment, Isabella could speak a little easier. “Before you, I never… but, god, you’re just so amazing and supportive and b-beautiful. Without you, I might never have realized.”

Clea relaxed. Smiled. “I see. So it’s my fault you’re such a total bottom.”

“You- ah!”

Isabella tried to answer, but her words broke apart hopelessly as Clea started eating her out again. This time, there was no teasing. No foreplay. Isabella was beyond the need for that. She was already at a rolling boil, desperate for any kind of release.

Which meant her pleasure was all the greater when Clea finally turned her attention to her clit. She wrapped her lips around it, sucking and lapping, bringing one hand up to rub against the lips of Isabella’s pussy.

Her efforts had Isabella moaning like never before.

The older woman would have been thrashing and squirming like crazy, except that all the strength had completely drained from her limbs. Instead, all Isabella could do was reach to either side of herself and gather up the bedsheets into her fists whilst all the air was forced out of her lungs.

“P… p-please!” Isabella moaned, in a voice higher and needier than ever before. “P-please! I n-n-need… need…”

Clea knew she was begging for something different this time: for mercy. For just a moment to catch her breath. But Clea wasn’t going to give it to her. Instead, she redoubled her efforts, working Isabella’s clit as quickly and furiously as she could, keen to bring her lover to the point of orgasm as quickly as possible.

It didn’t take long.

Isabella’s orgasm came screaming. After so much teasing, for so long, it hit her like a thunderbolt. Her moans filled the entire house, and all around Clea, she twitched and shuddered violently as the sheer force of the pleasure short-circuited her brain. Clea guided her through it expertly, switching up her rhythm to ensure the pleasure hit Isabella in waves, one climax after the next, folding atop each other, guiding her to the very peak of bliss.

And all the while, Clea was grinning. The moment was perfect. Both of them were in heaven.

Once Isabella’s pleasure finally ebbed away, she relaxed into a happy, addled daze. Clea gave her a moment to herself, to recover from the sheer over-stimulation. But once she felt Isabella was ready, Clea reached over to her bedside table and retrieved a set of papers from the drawer.

“What’s that?” Isabella asked, turning to look at her. She was still flushed, and her face was drenched with sweat. She looked so happy.

“Another reward,” Clea replied. “I was thinking it might be time.”

“What does that-“ Isabella started to ask, but froze when Clea handed her the papers and saw what was written at the top of the first page.

They were marriage papers.

“We should make it official, right?” Clea asked. “Before the due date, I mean. Assuming you’ll say ‘yes’, that is.”

“Yes.” Isabella’s grin split her face from ear to ear. “I’m saying ‘yes’.”

Immediately, Clea’s face hurt from smiling too. She threw herself on the bed next to Isabella and wrapped the older woman up into a tight, loving embrace.

“I love you,” Clea told her.

“I love you too,” came Isabella’s confident reply. After the two of them pulled away from each other, Isabella turned her attention to the papers and giggled. “I was kind of expecting a ring.”

“I’ll get one,” Clea promised. “But for now, you already have the only ring you truly need.”

She reached out and touched her fingertips to Isabella’s collar. Isabella blushed.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked.

Clea did. She handed it to Isabella - but before she could sign the marriage papers, Clea stopped her with a hand over the page.

“Actually, there’s one more thing we should agree on first,” Clea said.

“What’s that?” Isabella asked.

Clea winked at her. “Two boys and a girl. Right?”

---

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#story #Marital Aid

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kallie-den · 15 days

Text

Marital Aid Ch. 4

Clea gives Isabella the missing ingredient she needs to embrace her new lesbian identity and life: a healthy dose of pride

This story was a commission from one of my patrons! Thank you very much to Myles_EXVS for their kind support

—

Clea had just about everything she’d ever wanted.

For years now, she’d harbored a crush on her boss, Isabella. Knowing full well that Isabella was both straight and married had done nothing to stop the pining, and Clea had spent more hours than she could count daydreaming about what it might have looked like if they’d somehow had a life together. And now, thanks to Clea’s hypnosis files, they did. Isabella had accepted that she was a lesbian and that she was in love with Clea. They were in a relationship. Isabella was leaving her asshole husband for Clea. They even had a fulfilling - and ridiculously hot - kink dynamic.

Clea couldn’t have asked for more. She had everything.

But it wasn’t enough. Clea still wasn’t happy.

She wasn’t happy because Isabella wasn’t happy. Even though Clea had made absolutely certain that Isabella wanted and had chosen everything that had happened, a low, heavy mood had descended on her new girlfriend. It had started right after Isabella had broken things off with her husband. She’d told him that she was a lesbian, that he’d been an awful partner to her, and that she was leaving him for good. It wasn’t surprising to Clea that an impending divorce had taken its toll on Isabella, of course. She’d been ready to support her girlfriend through that. She’d even made sure that Isabella could move into her apartment immediately so that Clea could be there for her at all hours of the day.

It hadn’t been the idyllic domestic life Clea had been picturing - and not for a lack of love or affection. Being with Isabella was wonderful, and Clea could tell her girlfriend felt the same. They loved spending time together; kissing, holding each other, making love. The sex was incredible, and Clea knew there was absolutely no doubt in Isabella’s mind that Clea and lesbianism were what was best for her.

And yet, still, Isabella was depressed. She cried a lot. She spent long hours curled up in bed, doing little more than staring at the ceiling. It was taking its toll on her work, too, which was the worst part. Isabella had always been on top of her game at the office, and Clea loved her for it. Now, the older woman was always tired. She made mistakes. Her heart wasn’t in it anymore. And Clea’s was breaking.

She was doing everything she could for Isabella, of course. Clea was as diligent a girlfriend as she was a secretary. Both at work and at home, she happily attended to Isabella’s every need. Isabella always greeted her attention with a smile, but it was like the smile of a ghost. It flickered and faded as easily as the light changed. Kink didn’t help either. When Clea dominated Isabella, both of them could lose themselves in fantasy, but only for as long as the scene lasted. Isabella clung to Clea’s dominance like it was a life ring. She wore the collar Clea had given her like one every moment that they were alone together. But in the end, as the tide waned, she was still left stranded out at sea.

“What can I do?” Clea asked quietly, as she perched next to Isabella on their bed and rested a hand on Isabella’s shoulder. She’d run out of ideas.

“I don’t know,” Isabella replied. She turned to smile at Clea, but she sounded defeated. Her eyes were red from crying.

Clea squeezed her shoulder tightly. The air between them was thick. Words came slowly.

“I heard your phone,” Clea ventured. “Was it him again?”

They both knew who she meant. Robert, Isabella’s husband. He’d taken to calling her every now and then - always angry, usually drunk - so that he could demand she ‘come home’ and rant about all her perceived deficiencies when she refused. Clea was pleased he was showing his true colors and proud of Isabella for always standing up to him, but she could see the calls were taking their toll.

Isabella just shook her head.

“If it was, you should tell your lawyer,” Clea encouraged. “He can use it in court. Get a restraining order, maybe. Or at least speed things along. Your ex won’t be able to keep dragging his feet about signing those papers if we can show a pattern of sustained harassment and-“

“It wasn’t him,” Isabella said, firmly enough that Clea believed her.

“OK,” Clea said slowly. “Sorry.”

The silence dragged on for a long moment. This was one of Isabella’s bad days. Yet again, Clea contemplated what she might be able to do to address whatever Isabella was feeling. It shouldn’t have been difficult. With her hypnotic videos, she had a direct line to Isabella’s subconscious. Even now, the older woman listened to them diligently. Introducing her to another would be easy. And Clea could tell her…

What? What, exactly? That was the problem.

Clea simply didn’t understand what, precisely, was burdening Isabella so terribly. It didn’t make any sense to her. After all, thanks to her, Isabella was a lesbian. She was desperately attracted to Clea, both romantically and sexually, and those feelings were entirely reciprocated. She craved submission to Clea, and Clea was satisfying that need too. It was a better relationship than she’d ever had with her husband. Clea just couldn’t figure out the root of the problem.

It was tempting to try anyway. That seemed preferable to doing nothing. Except, what if whatever she did made Isabella’s depression even worse? That was Clea’s worst fear. The fear that truly haunted her.

What if all this was her fault? What if, all along, she’d had no idea what she was doing? What if she’d ruined the woman she was in love with?

That fear, that uncertainty, was paralyzing. Clea just didn’t know what to do. And so, day after day, they sat like this, in heavy silence. Isabella was right there, in Clea’s arms, but somehow she just couldn’t seem to reach out and touch her.

“Actually, it was my parents,” Isabella offered, eventually.

Clea blinked. “Yeah?”

��Yeah.”

That was unexpected. It was even more unexpected that a call with her parents would have left Isabella like this. Clea felt she needed to get to the bottom of this.

“They aren’t… supportive?” she asked. “I thought you said they were pretty progressive?”

“It’s not…” Isabella sighed. “They are - at least, about some things. They aren’t bigots. I’m pretty sure they have absolutely no problem with me being a lesbian.”

“Then, what?” Clea couldn’t keep herself from sounding a touch impatient.

“They’re Catholic, Clea!” Isabella told her. “They don’t like that I’m getting divorced. That’s what they have a problem with.”

“Oh.”

Clea slumped. Inwardly, she was cursing herself. She should have thought of that. She should have considered that Isabella’s older, Hispanic parents would be Catholic and take issue with divorce. After hearing from Isabella that they were accepting of gay people, she’d simply put them out of her mind. How could she have been so thoughtless?

“It doesn’t help that I’m further than ever from having kids,” Isabella added miserably. “At least, that’s how they see it. I’ve tried telling them about Robert, but… I guess they never really took it to heart. Or maybe they just thought he’d come around. They’ve always wanted grandchildren.”

Hearing that stung a little. “We can give them to them!” Clea insisted quickly. “When we’re ready, I mean. I’ve been looking into it. Artificial insemination. Fertility treatments. It’s all extremely, extremely possible. We can do it, Isabella. We can have a family.”

Isabella looked at Clea and smiled. The happiness on her face was real and it warmed Clea’s heart - but, as usual, it didn’t seem to last. After merely a moment, Isabella sunk back into her sullen, heavy mood.

“Thank you, Clea. I want that with you. I really do. Nothing could make me happier. It’s just…” Isabella looked down and sighed again. “I don’t know. The way they talk about divorce. It’s like they see me as a failure now. And… I know I couldn’t stay with Robert. That’s just not who I am. I’m a lesbian. I’m attracted to women. I’m in love with you. But… still.” She reached up and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t stop feeling like they’re right. Like I really am a failure.”

At that moment, Clea could feel her heart being ripped in two. She threw her arms around Isabella and felt the older woman’s body being wracked with heavy sighs and half-sobs. The depth of the pain in Isabella’s voice was moving her to tears. She wished, more than she’d ever wished for anything else, that she could figure out what she needed to do to make Isabella right.

And then, suddenly, it dawned on her. Inspiration.

Clea had made sure Isabella was a lesbian. She’d given her all kinds of desires, and had tipped the scales to make sure the older woman gave in to them. But through all that, she’d been missing something. Isabella had spent her whole life thinking that divorce was wrong. That leaving her husband for Clea was wrong. Accepting that she needed to do it didn’t mean all of that internalized shame and torment was erased. There was something critical Isabella needed to bring her psyche back into balance.

Pride.

It seemed so simple now. It was all Clea could do to keep herself from smiling inappropriately.

“Hey,” Clea said, voice tender. “Look at me.”

It took Isabella a moment, but she obediently turned her face up towards her girlfriend. She seemed surprised when Clea kissed her, deeply and gladly, but soon melted into the embrace. Through all her depression, Isabella was more in love with Clea than she’d ever been with her husband. Clea always enjoyed the way she could taste that love on her lips.

“Don’t worry,” Clea told her, as she pulled back. “It’s all going to be OK.” Now, she could say it with such absolute confidence that she could see Isabella surprised to find herself believing it. “I know exactly what to do.”

***

You are a lesbian, Isabella.

The suggestion washed over Isabella with perfect ease. Even her subconsciousness barely registered the words as they worked their way through her mind, pressing on her with a gentle, irresistible pressure, like the way the tides steadily shaped the shore.

Why bother taking notice? The music video was just telling her what she already knew.

And besides, Isabella didn’t notice anything else, either. She didn’t notice the soft, familiar, reassuring texture of the bed sheets beneath her skin. She didn’t notice the faint ache in her back from the way she was propped up against the headboard. She didn’t notice the gleeful, triumphant grin on Clea’s face as her girlfriend held her phone up in front of Isabella to show her the new music video she’d just made for her.

Isabella was far, far too deeply hypnotized for that.

It had struck her as a little strange when, right after comforting her, Clea had run out of the room and declared that she needed to work on one of her videos. It was hardly out of character, though. Isabella had come to accept that part of Clea - the part that was seized by inspiration at wildly unexpected moments. She loved it, just as she loved everything else about Clea.

Besides, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She loved the files Clea made for her. They always left her unbelievably, blissfully relaxed - and that feeling was more precious to her now than ever.

So, even though she hadn’t really been in the mood, Isabella hadn’t argued when Clea had insisted that she lie down and watch her latest creation.

Now, her mood was completely immaterial. It was a thing of the past. It had dissolved like mist. Isabella felt nothing at all, and she was thinking of nothing but the screen in front of her face. Strange, lurid, spiral patterns dominated her vision, and deep, pulsing, binaural beats dictated the rhythm of her mind. It had taken effect instantly. Isabella had been conditioning herself to be unbelievably susceptible. Resistance was a thing of the past. And beneath it all, Clea’s voice whispered suggestions that carved themselves indelibly on Isabella’s heart.

You are a lesbian.

That one passed by without notice. Isabella accepted it completely and totally. She was a lesbian. She always had been. But hearing that yet again, helped to lull Isabella into a state of calm, placid acceptance.

Yes. That was right. Clea’s voice was always right. Clea knew best for her. All Isabella needed to do was listen.

You are comfortable with people knowing you’re a lesbian.

That didn’t go down quite so easily. Isabella had to turn inward and ask herself if that was how she truly felt. Was she truly comfortable with people knowing she was a lesbian? Maybe. There was no reason not to be. Not that Isabella could think of. It wasn’t like it was anything to be ashamed of. And yet, there was something…

No. No, she was comfortable with people knowing she was a lesbian. The more she dwelt on it, the more Isabella found herself sure. All her doubts were simply vanishing.

You are confident in coming out as a lesbian.

Under Clea’s watchful gaze, Isabella twitched, just a little. She was confident in coming out? Isabella wasn’t so sure of that. She was comfortable with people knowing, of course. But coming out - that was a different matter. Coming out was such an event. A declaration. She’d had to, with her ex and her parents, but it hadn’t felt particularly good.

And yet, she was confident in coming out as a lesbian.

She just was. It was beyond doubt. Even if it didn’t feel good, Isabella was confident. She took the bad with the good - hadn’t she always? To her, something standing in her way was always a challenge to overcome. That was how she’d come so far in her work life. Why would her sexuality be any different? Besides, if she was happy with people knowing, surely it stood to reason that she was happy coming out to them.

A slight smile dawned on Isabella’s face as she accepted it. She was confident in coming out as a lesbian. The only mystery was how it had taken her this long. She needed to start telling people.

You want to make new friends who accept you as a lesbian.

She did? Isabella wasn’t so sure about that. Make new friends? That goal hadn’t been on her radar at all. After all, she was perfectly content in her current circle of friends. Except…

They weren’t lesbians. They were all straight.

That wasn’t a problem, of course. They were straight, but they weren’t prejudiced. Isabella was sure they’d be comfortable with the fact that she was a lesbian. But then, why had she held off on coming out to them? Not for lack of confidence, obviously. She was perfectly comfortable with people knowing, and perfectly confident in coming out to them. It didn’t make much sense.

Except it did. It was because Isabella knew it would change things between them.

Once that realization appeared in her head, the rest of it fell like dominoes. Yes, that was it. She hadn’t come out to them because, after that, their friendship just wouldn’t be the same. After all, so much of the time her friend group spent together was spent talking about men - venting about their husbands, complaining about their exes, sharing their dating woes. Suddenly, Isabella would be set apart from all that. It wasn’t her world anymore. She was a lesbian. She could try talking to them about what she was going through in turn, but even if they’d be sympathetic, they couldn’t possibly understand.

And that was why Isabella needed new friends. Friends who really, truly accepted her.

Now that she’d thought about it like that, she wanted it so badly.

You are proud of being a lesbian.

At that, Isabella almost woke up. Her brow furrowed and her eyes trembled, as they registered the intense, inward conflict raging inside of her. A little color and life returned to her face and she began to twitch and stir - all of that, because Isabella was troubled by the fact that she couldn’t seem to answer one simple question.

Was she proud of being a lesbian?

There was a correct answer: ‘yes’. Isabella knew that. She was supposed to feel proud. But it just wasn’t that simple. Isabella was proud of some things, of course. She was proud of being Clea’s girlfriend. But overall, being a lesbian had been as much anguish as joy. She’d spent years lying to herself in a pointless, awful marriage, and now she had to navigate a messy divorce, the judgment of her peers, and the disappointment of her parents. And their disappointment was as much a part of her as anything else was. They were her parents. They’d raised her. She’d lived with their opinions their entire life.

Though she never would have said so out loud, deep down, Isabella knew that she didn’t feel proud of being a lesbian. If anything, it was the opposite.

That settled the question. Did it?

Somehow, though, that didn’t sit right with Isabella. It just itched at her.

Wasn’t she proud, in her own way?

She couldn’t seem to shake that conviction. In fact, it was growing and growing. As the soporific tones of Clea’s music video kept playing in her ears, Isabella found herself rationalizing, not questioning.

She was proud. Wasn’t she?

If Isabella wasn’t proud of being a lesbian, why was she so comfortable with people knowing she was one? If Isabella wasn’t proud of being a lesbian, why was she so confident coming out? If Isabella wasn’t proud of being a lesbian, why was she so eager to make new friends who accepted her?

When she thought about it like that, it all seemed incredibly simple.

“I’m… proud…” Isabella sighed in a faint, dreamy voice, as acceptance came to her, “proud… of being… a lesbian.”

Her reward was a sudden rush of serotonin. It was like she had been completely unburdened. For the first time in weeks, her heart felt light and free. Isabella felt like she could do anything.

“Good girl,” Clea murmured, although Isabella barely heard her.

Finally, Isabella, you need to marry Clea and have her children.

Isabella felt no resistance to that. There was no reason for her to doubt or question it. Especially not now that she’d realized how proud she was. Isabella felt like she could finally embrace Clea with her whole heart, and that meant making a place for her in all her deepest, most important dreams - her dreams of family. Who better than Clea? The woman she loved, and the woman who was best for her.

It was easy to accept. But that didn’t mean it didn’t have an impact.

Wanting or hoping for those dreams was one thing. Needing them was another. Finding pride had made Isabella feel complete, but already, she was discovering an emptiness within herself. A deep, gnawing, yawning emptiness. It needed to be filled. She needed to be filled.

She needed to marry Clea. She needed to have her children. It was in her body.

“There we go,” Clea murmured. “I think that should do, for now.”

Isabella blinked, suddenly disoriented, as the screen that had become her entire world disappeared. It took her a very long time to realize that Clea had simply put her phone down. Noticing how confused she was prompted questions: what had she been doing? Why was her head so foggy? Why did she feel so different? What had been happening for the past few minutes?

Then Clea squeezed her hand, and it didn’t matter. Isabella found herself smiling at her girlfriend in utter contentment.

Clea was here. Clea knew what was best for her. That meant she was safe and that everything was perfectly OK.

Except one thing. Isabella needed.

In her body, she needed. It was hard to put her finger on why, exactly, but just as Isabella’s mind was ready to succumb to a warm, sleepy, loving daze, her body was rousing itself with an awareness of just how desperate she was. And somehow, Clea seemed to know.

“Hey,” Clea said, her tone suggestive. She reached down and rested her palm possessively on Isabella’s abdomen. “I really, really need to put a baby in you.”

Isabella gasped. Suddenly her need had a form. A shape. The growing arousal in her body started flowing to her chest and her lower half. She needed that so badly.

“Y-yeah,” Isabella panted. “But… how…?”

“I told you, there are ways.” Clea smirked. “But for now, we’ll just have to make do with this.”

Clea reached down over the edge of the bed and then under it, groping around for something. Once she found it, she showed it to Isabella: a long gift box, nicely made, clearly left there just for the occasion like a present under a Christmas tree. In a slow, teasing way, Clea lifted the lid to show her girlfriend what was inside.

A brand new, huge, realistic, lovingly-sculpted strap-on.

Isabella let out another gasp, this one thick with anticipation. There was no mistaking what this was for, or why Clea was showing it to her now.

Or how much Isabella wanted it.

“I need to make you mine,” Clea said, once she saw the eagerness in Isabella’s gaze. Kneeling on the bed, she raised herself up on her knees and started fastening the harness around her hips. “I need to make you feel it. Inside and out.”

Isabella just nodded, and let out a slight, reverent moan. As Clea busied herself securing the strap into the harness, she was all but hypnotized by the sight of that huge, silicone shaft bobbing up and down in the air, jutting out proudly from Clea’s athletic, feminine figure. It was making her drool, and filling her belly with heat.

She and Clea hadn’t explored this facet of lesbian sex yet. It was all new to Isabella. She’d heard of strap-ons, of course, but she didn’t know how they might feel. Penetration with her husband had always been so disappointing, but Isabella suspected that, as in all other areas, Clea would prove far more skilled.

Certainly, her tool was much, much bigger.

“You need this,” Clea told her, stroking one hand experimentally along the shaft of her new, silicone cock.

Isabella nodded her head in mute reverence. It wasn’t a question. They both knew it was true. Isabella needed to have Clea’s children. Those words kept echoing in her head, even though she wasn’t sure where they came from. Having Clea’s children would mean more than just sex, of course - but her body didn’t know that. Something within her - a deep, primal, biological urge - had been activated, and it craved exactly what Clea was offering.

“You need this,” Clea repeated as she advanced on Isabella, crawling towards her, looming over her. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Isabella breathed. She reclined as Clea advanced on her, resting on her back, raising her legs and parting them, inviting Clea to reach out and lift the skirt of her dress. “I need it.”

“Good girl,” Clea grunted. Hearing those words made Isabella’s soul shiver. “Wider.”

Isabella obeyed, letting her knees fall down and to the side, whimpering as she exposed herself to her girlfriend.

“Good.” Clea reached out and hooked two fingers into her panties, slipping them down and out of the way. She smirked when she felt how wet Isabella was. “Wow. You really do need this.”

Isabella moaned again. Whenever Clea was like this with her, dominant and teasing, it just made her head go blank. It was desperately embarrassing to be so weak to being treated this way by a younger woman. “Y-yes! Please…”

“Don’t worry.” Clea was grinning wildly as she lined the head of her strap-on up against Isabella. “I wasn’t going to make you beg.”

She pushed forward with her hips and thrust the huge dildo all the way inside Isabella.

Isabella saw white.

She was already so wet that it didn’t hurt, but the sheer intensity of being filled by Clea’s strap set every nerve in her body on fire, and drew from her a ragged, shocked scream that transcended both pain and pleasure. Isabella’s whole upper body heaved as she fought for each breath, and when Clea pulled back and thrust into her a second time, it again forced all the air out of her lungs.

Then, as Clea found her rhythm, Isabella realized it felt better than anything she’d ever experienced before.

It went beyond simple pleasure. It was the kind of deep, raw satisfaction that came from having her deepest wishes finally fulfilled. This was what Isabella had been craving. This was what she needed to fill the emptiness inside her. Clea. Clea’s cock. Isabella wrapped her legs around her girlfriend’s body, wielding all of her strength to draw her in and encourage her.

More. Deeper. Harder.

“You like that?” Clea grunted. Her voice was thick and gruff with exertion as she plowed into Isabella.

“Yeah,” Isabella moaned. That one word was all she could manage.

Clea grinned. “Better than your husband?”

That got a derisive snort out of Isabella. “F… fuck yeah,” she laughed.

Not even close. It was night and day.

Clea laughed too. She bent over Isabella and redoubled her pace. “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” she growled into Isabella’s ear.

There was only one answer. Isabella felt it deep in her body. In her womb, in defiance of reason.

“B-breed me,” she begged.

Hearing that seemed to fill Clea with a surge of energy, but she pulled back, eliciting a whimper of disappointment from Isabella.

“I want you on your hands and knees,” Clea purred. “I want to see your ass bouncing up and down while I knock you up.”

Isabella’s disappointment vanished instantly. Clea saying that was so hot it had her seeing stars. She had fully embraced the role-play. She wanted to be fucked however Clea wanted to fuck her. Clea knew best. Her legs were weak from pleasure, but even so, Isabella managed to roll over and scramble up onto her hands and knees, ready for Clea to take her from behind.

“You know,” Clea said. She sounded distinctly smug. “This strap-on isn’t the only new toy I had lying around.”

Isabella was confused about her meaning, until she felt Clea reach around her and clip something into the D-ring of her collar.

A leash.

She had just enough time to realize how hot that was before Clea pushed her silicone cock back inside Isabella’s cunt and, at the same moment, jerked back on the leash. The sudden, sharp yank made Isabella yelp and clench down, and she was rewarded with a shock of pleasure that eclipsed even what she’d been feeling before.

Then Clea really started fucking her.

With Isabella collared and leashed like that, Clea could completely control the pace. She mastered Isabella utterly, coaxing her into tightening up, or bucking her hips, or arching her back - all with the slightest touch on the leash. It was incredible. For Isabella, being so thoroughly controlled like that was the ultimate fantasy.

She was Clea’s. Her body was Clea’s. Her pussy was Clea. Her womb was Clea’s.

The older woman matched Clea thrust for thrust, her moans battling with the obscene slap of Clea’s hips against her ass, turning their bedroom into a temple to lesbian pleasure. Part of the thrill was that Isabella couldn’t see what Clea was doing, couldn’t tell what might come next, but just from her girlfriend’s moans, she knew that Clea was enjoying this every bit as much as she was. That, as much as anything else, filled her with a strange, gratifying pride and brought a delirious, horny submissive smile to her face.

This was perfect. Being fucked like this was beyond Isabella’s wildest dreams. It was an experience she never even could have imagined mere months before. But one burning, boiling impulse soared above everything else, until it was only thought left in Isabella’s head.

“Please!” she begged through her moans. “Breed me, Clea. Please, please, I n-need it! Breed me!”

Clea smacked her ass. The unexpected pain mixed with the heady pleasure Isabella was already feeling, and she howled in both ecstasy and delirious confusion.

“Mistress,” Clea said firmly, tightening her grip on the leash. “I think it’s time you started calling me ‘mistress’.”

“F-fuck!” Isabella quivered at the sheer power of the word. It would mean so much. Another threshold crossed. Their relationship cemented as dominant and submissive. It was perfect. Perfect for a submissive lesbian like Isabella. “Y-yes, mistress!”

“Good girl!” Clea sounded just as high on the moment as Isabella. There was a kind of wild joy in her voice, like she was all but overwhelmed by the dominant power she held over Isabella.

It was really, really hot.

“Breed me, mistress!” Isabella cried, eager to drive Clea even further into that savage, dominant headspace. “Please - please, I need it! Breed me! Breed me, mistress!”

In response, Clea just snarled. She quickened her pace yet again, pounding her strap-on in and out of Isabella’s body with all of her strength. Isabella’s arms gave way and she collapsed face-first into their bed, only just barely able to keep her ass propped up in the air as Clea wished.

“I’ll breed you,” Clea growled. “I’ll knock you up. I’ll make you mine. Inside and out. Mind and body. All mine. I can’t wait to see you with a big, round, pregnant belly, all because of me. My wife. My submissive. Mine. Mine, mine, mine!”

An image flashed through Isabella’s head, as clear and vibrant as daylight - herself, naked, kneeling beside Clea, with a collar and leash around her neck, a ring on her finger, and a huge, full, swelling belly rounding out her figure.

That pushed her over the edge. She came.

Isabella screamed as the orgasm hit her. Clea screamed too, caught up in the shared energy. She didn’t stop thrusting, though; she pounded Isabella until their screams died, then drove the strap-on into Isabella all the way to the hilt. They were both imagining the same thing: Clea filling her, painting her insides, turning her into the mother she’d always craved being.

Eventually, Isabella’s legs gave way too. She slumped flat against the bed, limp and twitching, her collar still tight around her neck, lost in dreamy fantasy. Clea collapsed next to her and managed to get Isabella’s head nestled into her arms even as her strap-on was still inside the older woman. For a long time, neither one of them said anything. They were just basking in the afterglow.

This was usually the moment Isabella dreaded. The moment the endorphins that sex provided started to fade, and the bleak thoughts started to return.

This time, though, it wasn’t happening. The glow just went on and on, and she was blanketed by thoughts of the warm, happy future she and Clea were going to have together. Jubilant, Isabella turned to look at her girlfriend.

“We should do this again,” she said, a touch shyly. “M-mistress.”

Clea giggled like she couldn’t believe her luck. Then, she stretched forward to kiss Isabella’s forehead.

“Every single day. You bet your ass. And let’s look into setting up those fertility treatments.”

---

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

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#story #Marital Aid

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kallie-den · 21 days

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Hello I just wanted to say that I've been a long time fan of your writing and that I hope you keep writing awesome stories! It's refreshing to see darker erotic mind control stories that are exclusively lesbian with incredible skill and prose to boot. Maybe I'm just in the wrong places and ain't looking hard enough, but you might be the only writer I've seen do lesbian bimbofication stuff. Either way awesome work!

Awww, thank you! I'm a big fan of all those things, and so it's really satisfying to be able to put more of it out into the world. I'm glad it's appreciated. As for lesbian bimbofication, there's definitely some of it out there - but not as much as we need!!

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kallie-den · 21 days

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hi kallie i am a big fan of your writing you are a big inspiration! do you have any advice for what to do when you just feel like you can't do an idea justice? like, you have something in your head but you feel like you cant get it onto the page. thats a really common problem for me and it kills my motivation!

Hi! Thank you, that's amazing! Being an inspiration to someone is always wildly flattering. That's a tough one to answer, though. To be honest, I struggle with it a lot - especially the way it can kill my motivation. I don't have any single bullet for it. Sometimes, the answer is to push through and then return to the finished piece a day or two later - it might be better than it felt while you were writing it, or you might find that your ideas crystalize while you're editing. Other times, it can be better to go back to the drawing board by scrapping your draft and trying to refocus on what you want the piece to look like.

Basically, it's hard! But please feel reassured that literally every writer experiences this, and it's nothing to feel too discouraged over

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kallie-den · 24 days

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Reproductive Labor

Val, a butch lesbian, has some issues with her new boss - especially when Ms. Safra, an accomplished hypnotist, insists that a more feminine role might suit her better…

This was a commission I received, for a story about a butch lesbian getting hypnotized, force-femmed and bred by their evil boss! Pretty great concept ngl ;)

If you like my writing, please consider supporting me on Patreon! For less than the price of a cup of coffee each month, you can get immediate, early access to everything I write - 4 pieces of hypno-smut a month, including the latest chapters of all the multi-chapter stories I write. Your support helps me keep writing and is greatly appreciated <3

Keep reading

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kallie-den · 24 days

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AMAZING. I'M DROOLING OVER THIS

off you go, puppy

super heavily inspired by @kallie-den's amazing Warhound stories, please go check her stuff out

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kallie-den · 29 days

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Marital Aid Ch. 3

Clea gives Isabella one more push to help seperate her from her husband

This story was a commission from one of my patrons! Thank you very much to Myles_EXVS for their kind support

---

“Clea?” Isabella said uncertainly, stepping into the supply closet after her secretary - and now, her lover. “Um… what did you need help finding, exactly?”

“Uh… pens?” Clea lied unconvincingly. She couldn’t keep the grin from her face. “Quick, shut the door behind you!”

Isabella blushed. She seemed to sense what was happening. “I-I don’t know if that’s appropriate for-“

Clea ignored her, reached back over her boss’s shoulder, and pushed the closet door shut. Isabella fell silent and shivered when she felt Clea’s breath on her skin.

“There.” Clea giggled. “Now we’re all alone.”

At that, Isabella blushed deeper and clasped one of her arms with the opposite hand in a rare display of nervousness.

“Clea, w-we’re at work,” she stuttered. “We said we’d keep things professional at the off-“

“And we will,” Clea soothed. She took Isabella by the hand, leading her deeper into the cramped closet. Despite her protests, Isabella didn’t resist. “Nobody can see us in here. Nobody saw us come in here. As far as the rest of the office is concerned, we’re just two coworkers who’ve gone out to lunch.”

“But…” Isabella whimpered. Her will was weakening. Clea’s touch, even when they were just holding hands, was intoxicating. “But what if someone else comes in here…”

“Then…”

Abruptly, Clea pulled Isabella off balance and then shoved her against a nearby stack of shelves. Isabella gasped with surprise, but then her breath caught as Clea pressed against her.

“Then we’re just looking for some pens,” Clea purred. “Nothing embarrassing about that, right?”

“I… I-I don’t…” Isabella was trying to look anywhere but at Clea - and failing. Her secretary’s presence was overpowering. “We c-can’t…”

Clea loved watching her blush and stutter. It was so cute. And she knew exactly what was going on inside her beloved boss’s head.

Isabella is a lesbian.

Isabella is attracted to Clea.

Isabella craves sexual contact with Clea.

Clea knows what’s best for Isabella.

Isabella can’t resist Clea.

All of those post-hypnotic suggestions had been fermenting inside of Isabella for some time now. They were part of her, and she’d already succumbed to them time and again. Thanks to Clea’s hypnosis videos, her relationship with Isabella had been completely transformed. Longing for Clea had overcome Isabella’s reluctance, and the two of them were in the throes of a passionate, loving, and increasingly kinky affair. That mostly took place outside of work, though, on discreet dates or at Clea’s apartment.

Clea liked Isabella being submissive towards her, but she didn’t want to undermine her boss’s dominance in the office. She knew that Isabella was rightly proud of her seniority and the respect she commanded - and Clea didn’t want her any other way.

Besides, 'boss in the streets, bottom in the sheets’ was really, really hot. So hot, Clea couldn’t resist pushing her luck while they were both taking a lunch break.

“Clea… c’mon…” Isabella tried once again to rally herself, despite the giddy smile that kept threatening to appear on her flushed face. “Please- fuck!”

She broke off into hopeless moaning as one of Clea’s hands slipped down her leg, up her skirt, and pressed forcefully against the front of her panties. Clea smiled as she noted that Isabella was already wet.

“Please?” Clea teased. “Please fuck you? Babe, I’d love to.”

She started working her fingers up and down in slow, rhythmic patterns that she just knew would drive Isabella crazy. Her boss slumped back against the shelves as her legs turned to jelly, and she reached out weakly to Clea for support.

“Oh… my… god!” Isabella panted. She grinned, turning light-headed from the sheer pleasure. “H-how are you so good at this?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Clea replied, smirking. “And I’m going to practice on you a lot more.”

“Fuck. Fuck!” Isabella moaned as Clea kept working her, and pulled her panties to one side so she could touch her directly. Isabella’s hair was already matting with the sweat that had started to form on her forehead.

“Still want me to stop?” Clea asked teasingly. She loved the look of awe and intoxication she could see on Isabella’s face. This was all so new to her. Every time they fucked it was life-changing.

“N-n-noooo!” Isabella howled. She was a puppet beneath Clea’s fingers now. Clea rewarded her by pushing two fingertips inside her boss’s pussy.

“Careful now,” Clea tutted, pumping her fingers in and out. “If you moan like that, someone’s going to hear us.”

Isabella’s eyes flew wide. Mortified, she clamped a hand over her own mouth to try and stifle her moans. It only half-worked. For a few sweet moments, she’d been lost to bliss, but now embarrassment and nervous agitation were creeping back into her face.

“Can’t… c-can’t…” she whined, struggling to control her voice. “I… please… we… n-no more!”

“No more?” Clea giggled. “Sure, Bella.”

Suddenly, she pulled back. Clea took her hands away from Isabella’s body and stepped pointedly away from her. Despite her plea, Isabella let out a groan of disappointment and frustration even more desperate than any of her begging, and as her legs gave way beneath her, she slumped limply to her knees.

The look of longing in her eyes was like a drug to Clea.

“I guess we’ll just go back out into the office, then?” Clea teased.

The suggestion was comical. Isabella was a mess. Usually, she cut an immaculate figure, looking every bit like the clever, collected, hard-working professional she was. Now, her clothes were wrinkled and her blouse was untucked, and her face was a mess of sweat-ruined makeup. Her eyes were glassy and faded from the arousal that was suppressing her better judgment.

She’d tasted the forbidden fruit Clea offered. There was no going back.

“W-wait…” Isabella pleaded. “I… I need you.”

Clea’s grin grew to stretch from ear to ear. She was every bit as intoxicated as Isabella. Having Isabella give in to her, submit to her, had done wonders for her confidence. Any reservations she might have had about what she was doing to Isabella, or about instigating a dominant-submissive relationship between them, had faded away into nothing.

It just felt too good to be wrong. For both of them.

“OK.” Clea turned back to her, smirking wickedly. “Then, since you can’t seem to keep your voice down, let’s have you use your mouth for something different.”

Isabella looked up at her quizzically until Clea reached down and started to unfasten her belt. Once she slipped out of her smart work pants and began removing her panties, Isabella turned a deeper red than ever before. She didn’t resist, though. She was beyond that now. She was drowning in submission.

“Yes, Clea,” Isabella said breathily. Just hearing that was a fresh infusion of pleasure for Clea.

“Then it’s time to get to work, babe.”

Clea stood above her boss, naked below the waist, legs planted slightly apart, and stared down at her. Isabella looked up with an expression of awe-filled worship on her face. She was practically drooling as she started leaning forward, putting her hands on Clea’s thighs and bringing her face so close, Clea could feel the older woman’s breath against her skin.

“I…” Isabella glanced down. She fixed her gaze on Clea’s sex. Suddenly, she looked uncertain. When she spoke, it sounded like her throat was dry. “I’ve never… um… I-I might not be good.”

Seeing Isabella as shy and nervous as a schoolgirl was a rare treat. Clea’s smirk softened into a warm smile.

“Don’t worry,” she promised her lover. “Soon, you’ll have plenty of experience.”

And before Isabella could second-guess herself any further, Clea rested her palm on the back of her head and used it to gently but firmly guide Isabella’s face into her cunt.

The very first touch made her moan. This was the first time Clea had made Isabella go down on her. In their previous intimate encounters, Isabella had been so uncertain and so submissive, it had seemed perfectly natural for Clea to take the lead and show Isabella just how much pleasure lesbian sex could offer. This time certainly wouldn’t be the last, though. This was way too good to pass up on.

“Good,” Clea panted when she felt Isabella’s tongue beginning to explore her flesh. “Good girl. Deeper.”

Isabella obeyed Clea’s every word. Clea could use her hand on her hand to guide her too, controlling her pace and her depth. It was like Isabella was her own personal sex toy. There was something breathtakingly hot about knowing her husband had never experienced her quite like this.

“Yes!” Clea moaned as Isabella pushed her tongue deeper, hitting her most sensitive spot. “Good. More. Deeper.”

Again, Isabella obeyed. Clea could sense her eagerness. Her focus. All her attention was on Clea’s cunt, and on bringing Clea as much pleasure as possible. Even if someone had walked in on them, Clea doubted Isabella would have noticed. Pleasing and obeying Clea came before anything else. Clea’s brainwashing had seen to that. All her most potent psychological urges now revolved around her secretary.

Isabella wanted her. She needed her. She craved her. She trusted her.

It was so hot.

“Now change it up,” Clea instructed. She felt Isabella pull back, and guided her tongue towards Clea’s clit. “Find a rhythm. Keep it for a while. Then find a new one. But not too quick. Let the pleasure build. Know your partner. Pay attention to how they’re reacting.”

Eager to learn, Isabella nodded. Clea was certainly reacting to her attentions. Her body was shaking and quivering with every lick and every kiss, and her words were all punctuated by moans. Unlike Isabella, Clea had no qualms about making some noise. She wanted Isabella to know exactly how good of a job she was doing.

More and more, her boss was warming to the task at hand. She spent long moments kissing and sucking on Clea’s clit, then kept rubbing it in little circles with her thumb as she moved her lips back to Clea’s, pressing her tongue inside her worshipfully.

Clea was smirking again. Isabella might be inexperienced now, but Clea could already tell that within a few months, she was going to be an amazing pussylicker.

“No!” Clea cried when she felt Isabella trying to pull back to take a breath. “More. Don’t stop. I’m close.”

With a firm hand, she kept Isabella pressed tight against her body. Even though she was breathless from her exertions, Isabella didn’t fight her. She did as she was told. Isabella wrapped her hands around the backs of Clea’s thighs and used them to hug herself even closer, and started working her tongue in and out of Clea’s body with even greater urgency. Clea twitched and heaved at her touch; each lap of her tongue was like an electric shock. She started bucking her hips, grinding herself against Isabella’s face and leaving the older woman with no space to breathe, no room for anything but Clea.

“Yes!” Clea howled eventually. “I’m… fuck!”

Clea hit the edge and let herself topple over. Her orgasm lasted a long time - she made sure of that, keeping Isabella firmly pressed into her cunt as waves and waves of pleasure crashed over her, each one taken to fresh heights by her boss’s eager tongue. It lasted until moan after moan pushed all the air out of Clea’s lungs, until, eventually, her grip on Isabella weakened and the older woman could slump back and start gasping for air.

Both of them were deeply flushed, and both of them were smiling.

Now it was Clea’s turn to collapse. Her knees were jelly beneath her, and once her orgasm receded she allowed herself to fall into a heap on the floor of the supply closet, right next to the woman whose face was slick with her juices. Soon, the two of them were in each other arms, seeking warmth and comfort, and basking in the afterglow - for Clea, of her orgasm, for Isabella, of having pleased Clea so well.

“Good girl,” Clea murmured, after her breathing started to steady. “You did an amazing job.”

Somehow, Isabella blushed deeper still. It was obvious that she could barely contain her happiness at being praised by Clea. Seeing that brought a fresh smile to Clea’s face. She reached for Isabella’s hand to hold.

As they interlocked fingers, Clea felt metal.

Isabella’s wedding ring.

Clea had thought nothing could sour her mood, but somehow, just a little, that managed it. It was an unpleasant reminder that Isabella’s husband still had something Clea didn’t. A wedding ring was such a potent symbol. She wished she had something like that with Clea.

“You should take this off,” Clea said quietly, rolling Isabella’s ring finger between her fingertips.

“I…” Isabella looked down.

“When we hook up, at least,” Clea added.

Isabella was silent for a long moment. “I… that’s just…” She sighed. Clea did too. There it was again. That reluctance. Clea knew what she was going to say next before she even opened her mouth. “I know I’m already… and I know it’s not the greatest marriage. But… I made a promise. You know? This ring is a promise. Not to him. But to myself. I swore I’d always wear it.”

“Right.”

Isabella looked dismayed at how disappointed Clea was. She squeezed Clea’s hand tight. “I love what we have together, Clea,” she pleaded. “So… why don’t we just keep it going like this?”

Clea made herself smile. But she wasn’t happy, and she knew Isabella wasn’t either. Her marriage was miserable. Her husband was an ogre. Isabella was a lesbian, and Clea was the one she truly loved. Now that she’d come this far, Clea was determined to go all the way. She was going to make Isabella hers, and give her the relationship she deserved.

She’d successfully forged a lovers’ bond with Isabella. Now she just needed to break the one Isabella had with her husband. It wouldn’t be hard and it wouldn’t take cruelty. All it would take is a little push. Clea was confident that, deep down, Isabella knew which relationship was right for her.

This time, Clea didn’t need advice from her friend Bruna. She’d already made all the preparations.

“I understand,” Clea told Isabella. She paused for a moment, letting them enjoy the silence. Then: “Hey, so, you’re probably getting tired of hearing this, but I made you another music video.”

Isabella’s face brightened. “No, not at all!” she exclaimed. “I love them, they always help me relax. I listen to them a lot. Kind of an embarrassing amount, actually.”

“I’m glad.” Clea giggled. She was, for more reasons than Isabella knew. No wonder the conditioning was working so well. She pulled out her phone and started tapping. “Well, here it is. Watch it right away, OK?”

“Absolutely!” Isabella’s phone chimed as the email came in. “I can’t wait, I promise. I’ll watch it today. Hey, wait, where are you going?”

Clea had stood up and was already fixing her clothes and heading for the supply closet door. She smiled - genuinely, this time. “My lunch break is almost over. I should be getting back to work. Right, boss?”

“O-oh. Um. I guess.” Isabella rose to her feet too, and blushed again as she looked down and noticed how messy her clothes were. “But… um… but…”

“But what?” Clea glanced back. She already knew, of course.

Isabella squeezed her thighs together and shivered. “Y-you didn’t make me… you know.”

Clea flashed her a wicked smirk before opening the door. “All the more incentive for you to be nice and early to our date later.”

***

Isabella was smiling all day. Despite some embarrassment and more than a little frustration, the joy of her little supply closet encounter with Clea stayed with her through all of the afternoon’s various meetings and emails. She stayed late, as usual, and only ran home to get changed so she could look pretty for her date with Clea.

It had just been a little movie date, but even so Isabella had cherished the experience. Seeing her outside of the office was always special. When they were out in the world together, just the two of them, they didn’t need to pretend to just be boss and secretary. They could enjoy their relationship to the fullest.

And Clea could make good on the promise she’d made Isabella earlier. Thinking about that still turned the older woman bright red.

As Isabella drove home, though, her smile was rapidly fading. She couldn’t help but think about what - or rather, who - she was going home to. Her husband. There couldn’t have been more of a contrast between him and Clea. Where Clea was giving and patient, Isabella’s husband was nothing but selfish; angry and frigid by turns as his petulant moods took him. Isabella was the type to stand by her partner no matter what, but hearing that he didn’t want a family with her had broken her heart, and now that she’d figured out things with Clea, her marriage felt more and more like a curse rather than a blessing.

After all, she was a lesbian. She couldn’t orgasm with men, and she craved submission to women. What was she doing with her life?

Stepping through her own front door felt like getting a bucket of icy water dumped over her head. Isabella yearned to linger with Clea instead. To bask in her newfound happiness for just a little longer.

Then it dawned on her. Why not do just that?

Isabella took the next turn, and then pulled over at the side of the road. It was just a little no-name out-of-town access road and the day had long since ended, so Isabella could be sure she wasn’t going to be disturbed. Leaving the engine ticking over and turning on an overhead light, she reached for her phone and her earbuds, and loaded up the music video Clea had prepared for her.

She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told Clea that she watched her videos an embarrassing amount. They had become Isabella’s go-to way to relax, whenever the stresses of work or her marriage got too much. Somehow, Clea’s voice had a way of instantly putting her at ease and making all her cares fade away. Isabella was always left so completely and totally relaxed, she couldn’t even remember what had happened. And in the aftermath, she was gifted with a fresh sense of clarity about herself and her situation. It was amazing. No other kind of meditation even came close.

And all that was from just two videos. Isabella couldn’t wait to see what the third one would feel like.

Isabella propped her phone up on her dash, put in her earbuds, reclined her seat, leaned back, and hit ‘play’.

Even though it was just her phone, within moments it seemed to take up Isabella’s entire vision. Her eyes were laser-focused on the center of the screen, and there was nothing at all in her world except for the vivid, swirling patterns that had suddenly come to life. The colors were dazzling, but Isabella wasn’t dazzled by them.

She was used to this. She didn’t fight. She did what she’d already done many times before, and simply relaxed into it. Isabella allowed herself to let go, and let the strange, hypnotic shapes on the screen of her phone wash over her, like waves on a beach steadily pounding the sand flat.

At this point, it wasn’t even a choice. It was instinctive. Conditioned. Isabella couldn’t have fought it even if she’d wanted to.

But fighting it was the last thing she wanted.

Instead, Isabella savored every last facet of the experience. She loved everything about the way Clea’s videos took her under. She loved feeling each one of her muscles relax, even the little ones in her hands and feet she never normally noticed. She loved the way her whole body became heavy and whatever she was sitting in became the most comfortable thing in the world, soft enough that she could just sink all the way into it. She loved the way that whatever had been bothering her receded from her mind until she was thinking about nothing at all.

Isabella never remembered exactly what it felt like, afterward. But that just meant that each time, she was all the more eager for the next. Eager to experience bliss anew.

There was a delicious rhythm to it. As the kaleidoscope before Isabella’s vision started spiraling inwards, shifting in fractals as it did, she tried to make herself notice every little detail. Every pattern. Every shape. Every color. Every beat and rhythm of the strange music being pumped into her earbuds.

She tried, because it was impossible. There was too much to keep track of. As Isabella’s mind slowed and dimmed, it slipped out of her grip. It became overwhelming. It wasn’t long - not that she could judge the passage of time - before Isabella found herself at the precipice. The moment all the sounds and colors became nothing more than an indistinct, indescribable, howling rush. The moment she was about to lose herself.

Isabella took a deep breath, and surrendered.

She slumped back in her seat, and there was a sudden rush as her disoriented mind malfunctioned and told her she was falling. The thrill of it almost jolted her awake. Deeply-buried instincts jolted awake and whispered to Isabella that this was wrong, that she was in danger. But she didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen.

And then Clea’s voice came to her, and it was all OK again.

Isabella, you are confident.

It was so easy to accept that. Isabella had always been confident, although her dismal marriage had done much to undermine that. But hearing it from Clea was the perfect reminder. It brought a smile to Isabella's face, even deep in trance. That was so like Clea. To support her, and remind her of the best parts of herself.

Yes. Isabella was confident. More confident than ever, in fact. She felt infused with it.

You deserve what’s best for you.

Given how confident she felt, Isabella had no trouble accepting that either. It was a natural affirmation. She deserved what was best for her. Who didn’t?

Clea is what’s best for you.

Isabella had no reason to fight that suggestion either. It made sense. Clea knew what was best for her, and Clea was what was best for her. It felt right, too. Isabella was a lesbian, and Clea was her lover. Her domme. Her companion. Being with her always felt so good. Clea was what was best for her.

Clea can give you a family.

That suggestion made Isabella shudder with its power. It meant the world to her. She’d always wanted a family. Kids. Since her husband had refused she’d tried suppressing that desire within herself, but it had been hard. Hearing - even thinking - that Clea could make that dream come true was like a magic spell. It was Pandora’s box. The thought infected her. It never occurred to the hypnotized Isabella to question it. It simply consumed her.

Clea was best for her, and Clea could give her the family she wanted.

You love Clea.

Of course she did. It was all becoming so simple. Isabella loved Clea, the woman who was best for her and who could give her a family - and who she craved above everyone else, body and soul. It was love. She’d long since accepted that.

You don’t need your husband.

That suggestion, finally, caused Isabella to stir a little. She… didn’t need him. It was strange; she’d never thought about it in exactly those terms, but she’d always assumed that, on some level, she did need her husband. That seemed natural, when you were married. He was such an integral part of Isabella’s life. If she left him, didn’t that make her a failure? If nothing else, Isabella knew that was what people said and thought about divorced women.

But as always, she heeded Clea’s voice and Clea’s voice. That was as natural as breathing to her now. Clea was always right. Clea knew what was best for her. And that meant Isabella didn’t need him. She didn’t need her husband.

That thought felt freeing.

You are confident…

As Clea’s voice on the audio track started to repeat itself over and over, all of the hypnotic suggestions became more and more firmly fixed in Isabella’s mind. Soon enough, they were commandments carved into stone. As they mixed together and merged, a picture of a new kind of life started to blossom in Isabella’s mind. A life that was infinitely preferable to the failing marriage she currently suffered with.

Maybe divorce wasn’t giving up. Maybe divorcing him was simply accepting the obvious truth that she was a lesbian who deserved better.

By the time Isabella awoke, she was finally ready to head home, bolstered by the knowledge that, one day soon, it would be the very last time.

***

A few days later, at the weekend, Isabella was on another date with Clea. This time, after making her excuses to her monosyllabic husband, Isabella had headed out and driven straight over to Clea’s apartment. Almost as soon as they crossed the threshold, they were in each other’s arms. The little moments they managed to make for one another during the week were wonderful, but nothing compared to long weekend afternoons, when they could just forget anything else in the world existed.

When they didn’t need to restrain themselves. Not even a little.

“Wait!” Isabella panted, as Clea pushed her against the nearest wall and started making out with her. “J-just one second.”

Clea backed off and tilted her head quizzically. Isabella raised her left hand, looked at a wedding ring for a long moment, and then, with a fading fondness, slipped it off her finger and tossed it unceremoniously into her handbag.

“I guess I had a change of heart,” she said, blushing. “I just… don’t want to think about that thing anymore.”

Clea’s bright, proud smile banished any lingering doubts Isabella might have had. She kissed Isabella, and then said:

“In that case, I actually have something for you.”

Now it was Isabella’s turn to look at Clea expectantly. Clea raced out of the room, and then hurried back with something held behind her back. She flashed Isabella a stern look.

“Kneel,” Clea told her.

Isabella sank to her knees in instant obedience. Her heart fluttered. She loved it when Clea told her what to do.

“Close your eyes.”

Once her eyes were shut, Isabella felt Clea reach out to her, arrange her hair out of the way, and then start to fix something around her neck. Excitement made her pulse race as she felt leather on her skin. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know what it was.

“You can look now,” Clea told her. She was holding a mirror, allowing Isabella to see herself. The sight made the older woman blush deeper than ever before. “It’s a collar.”

“It’s…” Isabella was lost for words. She couldn’t possibly express what the collar meant to her, and she was struck by how much more of a symbol of commitment and love it already was compared to her old ring. “Wow. Thank you. Wow.”

“Don’t mention it,” Clea purred. “It looks beautiful on you. Isabella.”

“Thank you,” Isabella repeated. She’d never been so happy.

Truly, Clea was best for her. Not her husband.

“And,” Clea added, as she hooked her fingers into the collar and pulled Isabella in for another kiss, “let me know whenever you’re ready to talk to a lawyer. I already have the number.”

—

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#Marital Aid #story

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kallie-den · 1 month

Text

Marital Aid Ch. 2

When Isabella's first round of conditioning doesn't produce the desired result, Clea decides to kick things up a notch

This story was a commission from one of my patrons! Thank you very much to Myles_EXVS for their kind support

---

As soon as Isabella saw Clea come into her office in the morning, she knew it was going to be a very, very difficult day.

Ever since last night, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her secretary. She wasn’t sure what had happened, exactly. It had just struck her, suddenly, as she was closing up and heading home after watching Clea’s music video.

Isabella was a lesbian. She was a lesbian, and she was attracted to Clea.

It was an unbelievable, unthinkable, world-shattering revelation, and yet it hadn’t occurred to Isabella to question it. It was the kind of thing she just knew. It was like the words themselves had been etched into her soul; a sacred set of commandments Isabella had just stumbled upon in a moment of clarity.

She was a lesbian and she could only orgasm with women. She didn’t like men. She was attracted to Clea. She couldn’t resist Clea.

All evening and all morning, those thoughts and feelings had sat uneasily within Isabella. What was she going to do? She was a lesbian who disliked men - but she was married to one. She had promised her life to her husband, and it was a promise she’d always intended to keep. But if Isabella remained faithful to him, what room did that leave for her own happiness and fulfillment?

Certainly, sexual fulfillment was a forlorn hope. Things hadn’t been going well in that department anyway; now, Isabella couldn’t even stand the thought of spending a night with her husband. There was just no way she could ever orgasm with a man.

And her dreams of a family had never seemed further away.

But those concerns, however important, were relatively distant. A far more pressing issue was how Isabella was going to handle the beautiful young woman who had just stepped into her office.

“Good morning, Isabella!” Clea said in a bright, friendly voice. She came bearing gifts - Isabella’s regular morning cup of coffee, and a pastry to go with it.

“G-good morning.” Isabella cringed at herself as she immediately tripped over her words. She’d been bracing herself for this moment all morning. Clearly, it hadn’t helped. “Um… how’s it going?”

“It’s going just fine,” Clea replied as placed the coffee cup down on Isabella’s desk. “Thank you!”

She was smiling. That was the part that was truly unfair. The bright, warm, gorgeous smile on Clea’s face was like a sunrise. There was simply no way Isabella could have prepared herself for it, or for the way it made her heart pound. Clea was so pretty and so hot. How could a lesbian like Isabella resist her charms?

But that was exactly the problem. She had to. Isabella wasn’t just married. She was also Clea’s boss, and was years her senior. There were a dozen reasons why the attraction Isabella felt was wildly inappropriate. No matter what, Isabella couldn’t let her feelings show. That would be an HR disaster waiting to happen.

“So,” Clea piped up. “Did you get a chance to check out that meditation music video I gave you last night?”

“I did!” Isabella replied eagerly. “I tried it before I left the office last night, and… wow, it was amazing. I was so relaxed, I can barely remember what happened!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” A strange, creeping grin dawned on Clea’s face. “I’m so pleased.”

“I… actually watched it again after I got home,” Isabella confessed. “A bunch more times. I even gave it another watch this morning before I came in to work. God, it just really hit the spot. Thank you so much for that, Clea.”

“Don’t mention it,” Clea told her. Her smile was brighter than ever. “I’m just glad you’ve been getting a lot of use out of it.”

Her voice was just as strange as her grin. Isabella figured it was natural to feel satisfied about someone liking a gift that you made for them, but Clea’s demeanor hinted at a deep pleasure that went far beyond that. It wasn’t just satisfaction.

It was anticipation.

“Oh, hey, Isabella,” Clea said suddenly. Her eyes were shining. “I wanted to ask. How do I look today?”

“How do you…?” Isabella blinked, and then fell silent as she lost herself in staring at her secretary.

Clea, standing on the far side of Isabella’s desk, was wearing a perfectly normal outfit. She was dressed professionally, as usual, in a simple, white, button-up blouse and a pair of smart, black pants. It was the kind of outfit nobody would ever look twice at in an office setting.

But for Isabella, it was spellbinding.

Time slowed to a halt as her eyes traveled slowly over Clea’s form. All she could think about was how well the outfit suited her. It made her seem so confident, so trustworthy, so professional - a perfect worker, despite her youth. The white of her blouse made her red hair appear all the more vibrant, like rich, autumn leaves against a pale sky. Then Isabella’s thoughts turned in a far more carnal direction and, even though she knew she should try, she couldn’t stop thinking about the toned, feminine, athletic body underneath those clothes. It made her body burn. She couldn’t believe she’d hadn’t thought about Clea this way before.

“Isabella?” Clea prompted.

At that moment, Isabella realized that time hadn’t slowed to a halt at all. She’d just lapsed into silence as she stared at her young secretary for several very long seconds. The older woman’s cheeks turned bright red.

“Y-you look, um, amazing,” she blurted out. “Or, no, I mean, not… you look… normal? Not that you don’t look amazing. It’s just that, um, well, you uh, normally look amazing.”

“Thank you!” Clea gigged, and Isabella thanked her lucky stars that her secretary seemed to find her near-incoherence charming instead of cringe-worthy. “But that’s not really what I meant. Do you think this outfit is appropriate for the workplace?”

Isabella’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just not sure.” Clea tapped a finger to the corner of her mouth in a thoughtful gesture. Her eyes, though, were alight with mischief. “It’s going to be warm today. I might feel like I need to do… this.”

Isabella’s mouth went dry as she watched Clea reach down and undo one of the buttons on her blouse. Immediately, the closely-fitting garment sprung open at the collar.

“Oh,” Isabella breathed.

Clea didn’t stop there. She undid another button, and the top of her blouse opened wide enough to expose her cleavage.

That was the end of any semblance of decorum or rational thought for Isabella. Her gaze locked on to the new region of pale, exposed skin and she started breathing hard. Suddenly, she didn’t care about how ridiculous it was to be staring at a younger woman’s chest like this. She didn’t care how inappropriately she was behaving. She just wanted to go on looking. Fuck, it was good to be a lesbian.

When Clea reached up to adjust her hair, her blouse shifted far enough to expose her bra, just for a fraction of a second. It was black and lacy. Isabella thought she was going to pass out.

“What do you think?” Clea asked insistently. She was acting like she hadn’t noticed how hopeless Isabella had become, but her grin suggested she was anything but oblivious. “Too much?”

“I… nnn…” Isabella was so far beyond words. She was even beyond rational thought. But in the face of Clea’s question, she had to try and muster something. “W-well… um… I g-guess…” She winced at the way her voice cracked. “I-I guess it… maybe… could be a l-little much.”

She wasn’t sure what to say. But on some level, she knew she didn’t want all the men in the office to see Clea like this. This view should be just for lesbians.

“Aww.” Clea pouted. It was so adorable, Isabella almost teared up. “That’s a shame. But doesn’t it look good on me? I really want to wear it like this.”

Isabella’s resolve snapped like a twig. “I-I mean, it’s not too much at all!” she blurted out. “It’s p-perfect. Just let me know if HR gives you any trouble about it. I can talk to them.”

She just couldn’t resist Clea.

Clea immediately changed tack again. Her ever-widening grin made it clear how much fun she was having, and Isabella didn’t have it in her to be angry.

“Are you sure?” Isabella’s breath caught in her throat as Clea suddenly bent over her desk at the waist, practically shoving her cleavage into the older woman’s face. “Take a closer look. I really need an informed opinion.”

Isabella simply whimpered. She could feel herself overheating. She wasn’t sure how much of this she could take. She was just such a lesbian, and she was so attracted to Clea. Her mind was blank. She couldn’t tell Clea to back off. She couldn’t look away. She was helpless.

“What do you think?” Clea’s voice dropped, becoming a proud, aroused purr. “Is this appropriate, boss?”

“I… c-can’t… uh… I don’t…” Isabella trailed off. All she could do was drool incoherently.

Clea leaned in even closer. “You know, if you wanted to, you could undo another button,” she whispered.

Isabella’s eyes bulged. She looked up at Clea pleadingly.

“It’s up to you,” Clea told her. Her breathy, sultry voice was like music. “All you need to do is reach out and touch me. I’m giving you permission, Isabella. Whatever you want.”

Isabella’s mind was melting down. She couldn’t think. She just needed. One of her hands lifted itself from her lap, and started reaching out hesitantly towards Clea. She couldn’t help herself. This was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

But, at the last moment, she froze. Something deep inside her began to clunk back into life and reassert itself. What did she want? She wasn’t sure, but the question demanded consideration. Her desires were a swirling, contradictory mess. She wanted Clea, yes. She wanted Clea so much. But she also wanted to remain faithful to her husband, no matter what. Her wedding vows had once meant everything to her. If she touched Clea now, they were broken, and there was no going back.

It was a sobering thought, and as it dragged Isabella back into some semblance of clarity, other doubts reared their ugly heads. She was Clea’s boss. That was another line to consider. Despite how eager she seemed, Isabella didn’t really know what Clea wanted. She would hate to make her secretary uncomfortable, to say nothing of what would happen if Clea went straight to HR. And what if someone saw?

Isabella couldn’t do this. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t. She was nothing more than Clea’s boss, and it needed to stay that way.

But what was she going to do? Isabella couldn’t resist Clea, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn her down to her face. She just needed this situation to stop, so she could get a better handle on whatever was happening with her.

In the end, she chose cowardice.

“I-I need to go to the bathroom,” Isabella announced in an uncharacteristic, strained, high-pitched voice.

She bolted to her feet so fast she almost tipped over her chair and, before Clea could recover from her shock, Isabella fled out of her office.

***

“And that’s how it always goes!”

Clea groaned as she finished her story and slammed her empty drink down on the bar. Sitting next to her, her friend Bruna offered a sympathetic smile.

“You mean… she always needs to go to the bathroom?” Bruna joked. “Maybe your boss should get that checked out.”

“No.” Clea flashed her an annoyed look. “I mean, whenever the mood is just right between us, something happens. No - Isabella makes something happen. She suddenly has a meeting, or needs to take a call, or needs me to go do something. Or she deliberately misunderstands the way I’m flirting with her. I don’t get it. I know what she wants. She knows what she wants. Why won’t she just say ‘yes’?”

Bruna reached across to squeeze her shoulder. Clea sagged, but accepted the sympathy with a grateful nod. She badly needed it. It had been like that with Isabella all week, and getting to blow off some steam at Bruna’s bar was the only consolation the weekend offered.

At least it was a nice place to throw back some drinks and pass the time. After a whole work week of spending time around straight people in an office, getting to come and hang out in a dyke bar was a breath of fresh air for Clea. Plus, the bar itself was getting better and better every time she came. Bruna had started investing in some major renovations. Evidently, the heiress she’d hooked using Clea’s hypnosis technology was paying serious dividends, both figuratively and literally.

“OK, but I don’t understand,” Bruna said. “You made it so she can’t resist you, right? So, why not be a little more forceful? Take the lead. Kiss her. Fuck her. Whatever. You know she’ll be into it.”

“That’s…” Clea sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I could. But that’s just not exactly what I wanted between us. I… I don’t want to feel like I’m forcing her. I want it to be mutual. I want her to show me how much she wants me. You know?”

Bruna pursed her lips and looked at Clea deadpan. “You know that you’re mind-controlling her, right?”

Clea bent over and planted her forehead on the bar. “I know. But I still love her.”

“Girl…” Bruna sighed reproachfully. “OK, let’s look at this differently. What if you could be a lot more forceful, but you could also be sure that was exactly what your boss wanted?”

Clea tilted her head to look up at her friend. “Explain.”

“You’re already in her head, right?” Bruna grinned wickedly. “All you need to do is make her a complete and total submissive.”

Clea pursed her lips. “I don’t know…” she said slowly. “I still want her to be Isabella. To be my Isabella. I’ve seen her at work. She’s anything but submissive.”

“Maybe in the office,” Bruna countered, “but who knows what she’s like at home? It might not be as much of a change as you think. But more importantly, I think that if you don’t do this, you’re never going to get what you want.”

Clea’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Bruna nodded. “You need to think about it from her perspective. She wants you and she can’t resist you, so why won’t she cross that last line? From what you’ve told me, it sounds like she’s hung up on something. Her marriage. Her vows. Her sense of fidelity. Something like that.”

Clea nodded in agreement. Isabella was one of the most faithful and trustworthy people she’d ever met. It was part of what she loved about her.

“That means you’ve got two choices,” Bruna continued. “You could change that part of her personality - but in that case, she really would be a different person.”

“No way,” Clea said firmly. “I won’t do that.”

“Or,” Bruna went on, nodding. “You can give her something she cares about even more: a bond with you. And, speaking from experience, nothing is more powerful than dominance and submission.”

“Huh.” Clea stared down into her empty class. “That… does make a certain amount of sense.”

“Plus.” Bruna leaned in conspiratorially. She spoke low and slowly, letting the rhythm of her words paint a picture. “I’ve heard the way you wax lyrical about her. You can’t tell me you don’t want her between your legs, staring up at you with an adoring, obedient look in her eyes as she does exactly what you want.”

She let out a filthy laugh as Clea’s cheeks turned visibly red even in the dim light of the bar. Eventually, the redheaded nodded.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. But both of them could tell that her mind was already made up.

***

Isabella shuffled nervously from foot to foot as she stood on Clea’s doorstep, waiting for her secretary to open the door. Being here felt wrong. It felt like a sin. She had spent the entire week trying to keep her chemistry with Clea under control. As much as it pained her, she had decided she needed to spend as little time with her secretary as possible. She was Clea’s boss. It was the only decent thing she could do.

And yet here she was, dressed up nicely, waiting outside Clea’s apartment on a Saturday night.

Clea had called her and asked her to come over for dinner. A girls’ night. Isabella had tried to refuse, but Clea had been very, very insistent.

Isabella couldn’t resist Clea.

Being dressed up was even less excusable. Isabella’s vanity had simply gotten the better of her. She couldn’t stand not trying her hardest to look good in front of Clea. She was wearing her finest dress, and her hair and makeup were immaculate. It was desperately embarrassing. She’d left her house looking like she was sneaking out to have an affair. She’d felt like that, too.

Of course, her husband hadn’t even noticed.

“Isabella!” Clea greeted her warmly as she opened the door. “Please, come on in.”

Isabella nodded gratefully, and tried not to blush as she stepped across the threshold. She was immediately flustered - not just because of how amazing Clea looked, but because of the memory of what had happened the last time she was here.

“You have a lovely place here,” she said, figuring it was best to address the awkwardness head-on. “I hope I’ll be able to appreciate it better this time.”

“I hope so too.” Clea laughed. “And I’ll try and make it nicer for you this time. As I told you last week, you’re always welcome. Plus, I thought that having someone cook you dinner might be a nice way to relax and get a break from everything.”

Isabella could only nod again. Clea was so wonderful. Her stomach was full of butterflies. She was trying very hard not to make this into something it wasn’t, but her head was already full of fantasies.

It didn’t get any easier when Clea led her through into her living room, and Isabella saw the scene her secretary had prepared for her.

The room was dim and intimate, lit only by a dozen or so tall candles that had been placed carefully around the space. In the center of the room was a table, set nicely with plates and cutlery. Quiet music was playing through Clea’s speakers, setting an easy, sensual mood. In the middle of the table, there was a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, and the divine scent of wonderful cooking wafted through from the kitchen.

This was, unmistakably, something romantic.

“C-Clea,” Isabella gasped. “This is…”

“It’s not too much, is it?” Clea asked hopefully. “I wanted things to be nice for us.”

Her optimistic smile set Isabella’s heart fluttering. “N-no. It’s perfect. I love it.”

She really did. That was the problem. Thinking about sharing a romantic meal with Clea was making Isabella’s heart beat fast with excitement. She was trying her hardest to keep herself tethered to earth. Maybe Clea didn’t mean anything by this. Maybe she was reading too much into it. That had to be all it was. It had to be.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Clea said, gesturing to her couch, up against one wall. “And let me get you something to drink.”

As Isabella watched, Clea opened the bottle of wine and started to pour it into the glasses. Just watching her was flustering. Isabella found herself focused on Clea’s swift, deft hands as she worked the corkscrew, and her measured precision as she poured. Once she caught herself, she groaned softly. She was hopeless. She needed to get a grip on herself.

But she couldn’t help it. She was a lesbian, and she was so very attracted to Clea.

“I’m afraid I need to finish up in the kitchen.” Clea handed Isabella her glass of red wine. “Our food won’t be ready for a little while longer.”

“Of course.” After taking a sip, Isabella set the glass down on the coffee table and rose to her feet again. “Let me come and help you! It’s the least I can do. I know my way around a kitchen, I promise.”

“Absolutely not,” Clea replied, with surprising firmness. “I won’t hear of it. You’re my guest! And you deserve to relax.”

“Oh, OK.” Isabella was a little disappointed - in part, embarrassingly, because she simply wanted to stay close to Clea.

“And actually,” Clea added, smiling. “I have something else you can do while you’re waiting.”

“Sure.” Isabella was surprised, but not displeased. “I’m happy to help.”

“Not help,” Clea clarified. “It’s more of a gift, actually.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a phone, along with a pair of earbuds. “I’ve made you another music video.”

Isabella’s eyes widened slightly. She was grateful, of course. If this one was anything like as relaxing as the first, she was going to get a great deal of use out of it. But did Clea really expect her to listen to it here? Right now? Meditation seemed like such a private activity. Doing it around another person, especially the secretary she had an unbearable crush on, seemed awkward. Not just awkward. Vulnerable. Way too vulnerable.

“Wow, thank you!” Isabella replied, hoping to defuse the issue. “That’s amazing, I’ve been listening to the first one a lot. I’ll check this one out as soon as I get home.”

“No, no,” Clea said, in that same, firm voice that sent shivers down Isabella’s spine. “Not later. It’s for right now, while I finish cooking dinner.”

Isabella glanced down at the phone uncertainly. She could see that a video was already loaded up and ready to play. For some reason, it made her nervous. So did the way Clea was behaving. She didn’t know how to deal with her when she was so insistent. Something about it turned her legs to jelly.

“I… I…” Isabella struggled. “I’m… not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Clea demanded.

Isabella felt beads of sweat on her forehead. She couldn’t put into words what she truly felt - that for some reason, watching Clea’s music video right now would be a very, very bad idea. “Um… w-well, I think… it might not work. I-I’m not sure I’ll be able to relax properly.”

“Don’t worry,” Clea told her, with a certain smugness. “It’ll work.”

“R-right. Great.” Isabella could feel herself crumbling. She couldn’t resist. “But… um… but…”

She tried to step away, over to the window, hoping for a little room to think. Clea was merciless. She just kept moving with her, standing even closer than before. When Isabella stumbled backward, Clea advanced on her again, and before she knew what was happening, Isabella was trapped against the wall with Clea right up against her, so close their bodies were practically touching.

“I promise,” Clea said breathily. “This one’s even better than the first. You’ll love it.”

For some reason, that was part of what Isabella was so anxious about.

“G-g-good.” With Clea this close to her, Isabella couldn’t think. “Amazing, a-actually.”

Clea just nodded. She was grinning, too. Grinning the same grin Isabella had seen on her so often this past week.

“So,” Clea said, “you should watch it. Right now. Here.”

Before Isabella could say anything more, Clea reached up and started nestling the earbuds into Isabella’s ears. Being touched by her, even like that, made Isabella’s body burn with a shocking, shameful heat.

She knew she should stop this. She knew she should push Clea away. This wasn’t normal. Why couldn’t she stand up for herself? Why couldn’t she so much as refuse Clea properly? Instead, all she could think about was how to make Clea happy. She found herself yearning for the pleased smile she would see on her secretary’s face when she finally, inevitably gave in.

Isabella couldn’t resist Clea.

And so she didn’t resist when Clea held up her phone for Isabella to look at, and pressed ‘play’ on the music video.

The screen came to life, and within an instant it was spinning and unfolding with all the patterns and colors Isabella had already become so intimately familiar with. Her ears filled with low, humming, binaural tones that flowed into a soporific melody. Already, Isabella could feel her vision narrowing until the little screen of Clea’s phone became her whole world. The spinning, kaleidoscopic colors felt like they were bleeding over its edges, surrounding her, lapping at her like waves on a shore.

She was hypnotized. And it took just seconds. It didn’t matter that she was standing up. She just froze in place like a wax statue, moving only to breathe.

At first, she made a concerted effort to remain alert and clear-headed. She tried to tell herself that here, around Clea, she needed to stay awake. Anything else was too mortifyingly inappropriate to even consider. But even that single, simple goal, fixed firmly in her mind, didn’t protect Isabella. She was simply too vulnerable now. After a long week of constantly using the first music video, she had already conditioned her mind to succumb effortlessly to Clea’s techniques. Try as she might, she couldn’t help falling into a deep, deep trance.

And soon, even that little, hopeful rebellion was a forgotten dream. By the time Clea’s video started broadcasting fresh, new mantras into Isabella’s brain, she was too deeply entranced to do anything but unconditionally accept them into her psyche.

You are a lesbian, Isabella.

That was easy. It prompted no resistance or cognitive dissonance. Isabella had already accepted and internalized that completely. She was a lesbian. She always had been. But almost immediately, the mantra changed.

You are a submissive lesbian.

Isabella twitched a little. It was a deceptively large change. She was a lesbian, yes, but a submissive lesbian? What did that mean? Isabella had never once considered herself to be a submissive anything.

And yet she was. She was a submissive lesbian. She knew that now. It was beyond question.

And so, her mind started to search for rationalizations. What about the way Clea had been bossing her around just now? Why hadn’t Isabella put her foot down about it? Why had she just tripped over her words, and ended up meekly obeying?

Was it because, deep down, she’d been enjoying it?

Isabella’s first response to that notion was to reject it outright. But it had its hooks in her, and as time passed, she found herself dwelling on it more and more.

Didn’t it make sense? She wasn’t just a submissive, she was a submissive lesbian. And Clea was the person she had a huge crush on. It stood to reason that Clea would be the person she wanted to obey. It was the clearest way to make sense of what she’d just learned about herself. Sure, it was strange that she’d been so oblivious to it until just now, but given how long it had taken her to realize she was a lesbian, it wasn’t exactly unprecedented.

Isabella was starting to accept it. She was a submissive lesbian.

Obeying Clea makes you feel good.

This mantra made Isabella stir too, but not out of shock. It fit perfectly alongside what she’d already accepted, after all. Instead, what made her stir was the memory of what had just happened, when Clea had pushed her against the wall and made her watch the music video.

That experience was suddenly cast in a new light. It wasn’t shocking or confusing. It was hot. Really, really hot.

Isabella squeezed her legs together half-consciously as sudden arousal washed over her. A delayed response, she figured. She couldn’t believe how good it had felt to do what she was told.

She was a submissive lesbian, and obeying Clea made her feel good.

Clea knows what’s best for you.

This, too, deepened the new, submissive part of herself Isabella had just discovered. Clea knew what was best for her, and so it was only natural to be submissive towards her. Clea knew what was best for her, and so it was only natural that obeying her felt good. Strangely, nothing about that was surprising. Isabella could think of countless times when Clea, as her secretary, had anticipated her requests or made perfect suggestions. Yes, clearly Clea knew best.

As a submissive lesbian, Isabella was so grateful her crush knew what was best for her.

It was a little embarrassing that a woman so much younger than her knew what was best for her. But not unpleasantly so. Instead, for a submissive lesbian like Isabella, that was another exciting dimension of the fantasy.

You crave sexual contact with Clea.

Even though she was deeply hypnotized, Isabella’s lips parted slightly and she let out a low, needy moan. She’d already known that. She was a lesbian, after all, and she was incredibly attracted to Clea. But her awareness of her own desire redoubled. She couldn’t believe how worked up she was. Isabella’s libido had never flared like this before - certainly not with her husband.

She wanted Clea to touch her. Just thinking about little things, like Clea’s hand on her arm, right now, was dizzying. But that was the least of her desires. She wanted to Clea to kiss her. She wanted Clea to undress her. She was a submissive lesbian. She wanted Clea to dominate her. To mark her body. To grab her, to push her around.

Isabella was so wet.

And then the last mantra came.

You are in love with Clea.

That hit Isabella like a thunderbolt. But how could she deny it? She was a lesbian. She was attracted to Clea. She loved obeying Clea. Clea knew what was best for her, and she constantly craved Clea’s touch.

What was all that, if not some kind of love?

“I’ll let that sink in while I finish cooking,” Clea said out loud, knowing Isabella couldn’t really hear her.

With a smile on her face, she reached for Isabella’s hand and lifted it, pressing the phone into her hand and holding it up close to her face like she was posing a mannequin. She knew Isabella wouldn’t move. She had no will of her own right now. She was merely an empty vessel, in which new desires were taking form.

Clea left Isabella to keep hypnotizing herself, and went into the kitchen to finish their romantic meal.

***

Before Isabella knew quite what was happening, she found herself sitting at Clea’s dining table as her secretary was serving up their home-cooked meal. It didn’t occur to her to ask why she’d slipped into such a daze, or what had happened in the intervening time. She soon had much, much more pressing issues occupying her mind.

The meal was delicious. Clea was obviously a talented cook - as if Isabella needed another reason to be head-over-heels for her. But throughout the meal, Isabella was beset by strange urges that were proving more and more difficult to suppress. Whenever Clea’s wine glass was empty, Isabella immediately poured her another. She kept a close eye on Clea and made sure her every need was met at once. Salt and pepper? A fresh napkin? Some water? Isabella was eager to provide. Once they were done eating, she cleared the table herself, and instinctively started washing and tidying away everything that had been used.

She couldn’t help it. Isabella was a submissive lesbian, and it felt so very good to serve.

Isabella wanted to hold back. She knew the way she was behaving wasn’t normal. She was going too far for a guest. But the allure of obedient service was too strong, and she had never felt better than when she was scurrying about, carrying, and cleaning for her secretary. Every little act of service sent a fresh shock of pleasure through her body, one that was wickedly sinful and shameful.

Indulging her fetish like this around Clea was so wrong. But the way Clea looked at her, smirking over her glass, eyes shining with delight, made her feel like Clea knew and approved of what was going on. That was its own kind of titillation.

And all night, Isabella had been struggling not to call her ‘mistress’.

Eventually, once everything was cleaned and tidied away, Clea, relaxing on her couch, summoned Isabella to her side. Isabella walked over to her, looking down demurely, arms folded neatly in front of her, with a certain excitement filling her belly.

“Thank you for taking care of everything,” Clea said kindly.

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. “Of c-course.” She bowed her head. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Sit.”

Clea said that with an amused smile. She was stretched out, leaving no space next to her on the couch, and perhaps that was why she gestured to the floor in front of her. That had to be why, Isabella told herself as her heart started to pound. Nothing more.

Nonetheless, she obediently sank to her knees on the ground in front of Clea.

“Thank you for taking care of everything,” Clea said. “Good girl.”

Isabella’s eyes flew wide. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The praise hit her like a physical force and she whimpered as her head was utterly, hopelessly scrambled of all clear thought. Hearing that was the greatest possible pleasure. The ultimate validation.

“T-t-thank you,” she managed eventually. Now it was even more of a struggle not to add ‘mistress’.

Clea smiled down at her knowingly. “Have you enjoyed yourself tonight, Isabella?”

“Yes,” Isabella replied immediately. There was absolutely no doubt about that. If anything, she’d enjoyed herself a little too much.

“But,” Clea pressed, “you’re not completely satisfied. Are you?”

Isabella’s heart skipped a beat. She knew. Clea knew. That was horrifying, but Isabella couldn’t bring herself to hide anything. “No.”

“In that case,” Clea told her, “I want you to tell me what it is that you want, right now. Tell me, completely truthfully, what you need to be satisfied.”

It was a command, and so Isabella had to obey. She needed to obey Clea. It felt so good. Her submissive nature overrode even her embarrassment. The only difficulty was in figuring out what to say. There were so many things she was craving. So many things she longed for. How was she to pick?

But when she looked up at Clea - at the woman she loved - her gaze settled on Clea’s lips, and an answer came.

“I want you to kiss me,” Isabella confessed, blushing.

Clea licked her lips. “That’s a very good answer.”

Isabella couldn’t believe her luck as Clea bent down towards her, lips prepared for a kiss. As their bodies touched, the need that had been mounting in her body all evening finally overflowed. She melted into the kiss and let Clea claim her, and as she did, she came.

“Fuck,” Clea panted when she pulled back. “I can’t believe how long I’ve waited for this.”

“Me too,” Isabella moaned, shivering from her orgasm. The pleasure was overwhelming.

Clea reached down and wrapped her hand around the back of Isabella’s neck. “But now you’re mine.”

Isabella just nodded. There was no question of it. She was Clea’s. She loved being Clea’s.

She didn’t care that she was betraying her husband. She didn’t care that she was having an affair. This was more important.

Clea pulled her in, and the two of them started kissing again. They didn’t stop until the sun rose.

---

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#story #Marital Aid

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kallie-den · 2 months

Text

Marital Aid Ch. 1

Clea uses hypnosis to liberate her boss, Isabella, from a failing marriage… and awaken her to the life as a kinky lesbian

This story was a commission from one of my patrons! Thank you very much to Myles_EXVS for their kind support

---

“Clea?” The sound of Bruna’s voice brought Clea back to herself. “You’re supposed to be spotting for me, babe.”

“Right.” Clea shook her head, blushing a little. “Sorry.”

“Hold on.”

Bruna strained and groaned as she lifted the monstrously heavy bar up over her head and placed it back onto the rack. She sat up on the exercise bench, and Clea apologetically offered her a sweat towel to wipe her forehead off with. Clea was a little jealous of just how good her friend looked when she was working out; Bruna had the kind of muscular figure that made other girls drool, and her deep brown, Brazilian skin always glistened appealingly when she was flushed and sweating from exertion. Clea couldn’t relate.

“OK,” Bruna said, after taking a swig of water. “What’s on your mind? Out with it.”

Clea sighed and sat down on the bench next to her. Unfortunately, Bruna knew her too well. The two of them had been gym buddies for a long time, and friends for longer.

“It’s…” Clea didn’t know where to begin. It was far too embarrassing.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Bruna asked sympathetically.

“Yeah.” Clea planted her head in her hands. “Yeah. It is.”

She didn’t need to explain who ‘her’ was. They both knew.

Isabella.

“Oh, girl.” Bruna threw one of her big, strong arms across Clea’s shoulder. “You’re down seriously bad.”

Clea groaned and leaned in. She didn’t need Bruna to tell her that. Isabella consumed her every waking thought. The reason she’d been zoning out when she was supposed to be spotting for Bruna was because she’d been caught up in picturing Isabella’s smiling face. She’d reached schoolgirl levels of hopeless infatuation.

And there were two massive problems with it.

Firstly, Isabella was her boss. Clea was pretty sure that falling in love with the woman she worked for wasn’t part of a personal secretary’s job description. Workplace romances like that never worked out, and she was sure Isabella was too much of a stickler to ever consider it. There was also an accompanying age gap - Clea was in her mid-twenties while Isabella was in her thirties. That didn’t bother her so much, especially since Clea had such a fondness for older women, but it was yet another obstacle.

The second, much bigger problem was that Isabella was both straight and married.

“Falling for a straight girl.” Clea sighed again, heavier. “She’s amazing, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I wish I could just forget about all these feelings and move on. It’s so hard, having to be near her, day after day, never being able to act on them.”

“I bet,” Bruna said soothingly. She reached up and started stroking Clea’s long, red hair.

“And the worst part is seeing that she’s not happy!” Clea vented. “Her pig of a husband makes her miserable, I can just tell. Why couldn’t it be me instead? I’d treat her the way she deserves. I’d treat her like a queen.”

“I know you would,” Bruna assured her. She paused for a moment and then turned to look closely at Clea, a cunning smile on her face. “You know, babe, you do have a way of making that happen.”

Clea threw a sharp look up at her. “I don’t even know if it works.”

“Oh, it works,” Bruna told her, grinning. “I was going to tell you afterward. I tested it very thoroughly. I have all the data you said you’d need to make the final calibrations.”

“Yeah, I bet you were thorough,” Clea snorted. “I heard a few rumors about what you’ve been up to with that heiress girl.”

“Now, now. I don’t kiss and tell.” Bruna’s grin took on a cocky, swaggering quality. Clea’s friend loved to kiss and tell. “Anyway, the point is: it’s amazing! I can’t believe my friend knows how to mind-control people. It’s like you’re a supervillain or something.”

At that, Clea laughed. “It’s just a hobby,” she retorted. “I’ve always liked audio mixing and video editing. It started with music videos, but then I got really curious about how different kinds of sounds and different frequencies can affect the human mind. And, uh, I guess one thing lead to another.”

The ‘another’, in this case, was a suite of software and a set of techniques that allowed her to create audio and video files that had a potent, hypnotic effect on the listener. Clea could almost literally reprogram them with whatever commands she chose - at least, within reason and with enough exposure. Clea objected to the idea that she was some kind of supervillain, but admittedly, the description wasn’t too far off.

“So,” Bruna pressed, “why not put all that work to good use?”

“You mean… with Isabella?” Clea frowned. “No. In fact, I don’t even want that experimental data. I don’t want to think about it.”

"Why not? Just think about it! No more yearning, no more heartache. You could have her.”

Clea felt a definite, stirring pang, but looked away. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is,” Bruna countered.

“I-it wouldn’t be right.”

“From what you said about her husband, it sounds like she’d be happier with you,” Bruna pointed out. “Why not think of it as giving her a little push towards a happy ending? You can’t tell me that’s not part of what this was all for. The testing. Your little hobby.”

“It just…” Clea stood up, shrugging off Bruna’s arm, and started to pace. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t feel right. Not with her.”

“Why not?” Bruna asked again, a touch exasperated.

“Because I care about her, Bruna,” Clea replied. “She’s not just a pretty girl I’m looking to get into bed. It’s more than that. I want her to be happy.”

“You could make her happy,” Bruna pointed out. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Maybe she’s happy right now,” Clea shot back. “Maybe that’s why she’s still with him. I don’t know. That’s the point. I can’t just decide that for her. What if I’m wrong? What if I make it worse?”

“Wow, babe,” Bruna said, raising an eyebrow. “You really are down bad.”

Clea sank back down miserably onto the bench. “Yeah. I know.”

Bruna squeezed her shoulder. “Well, here’s what we’re gonna do,” she said. “We’re going to keep working out until you’re so exhausted you can barely think. Then we’re gonna go back to my bar and get drunk until you definitely can’t think. Sound good?”

“God yes,” Clea sighed.

“Atta girl.” Clea stood up, allowing Bruna to lie back down along the exercise bench, and rest her hands back on the barbell. As she did, she threw Clea one last look. “But just remember: you ever change your mind, and the data’s yours. Just give me a call.”

***

The next evening, Clea’s head was still throbbing from the hangover. Bruna drank hard, and her bar was well-stocked. The headache was a welcome pain. A welcome distraction. To take her mind off of it, and off of everything else, she was preparing a nice, big pot of stew. It would take the edge off her hangover, and give her some welcome nourishment for the week to come. The stew was still simmering on her stovetop, however, when Clea found herself much, much more distracted by a message she’d just received.

Can I come over?

It was from Isabella.

Clea’s boss, the woman she was hopelessly head-over-heels for, had just texted her on a Sunday evening to ask to come over to her apartment. Maybe she should have replied with ‘no’, or ‘I’m busy, sorry’. Maybe she should even have left her on read. There were reasons to. Refusing would have helped maintain professional boundaries, and would have helped Clea stop torturing herself about a doomed romance.

Instead, she had replied ‘yes’ right away.

And now, as she waited for Isabella to arrive, Clea was left with nothing to do but watch her stew simmer and wonder about what, exactly, had happened. She and Isabella had a friendly and warm relationship at work, to be sure. Sometimes they even confided in one another a little - that was how Clea had caught a hint of her marital issues. But suddenly dropping in to visit Clea at her apartment? That was completely unprecedented.

Clea desperately wanted to know why. But with Isabella already on her way, there was nothing for her to do except keep pacing back and forward across her kitchen restlessly, wondering, trying to stop herself from giving in to needless speculation or fruitless hope. Occasionally, she couldn’t help dashing over to the mirror in her bathroom to make sure that she looked presentable. Part of her wanted to put on some makeup, but the knowledge that she’d look like she’d gotten all dolled up on a Sunday night just to stay home and cook held her back.

Eventually, mercifully, the buzzer for her apartment rang.

Clea rushed down and opened the door as quickly as she could, and let out a mourning gasp when she laid eyes on her boss.

Isabella had been crying. That much was obvious from the way her eyes were red from tears and wide with worry. It pained Clea to see her beauty marred by such sadness. She was still beautiful, though. Clea was struck by that every single time she saw her boss.

Isabella Chase was aging more than gracefully into her thirties. Put simply, she had a figure to die for, and looked just as killer in the t-shirt and jeans she was currently wearing as she did in the smart, well-tailored business wear Clea was used to seeing on her. She had a slender, pretty face, with high, arched, sharp cheekbones that somehow became rounded and full when she laughed and smiled, lighting up her whole face. Her short, black, shoulder-length hair framed her features perfectly, and her tanned, brown skin took on a thousand tones in a different light. Clea never got tired of looking at her. She just hoped her boss hadn’t noticed the way she stared. Especially since Isabella did know that Clea was a lesbian.

“Hey,” Clea said awkwardly. “What’s wrong?”

As soon as she saw Clea, Isabella sagged. “I’m sorry,” she said heavily. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“What? No!” Clea replied urgently. “Don’t say that. You’re more than welcome.”

Isabella just sniffled and shook her head miserably. “It’s not appropriate. I’m your boss. You shouldn’t have to…”

“Just come in.” Clea reached out and touched Isabella on the shoulder, lightly. “Please?”

Isabella nodded, just as miserably, but allowed Clea to guide her inside and upstairs into her apartment. Once there, Clea immediately set to fussing over her boss. She got her seated comfortably on the couch, and then went to make tea for the both of them. When she returned, two steaming mugs in hand, she sat down next to Isabella. A worried frown was carving lines into her face.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Isabella repeated, although she seemed more settled than before. “I’m your boss. You put up with me enough at work.”

“Nonsense,” Clea told her firmly. “You put up with me just as much. We can call it even.”

That made Isabella smile, which made Clea smile.

“I just didn’t know where else to go, I suppose,” Isabella explained apologetically, sipping tentatively at her tea. “I guess I didn’t really want my friends to see me like this. So I just started driving around, and then I was in the neighborhood, and I remembered your address, and… well, you’re just so easy to talk to, at work. So I just…”

“I’m glad you did,” Clea said. “Really. It’s not an imposition. But you do have to tell me what’s going on. That’s the only condition.”

Isabella laughed, sniffled again, and nodded. “Well, it’s… it’s him. Again. Robert. My husband.”

A furious shiver raced down Clea’s spine. It was just as she’d suspected. Her husband was the only thing she’d ever seen get anything close to this far under Isabella’s skin.

“What did he do now?” Clea’s voice approached a growl.

“He didn’t…” Isabella started to say in instinctive defensiveness, before sagging again. “It’s not like that, exactly. We just had another fight.”

“I see,” Clea said tersely.

“I want kids,” Isabella said. Now that she was unburdening herself, it came out easy. She wasn’t looking at the expression on Clea’s face. “I want a family. I do. And I thought he wanted that too. I mean, we always said… but now I don’t know. Every time I try to talk to him about it, he gets so…”

Clea worried for all the unspoken things she could hear in Isabella’s voice. “Do you mean…”

“No,” Isabella told her. “Not like that. But he gets so closed off about it. So short-tempered. It’s like… it’s like me, and what I want, are just annoyances to him. You know?”

“Yeah.” Clea had to fight not to grind her teeth. “I know what you mean.”

“It’s at the point where I just don’t know what to do,” Isabella went on. “I just assumed we’d work on it, over time, together, but it’s starting to seem like it isn’t going to get better. I don’t know what to do anymore. Today, when I tried to talk to him, we ended up arguing. And when he started yelling at me, I just… I had to get out of there, Clea.”

“Get out of there?” Hope, tinged by guilt, started to swell in Clea’s bosom. “Like-”

“I mean, how am I supposed to go back to him now, after running out like that?” The words kept flowing out of Isabella. She was starting to tear up again. “Sometimes I feel like I just can’t take it anymore.”

Clea paused for a long moment to gather her courage before saying: “Maybe… you don’t have to. Go back, I mean.”

Isabella looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re better than him, Isabella!” Clea cried. “It’s obvious. He doesn’t deserve you. You’re amazing. You’re beautiful, you’re kind, you work hard and support yourself and others. If you want a family, you deserve one. You deserve someone who wants to have that with you.”

Her boss let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob. “That’s… a nice thought, Clea.”

“I’m serious!” Clea insisted fiercely. “I know it’s a cliche, but there are so many other people out there who could make you happy. You shouldn’t have to devote your life to someone who doesn’t even care enough to talk to you about what you want!”

“It’s not that easy.” Isabella seemed to tense up. “I can’t just walk out on him like that.”

“Why not?” Clea couldn’t bring herself to hold back now. “You don’t need him, Isabella. And you said so yourself - it seems like it isn’t going to get better. So what are you staying with him for?”

“I… I guess I don’t really have a good answer to that,” Isabella admitted. “But I do know one thing. I’m not a quitter. That’s how I’ve made it this far, right?”

“Isabella…” Clea slumped back against the couch cushion, defeated. She could hear the resolve in her boss’s voice, and she recognized all too well the kind of self-defeating logic Isabella was trapping herself in.

“Maybe it’s a little silly,” Isabella said, smiling sadly to herself. “But I really meant all those things I said at the altar. The promises. In sickness and in health, stuff like that. I… I know you mean well, Clea. I just think I need to see this through properly.”

There was nothing for Clea to do but look down and sigh. “I understand,” she said, even though she didn’t.

It took all the strength she had not to blurt out that it should have been her. That she was the one who could make Isabella happy that way. That she would be overjoyed to give Isabella the family her husband wouldn’t.

But of course, her words would have fallen on deaf ears. Isabella was straight, and that was that.

Before Clea knew it, the two of them had lapsed into uncomfortable silence. The only sound in the apartment was the occasional noise of each of them sipping at their tea. Clea knew she had to fix it.

“Hey,” she said abruptly, planting as bright a smile as she could muster on her face. “Well, if you want to stay here, just for tonight, you’d be more than welcome. I mean it. We can have a girls’ night. This couch folds out, and it’s actually not as bad as it-“

The sound of Isabella’s phone lighting up with a text message interrupted her.

Her boss snatched at her phone like a drowning woman at a life ring. The expression of manic, desperate hope on her face as she read the message tore Clea’s heart in two, and immeasurable dread washed over her. She knew exactly what was happening.

“Thank you,” Isabella said to Clea, already gathering herself. “That’s such a kind offer. B-but I need to go now, actually.” She gestured to her phone. “He’s worried about me, and he wants to talk.”

She was smiling as she said it, although Clea knew even Isabella didn’t really believe in whatever platitudes her husband was offering. She was just forcing herself to, because it was the only way she could keep going. Isabella’s smile was as fragile as glass, and Clea couldn’t bring herself to be the one that broke it.

“Sure.” Clea desperately hoped her own smile didn’t look too fake or forced. “Of course. I understand. And, anytime. I promise.”

She walked Isabella out of the building and the two of them said their goodbyes. But the whole time, Clea could only think about how disgustingly false this all was. She’d met Isabella’s husband two or three times, at various work-related social functions. She knew what a boor he was. She knew he wasn’t going to change. But, clearly, he was willing to keep stringing Isabella along with false hope and false kindnesses until it ground her into dust.

Dwelling on it left a pit of nausea in Clea’s stomach. It wasn’t right. She couldn’t let this happen. Not to Isabella.

And there was something she could do about it.

Once Clea got back up to her apartment, she reached for her phone and messaged Bruna.

I need the data.

***

The next morning, it took Clea quite some time to gather her courage before she could bring herself to head into Isabella’s office and bring her boss her morning coffee. Her anxiety was twofold. First, she was afraid that the atmosphere between them would be heavy with the weight of what had happened the day before; with Isabella’s unexpected vulnerability, and Clea’s unwelcome advice. And second, she was afraid that Isabella would see how nervous she was, and somehow sense what she was about to do.

Her first fear, at least, was dispelled from the first moment she knocked and pushed open the door. Isabella was already behind her desk, hard at work, but she rose to greet Clea with a broad grin.

“Clea! Good morning,” she gushed. “Oh, is that my latte? I seriously need it.”

“Of course,” Clea replied. “Same as ever.”

She placed the cup holder on Isabella’s desk, but she must have seemed a touch awkward because Isabella quickly reached out for her hand.

“Hey, um,” Isabella began, “I wanted to say, about yesterday… I’m sorry. Not for turning up - you made it clear that you were happy to help, and I appreciate that a lot. You’re amazing, honestly. The best secretary I could ever ask for.”

Clea’s cheeks started to burn and glow from the praise.

“Instead, I’m sorry for putting you square in the middle of my marital, uh, issues,” Isabella said. “I’m sure that was really, really awkward.”

“No,” Clea replied. “Um, actually, I’m glad you felt like you could confide in me. And… actually, I’m sorry too. I went way too far.”

“Nonsense,” Isabella told her firmly, smiling. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You were just trying to help. To be honest, the advice you gave is exactly what I’d probably give to any of my friends if they were in the same position.”

That acknowledgment brought forth another heavy sigh that piqued Clea’s curiosity.

“May… I ask how it went?” Clea ventured cautiously.

“Good.” Isabella nodded firmly. “At least, I think it was good. We talked, and maybe we didn’t fix our problems yet, but we’re going to keep talking. What more can you ask for, right?”

She was trying to sound brave and sure, and it almost worked. Almost. But Clea knew her boss better than most. Better than her own husband, she’d guess. She saw Isabella every single day at work, and she knew when she was merely putting a brave face on something.

Looking deeper, Clea could see the signs. Under her eyes, she was using a little too much makeup to try and conceal some dark circles. Her eyes themselves were still tinged red. Her hair was a little messier and less lustrous than usual; probably, she’d gone to bed without doing her routine. And, most tellingly of all, her shoulders were sagged slightly in exhaustion and defeat, the way they only usually were on a Friday evening after a truly hellish week.

She wasn’t OK. It hadn’t been good. And that meant there was no reason at all for Clea to hold back.

“Well,” Clea began, “I was thinking, last night. And I have something that I think might help you a little.”

Isabella’s head tilted dubiously.

“Not with the, uh, issues,” Clea added hastily. “Just with how it all feels. It’s something for self-care.”

“Oh!” Isabella brightened immediately. “Clea, that’s so thoughtful.”

Clea had to look away for a moment. “Don’t mention it.”

“So?” Isabella asked eagerly. “What is it? Don’t keep me in suspense!”

Clea swallowed anxiously. This was it.

“This might sound a little weird,” she said, “but I have these… experimental music videos. They’re meant to help you relax. Think of it like… like meditation. Making them is kind of a hobby of mine, actually. I know it’s a little silly, but some people have said they’re really helpful. So, I made one for you.”

She blushed as she said that. Even the half-truth was embarrassing. Isabella, though, looked overjoyed.

“You did?” she exclaimed. “Oh my god, Clea! Thank you, that’s so thoughtful.”

Clea blushed again. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Of course I do,” Isabella replied. “I’ve never really tried meditation before, but you’re certainly right to think that I could use something to help me relax a little. I’d love to give it a try.”

“Great!” Clea’s relief was immeasurable, and she found herself grinning from ear to ear. She whipped out her phone. “I’ll send you the video right away. You can just listen to it whenever you have a quiet moment. Just… make sure to grab some headphones. And, uh, make sure you won’t be disturbed.”

“Got it!” To Clea’s great surprise, Isabella pulled her into a brief but warm hug. “Clea, you deserve a raise. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Things have been so hard lately. It’s truly…”

“Hey.” Clea squeezed Isabella tight as her boss trailed off. “I know. But, Isabella, I can promise you that things are going to get much, much better for you very soon. I can just feel it.”

Once the two of them pulled apart, Isabella’s eyes were glistening.

“Thank you,” she said. “The way you said that almost makes me believe it.”

Clea and Isabella shared a laugh before Isabella went to sit back down at her desk. Clea took that as her cue.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said, retreating out of her boss’s office. “I’ve got your first call for the day lined up in about twenty minutes.”

With that, each of them returned to the humdrum of a normal workday - but the whole time, Clea was burning with anticipation as she thought about what was going to happen once Isabella finally sat down to listen to what Clea had sent her.

***

The sun was getting low in the sky by the time Isabella’s thoughts turned back to Clea’s gift. It had been a long, busy day of work, with no chance for her to take time out to meditate. But now, the office was quiet. Everyone had gone home - even Clea, who seemed to have been lingering for some reason. Isabella figured she was probably worried about her. Clea was such a sweet girl that way.

Isabella really couldn’t blame her for being worried. Not after the way she’d fled to Clea’s apartment the day before. Just thinking about it was still incredibly embarrassing. Clea had been very kind about it, but Isabella was sure her secretary didn’t genuinely want to spend her weekends dealing with her boss’s personal problems.

Hopefully, earlier, when she’d told Clea that things were looking up, she’d sounded convincing enough to put the younger woman at ease.

The truth was… more complicated.

And that, regrettably, was part of why Isabella was staying late at work. It was the perfect excuse to spend a little less time at home.

Isabella sighed to herself. Admitting that, even in her own head, felt humiliating. Where had it all gone so wrong? When she had gotten married, she’d assumed that would be her happy ending. Having kids seemed like the natural next step - they’d even talked about it, briefly, a few times. Now, Robert got mad every time she brought it up. It was like he’d never wanted a family at all.

Another sigh. These thoughts were doing nothing but making Isabella upset again. They certainly weren’t helping her to get any work done, and the only thing worse than staying at the office to work overtime was staying at the office to do nothing except cry.

Which was why Isabella’s thoughts had turned to that relaxation music video Clea had made for her.

What better time to try it than now?

Isabella took a moment to dim the lights and close the blinds on the windows before sitting back in her office chair and pulling up the video file Clea had sent to her. The first frame looked like nothing but an indistinct mess of colors, and Isabella found herself a little skeptical that a simple music video would be able to offer everything Clea had promised. But, determined to give it a proper try, she took a series of long, deep breaths after putting in her earbuds.

“OK, here goes,” she said to herself, and pressed ‘play’.

Immediately, the screen in front of her exploded into dizzying patterns of motion that made Isabella gasp. There was such depth, vividness and beauty to the colors. It immediately drew Isabella in and captivated her, making her eyes pull wide open in an instinctive bid to drink in everything that was on the screen of her computer.

It was so overwhelming, she barely even noticed the sound playing through her earbuds.

It was music, but unlike any other Isabella had heard, and she only considered it to be music at all because of the vaguely harmonic quality of all the strange beats and tones playing in her ears. All of them were low and resonant; she felt them through her whole body, and underneath them was something like whispering, perhaps a voice, perhaps not. Whatever it was, Isabella found herself unable to bring it into focus.

Instead, all of her attention was on the screen. The true pattern formed by the colors was starting to unfold. At first, she thought it was a spiral, pulling inward, but she soon realized it was pushing outward instead, kaleidoscopic, like an ever-unfurling flower, revealing more of itself with each passing moment. Every new color that appeared at the center of the screen was a revelation, but then the whole image would turn, revealing more of itself yet again, along dizzying lines of symmetry.

Isabella couldn’t look away. Not even when her eyes started to ache from staring. She just slumped back into her seat and started to drool. She had been instantly hypnotized.

The music was getting louder, but Isabella didn’t stir, not even when lyrics started to appear inside her head. Not lyrics; mantras. Simple, blunt statements of fact that Isabella couldn’t seem to bring herself to question. They came one after another, layering atop one another, hammering themselves into her head until they felt like her own thoughts, no matter how strange and foreign they were.

They were true. She knew that. She just knew.

You are a lesbian, Isabella.

It was a hard thing to accept. Isabella had never once thought of herself as anything other than straight. She was even married to a man. So… how hadn’t she noticed it sooner? It seemed so hard to square away, and yet she knew she had to.

You don’t like men.

Isabella stirred. That didn’t seem right. She liked her husband, didn’t she? That was why she’d married him. She loved him… or so she’d thought. But she was a lesbian, so that didn’t make sense. And since she was a lesbian, it seemed only natural that she didn’t like men. Isabella reflected on how she’d felt about her husband in recent days. It hadn’t been positive.

Of course. She was a lesbian, and she didn’t like men.

You cannot orgasm with men.

Isabella blushed faintly, but settled. As unfamiliar as that thought was, it seemed to fit. She was a lesbian, and she didn’t like men. It made perfect sense that she couldn’t orgasm with men.

Her recent experiences with her husband certainly bore that out, too.

You can only orgasm with women.

Each new mantra, each new truth, was getting easier and easier to accept. They intersected and interlinked, mutually reinforcing one another, forming a net wrapped tight around Isabella’s mind.

Forming a new self. A new identity.

You are attracted to Clea.

Isabella gasped. Clea? She’d never once looked at her secretary in that light. It would be completely and totally unprofessional of her.

And yet…

Now that the thought had crossed her mind, she couldn’t un-think it. Clea was pretty. There was certainly no denying that. She had a lovely figure, and such cute freckles, and her long, gorgeous, red hair was so striking. Anyone would call her attractive.

But Isabella wasn’t just anyone. She was a lesbian. She could only cum with women. So, naturally, it meant more to her. It wasn’t just about acknowledging Clea’s attractiveness. It was about feeling it.

Isabella was definitely attracted to Clea.

You are very attracted to Clea.

The intensity of her newly-discovered attraction more than doubled with the repetition. Suddenly, just thinking about her secretary made Isabella squirm in her chair and sent a thrill-shock of pleasure between her legs. She couldn’t believe an attraction this potent had crept up on her, but maybe it wasn’t surprising, if her lesbianism had too.

It was all but unbearable. How was she going to handle seeing Clea tomorrow? How was she going to not blush and stammer every time she looked at her? The worst part was that Clea was a lesbian too. That made the temptation so much more real.

You can’t resist Clea.

All thoughts of self-control immediately dissolved. Isabella was being washed away by the strength of her new feelings. She couldn’t resist Clea. That thought seemed so sinful. She was Clea’s boss. A level of self-discipline and restraint was absolutely essential in the workplace, but Isabella was starting to doubt she was capable of it.

What did that say about her? What kind of woman was she, to be so hopelessly, irresistibly infatuated by a girl subordinate to her, a girl so much younger than her? It was a shameful thought, but the shame was swept up in her attraction and arousal.

A picture of the new Isabella was starting to emerge. She was a lesbian, she was sexually unsatisfied with her husband, and she was desperately obsessed with her own secretary, Clea Samaras.

The longer she stared at the hypnotic images blaring on her screen, the stronger and stronger Isabella’s new sense of identity became. And there was nothing she could do about it. With her eyes wide, all she could do was sit back, stare, and drool, as the mantra began to repeat over, and over, and over again.

You are a lesbian.

You don’t like men.

You cannot orgasm with men.

You can only orgasm with women.

You are attracted to Clea.

You can’t resist Clea.

You are a lesbian…

---

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#story #Marital Aid

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kallie-den · 2 months

Text

A Commanding Weakness Ch. 5

After accidentally finding out about what Wasp has been doing to the Inyx's crew, Lori Delaney, a petty crewman with problems with authority, runs to tell the exact wrong person: Captain Vasser

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Crewman Lori Delaney made her way to the bridge of the starship Inyx in fits and starts. She sprinted in bursts, pounding the deck beneath her feet because she was running so urgently, but every now and then she stopped - not just to catch her breath, but because she needed to ask herself whether or not she was crazy.

What she’d seen in medbay defied all sense. Dr. Hiraga, Chief Samira Carter, and that dorky science officer, Morgan, acting out some kind of crazy fantasy, dressed in absolutely ludicrous outfits, whilst Wasp, the hacker they were supposed to be hunting, lorded over it all. If someone told Delaney they’d seen something like that, she’d never believe them. Not if they swore on a hundred years of replicator rations.

But she couldn’t dismiss the very last part of what she’d seen. Wasp had some kind of brainwashing device she was going to use to take over the Inyx. And it was almost perfected. Hearing that had made Delaney’s blood run cold. She needed to act, but she was just a petty crewman. She was powerless. She needed help, but if Dr. Hiraga and the ship’s security officer had already fallen, there was no telling who else might already be in the hacker’s clutches.

There was only one person Delaney could think to turn to: Captain Yvonne Vasser.

It was funny. Normally, there was no one Delaney wanted to see less. Captain Vasser was the very worst kind of commanding officer: one who truly believed in all of Alliance Starfleet’s bullshit about protocol, professionalism, and discipline. Most captains would allow a little leniency on a long tour of duty like this. Not Vasser. She was always on Delaney’s ass - about her uniform, about showing up a little late to her duty shifts, and about a hundred other tiny little rules and regulations Delaney didn’t give a shit about. And when it wasn’t her, it was her pet thug, Carter.

Why couldn’t Vasser take the hint, and accept that Delaney was only in this job for the paycheck and the training? And why did she care about petty crewmen in the first place? Didn’t she have more important things to pay attention to?

In a situation like this, though, Delaney couldn’t imagine anyone else she’d sooner tell. Captain Vasser was a legend. A machine. She was untouchable. Even if everyone else on the Inyx fell to Wasp, she’d fight tooth and nail to set them free. Delaney was sure that Captain Vasser would know exactly what to do.

“Where’s the captain?” Delaney demanded as she rushed out of the turbolift and onto the bridge.

Heads turned, every one of them looking at her like she was suicidal. She had no business being here, after all.

“Captain Vasser is in her ready room,” said Lieutenant Kuznetzov, in a voice cold enough to freeze the air between them. “But I would remind you, crewman, that-“

“Great, thanks.”

Delaney grit her teeth as she interrupted and dashed past him. She really hoped she wasn’t crazy because if not, she was seriously going to pay for that.

Before anyone could stop her, Delaney raced into the ready room. Once she was inside and the door slid closed behind her, she found herself alone with Captain Vasser. The captain was sitting behind her desk and looked up at Delaney with an impossibly stern, displeased expression on her face.

“Crewman,” she said in a warning tone. “Just because I do not lock my door, does not mean you should presume to-“

“Forget that!” Delaney cut her off.

She paled slightly as she watched Captain Vasser’s eyebrow raise higher than she’d ever seen it. However, the captain seemed to sense her urgency, and gave her a chance to speak.

“Captain, I saw something,” Delaney began. “Just now, down in medbay. I…” She paused, wishing she’d spent more time thinking about exactly what to say. “It’s Wasp. She’s infiltrated the ship. And she’s doing something to people. I don’t know what, exactly. But she’s in their heads. She’s controlling them.”

Delaney paused to catch her breath. She half expected Captain Vasser to query something, or else yell at her for telling tall tales. Instead, the captain just stared at her with an odd, vacant look in her eyes. Delaney couldn’t tell what that meant, but it made her nervous.

“I swear, Captain,” she added quickly. “I really saw it. You have to believe me. We’re all in danger. That’s why I came running in here. I couldn’t tell anyone else, I couldn’t even use my communicator. We don’t know who else might be-“

Suddenly, Captain Vasser bolted to her feet. Delaney broke off mid-flow but then tried again. “Captain, please, I-“

“I believe you, Crewman Delaney,” Captain Vasser said, somewhat stiffly. Relief swept over Delaney. “And you did the right thing by bringing this directly to me. You must not tell anyone else. Now follow me.”

She started walking at a brisk, purposeful pace, out of the ready room and toward the turbolift. Delaney moved quickly to follow her. In that moment, she could have kissed Captain Vasser she was so grateful to be believed. She wasn’t sure where the captain was taking her, but it was an immense relief to see that she seemed to have some kind of plan for contingencies like this. For once, Delaney was glad to have a hard-ass as a captain.

As they crossed the bridge, Delaney caught plenty of dirty, impressed, or downright incredulous looks. The officers must have been wondering why she wasn’t currently being chewed out for insubordination. Captain Vasser ran a tight ship, though, and as such, none of them dared to question her. They just busied themselves with their assigned tasks, and so Captain Vasser and Delaney made it into the lift without comment. From there, they headed down into the Inyx’s decks. Delaney didn’t think to ask where they were going until, after they left the turbolift and started walking again, she realized what they were heading for.

The holodeck.

“Uh, captain?” Delaney ventured as they stepped over the threshold. “What are we doing here?”

All too late, she was giving thought to how Captain Vasser had seemed during the walk down. She had been oddly quiet, and unnaturally serene. Delaney had assumed she was simply trying not to give the game away, but it was starting to seem like more than that. Captain Vasser was behaving more like a robot than a person. It was almost like she was-

“Computer, seal the holodeck,” Captain Vasser said. Her voice was chillingly monotonous. “My authorization. Hold all communications. Load up and engage scenario Wasp One.”

“Wasp…”

The penny dropped. Delaney turned back toward the door, only to see it slide closed and hear the heavy-duty mechanical locks slam into place. She was trapped. A beat later, the holodeck’s many, many highly sophisticated holographic projectors hummed to life. At her rank, Delaney didn’t get a lot of holo-rec time, but she was still familiar enough to brace herself for the walls and floor shifting and dissolving into a new scene. Instead, though, all that happened was that a single hologram appeared in the space between Delaney and Captain Vasser.

It was Wasp. She looked just as she had in medbay, complete with the bizarre, regal, latex costume that was such a strange match for her neon green hair and punk looks.

Now Delaney knew she wasn’t crazy. She just really really wished she was.

“Well, I guess this was always going to happen,” Wasp complained, throwing up her arms and looking straight at Delaney. “But you really picked your moment, you know that? Right as I was finishing up all the preparations.” She glanced at Captain Vasser and snickered. “Good thing your trusted captain knew exactly what to do. Or rather, good thing I programmed her with exactly what to do.”

“You…” Delaney paled. “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?”

“Oh, well, allow me to fill you in!” Wasp bowed mockingly. “At least, as soon as I…”

She snapped her fingers, and her bizarre, latex getup phased out of existence, replaced with an outfit that was equally conspicuous, but far more in keeping with the hacker’s usual style.

“Basically, I’m in your ship’s computer,” Wasp explained. “I’m running the Inyx. All of it. The only thing around here I don’t control is the crew. At least, not yet. But I’m working on it. Turns out, if you know how, getting into a person’s head isn’t so much harder than getting into a computer.”

Delaney shook her head in disbelief as Wasp crowed. She reached up and slapped the communicator badge on her chest.

“Emergency channel,” she said urgently. “This is Crewman Delaney to the bridge. Delaney to the bridge. Do you read me?”

There was no response except the sound of Wasp’s laughter.

“See?” she mocked. “Believe me now?”

Delaney balled her hands into fists. She felt powerless, and it was pissing her off. She looked at Wasp. No point punching a hologram. She looked at Captain Vasser. She was clearly a puppet. She looked back at the door. Locked, and military-grade.

There was no way out.

Delaney didn’t understand. This didn’t seem possible. Up until half an hour ago, this had just been a normal day. She was struggling to make sense of it all.

“You… you have…” she said slowly. “Some kind of fucking… device? That you just put in people’s heads? And then you’re in control.”

“Uh-huh!” Wasp nodded happily. “I do now, at least. That delightful little science officer is figuring out the finishing touches.”

Delaney shook her head in futile disbelief. She’d never heard of technology like that, but there was no way to deny what she’d seen in medbay. Something was missing from Wasp’s story, though.

“But then,” Delaney asked slowly, “how did you get to this point? You… you got the captain under your control? But… how? There’s no way any of this should have been possible without…”

She looked at Captain Vasser, willing her to somehow rouse herself from the strange, mesmerized stupor Wasp seemed to have her in. If there was anyone who could get her out of this mess, it was the captain. Delaney just needed to figure out exactly what was wrong with her.

“Oh, that’s the best part.” Wasp sauntered over to Captain Vasser and stroked her cheek, almost affectionately. “She was the key to all of this. I made it into the holodeck on my own, but all the rest? She gave it to me. Let me into all the critical systems. She was the very first piece of the puzzle. She couldn’t help herself.”

“N-no,” Delaney breathed. If any part of this madness was truly unbelievable, it was that. Captain Vasser would never put her ship or her crew in jeopardy.

“Yes,” Wasp insisted gleefully. “Your captain has a few skeletons in her closet. Or a few spirals, as the case may be. Captain Yvonne Vasser is a complete and total hypno-slut. A fetishist. And she broke her brain so hard, all I needed to do was pull a few strings and use a few of the right words.”

“You’re lying,” Delaney hissed. It didn’t make any sense. The captain was… no. No way. Wasp was just messing with her. That was the only explanation. What she was telling Delaney was completely impossible to square with everything she knew about Captain Vasser. “Fuck you!”

Wasp arched an eyebrow. “I’m really not. You should see the amount of porn she had buried in the ship’s computers. Hell, you should see how messed up she got looking at some of it. Drooling, eyes blank, head drooping…”

“Go fuck yourself!” Delaney yelled angrily. “You’re full of shit!”

It was strange. She was the last person she’d expect to defend Captain Vasser’s honor. Maybe some of that deeply annoying basic training had sunk in somewhere along the way. Trust the ship, trust the captain. Maybe it was that in all the time Delaney had been serving on the Inyx, Captain Vasser and her sternness had simply always been there. You counted on it, the way you counted on the sun coming up each morning. Maybe it was just that she’d always assumed that when the going got tough, Captain Vasser would be there with a plan and a steady hand. Whatever it was, she couldn’t just let Wasp run her mouth like this.

“Hmm.” Wasp drew her face into a lopsided, daring smirk. She seemed to take Delaney’s words as a challenge. “Well, why don’t we see what the captain herself has to say about all that?”

She turned to Captain Vasser, still standing just where she had been when Wasp had first appeared, with a blank, dazed expression on her face. Wasp lifted her hand to the captain’s face and snapped her fingers a few times.

“Captain? Earth to captain? It’s time to wake up. Oh, and that’s an order.”

At those last words, Captain Vasser seemed to stir. Her pose became a little less stiff and she blinked her eyes a few times, and slowly they cleared of fog. It was like watching someone wake up - but slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Delaney couldn’t begin to fathom how deeply Captain Vasser had been under, or for how long. What did that mean, for how she’d been commanding the ship all this time?

“W-what…” Captain Vasser said in a desperately faint voice. “W-w-where… am I?”

“That’s it.” Wasp kept snapping her fingers impatiently. “Come on. All the way up.”

Her insistent snapping seemed to do more to disorient the captain than anything else, but eventually, Captain Vasser seemed to get her bearings. She looked around at the holodeck, and then at Delaney, and then at Wasp - and then she turned as white as a sheet.

“You…” Captain Vasser breathed, aghast. She looked down. “Oh. No, no, no…”

“Captain!”

She looked like she was about to fall over, and so Delaney rushed to her side, ready to support her. She couldn’t possibly fathom what was going on in the other woman’s head, but she knew what was at stake and she knew her duty in a situation like this: report to the captain, and be ready for orders.

“Captain Vasser,” Delaney said crisply as her captain peered blearily at her. “Wasp seems to be in control of the ship’s systems. We need to stop her. What should we do?”

Captain Vasser’s eyes widened. She started shaking her head. “T-that can’t be,” she said. “I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”

Delaney’s heart started to sink. What was happening? “Captain!” she said, louder. “Orders, captain?”

She just didn’t seem to be getting through to her. Captain Vasser kept shaking her head and winced like she was recoiling, both from Delaney’s question and from the sudden torrent of her own memories. “Crewman, wait, I… I need to think.”

Delaney’s face fell. Who was this woman? She was like a husk of the captain Delaney had known. Seeing her like this was unspeakably demoralizing, and it was enough to make Delaney wonder if Wasp had actually been telling the truth.

“Captain, she…” Delaney ventured slowly. “She said you let her into the critical systems. Something about… your, uh, holodeck material?”

It seemed to take Captain Vasser a moment to process Delaney’s words, but once she did, she reacted in a way the younger woman never would have expected. Her nerve broke, and she looked away. Her face turned a deep scarlet with shame.

“T-that’s not…” she stammered. “I didn’t m-m… No, no, there must be something else. I couldn’t… wouldn’t…”

“Captain…” A sense of insurmountable disappointment washed over Delaney. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Captain Vasser was making excuses. She sounded like she was in denial. Was this really the woman Delaney had chosen to put her faith in?

“O captain, my captain!” Wasp echoed mockingly, rounding on Captain Vasser. “Come on, cap! Tell her! Let’s see… which scenario was it? You’ve so many, after all. The one with the student, at the academy? I think that was it.”

“Shut up!” Captain Vasser barked, but her voice was too high-pitched. It lacked authority. And Delaney couldn’t help but notice the other ways she was reacting. She was squeezing her legs together as if taken by a sharp yearning. “S-shut up.”

“Or you’ll what?” Wasp cackled mercilessly. “Lick my boots again? Please! And you can’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy it. We both know that’s a lie.”

“N-n-nooo,” Captain Vasser cried.

“I think maybe even your crewman does too,” Wasp added. “I checked her file, you know. Lori Delaney. A real troublemaker. But she came straight to you anyway. It’s almost touching, isn’t it? Such faith? What a shame that you’re just going to let her down.”

This time, Captain Vasser couldn’t seem to muster the strength even to deny it. She just let out a wordless whine that was half shame, half ecstasy. Delaney backed away uncertainly. What the hell was she watching? This felt, more than anything else, like some kind of twisted foreplay.

“But I suppose you’re enjoying that too, aren’t you?” Wasp went on. The way she posed and gestured theatrically, drawing out each word as she tormented the hapless captain out of sadistic glee, was infuriating to witness. “That’s one of your favorites. Getting humiliated in front of someone younger. Someone subordinate. Someone who should look up to you. If only she was hypnotizing you too, huh? I bet that would really get you off.”

“S-stop,” Captain Vasser begged. “P-please. I can’t… think…”

It was all too clear why. She was blushing like a maiden and sweating visibly, and the way her body twitched and contorted with each of Wasp’s loaded, venomous accusations was undeniably suggestive. Between shame and pleasure, pleasure was evidently winning out. This was a side of Captain Vasser that Delaney had never seen before, and it left her horrified and transfixed in equal measure.

“Can’t think? I thought you’d be begging for that.” Waps giggled, and then made a little gesture with her hand and plucked a holographic pocket watch out of thin air. She dangled it by its chain and started swinging it back and forth like a pendulum in front of Captain Vasser. “Well, I think Crewman Delaney here has gotten the picture. What do you say, captain? Do you wanna go back into that nice, blissful, trancey sleep? You know what you have to do. Just look at the pocket watch, and let your mind go blank.”

As she swung the pocket watch, Wasp’s voice changed. It became soft and melodious, a luring song, beckoning Captain Vasser to calm and submission. To Delaney’s horror, it seemed to work. Slowly, Captain Vasser’s face turned towards the pendulum, and as soon as her eyes locked onto it they started to go dull. With each swing, more and more emotion and personality drained from her face, and she started to slip into a kind of stillness that was disrupted only by occasional, rapturous shivering that hinted at the blinding, fetishistic pleasure she was experiencing.

Seeing how pathetically susceptible the captain was made Delaney tremble. It was practically confirmation of Wasp’s story. But that wasn’t the worst part. The very worst part was the ghost of the last expression Delaney could see haunting Captain Vasser’s face.

It was relief. The captain was relieved at being hypnotized. At not having to think anymore. At not having to face what she’d done. Delaney’s hands balled into fists again. She couldn’t take any more of this farce.

“Hey!” she yelled, striding forward. “Snap the fuck out of it already!”

Delaney shoved Wasp’s hologram out of the way as roughly as she could, grabbed Captain Vasser by the shoulders, and slapped her across her face. Captain Vasser shuddered in the aftermath of the blow, slowly coming back to life.

“Wwuh… hhuh?” she said blearily. Delaney noted with disgust that she was actually drooling.

“Wake up already!” she demanded. “Captain - no, Yvonne Vasser. Wake the fuck up, Yvonne. You’re better than this! I know you are! You’re one of the youngest and finest captains in the whole damn Alliance, even if you are a total bitch. So, Yvonne, I don’t care what you did or what you’re into. I just need you to straighten up, get your head out of your ass, and figure out how we’re all going to get out of this mess!”

Delaney wasn’t one for pep talks, but she thought it was a pretty respectable attempt. She just hoped it got through to Captain Vasser properly. Even though Delaney had managed to rouse her from trance, she looked like she was back to barely knowing where she was or who she was talking to.

“C-crewman?” Captain Vasser slurred, glancing down at the red of Delaney’s uniform that indicated her rank. “Did you just… slap me?”

“Yeah.” Delaney had to smile at the absurdity of it. This was going to make for one hell of a story someday. “I guess I did.”

To her surprise, though, Captain Vasser didn’t seem to come any close to true, clear wakefulness. With all the coordination of a staggering drunk, she shoved Delaney back and looked at her with a farcical impression of sternness.

“T-that’s… not appropriate, c-crewman,” Captain Vasser said slowly. She seemed to be drawing on some kind of deeply embedded reflex that Delaney’s behavior had manged to dredge up. “N-nor is calling me… ‘Yvonne’. Alliance regulation… 521. Salute when addressing a s-superior officer.”

The smile slipped from Delaney’s face. In that moment, all her faith was lost. They were in the clutches of an incredibly dangerous criminal, and Captain Vasser was so far gone that all she could think to do was to quote the regs and lecture Delaney about insubordination. Maybe she was too fucked up to think about their situation properly. Maybe she’d just chosen not to. It didn’t make any difference now.

“God,” Delaney spat, her expression twisted. “You really are broken, aren’t you?”

“Told you so,” piped up Wasp.

Delaney couldn’t spare the emotion to be angry at Wasp. All her fury was reserved for Captain Vasser. The Inyx was her ship. They were her crew. She was responsible for all of them. How dare she let them down so badly? Especially after all those lectures and tough rules and disciplinary sentences. She was a fraud and a hypocrite, and whatever happened to the rest of the crew fell on her head.

So maybe all Delaney could do was rub her face in it while she still had her free will.

“Forget it,” she snapped. “Fuck you and fuck all your rules and regs. This is what you want, right? This is what you’re mad at me for interrupting?”

Delaney whipped around and snatched the hardlight pocket watch out of Wasp’s hand. In imitation of the hacker, she dangled it in front of Captain Vasser and started to swing it by its chain.

“Go ahead,” she snarled. “Get your fill, captain.”

“I… I…”

Captain Vasser had been trying to say something, but as soon as she saw the pocket watch the words died on her lips. Delaney saw her eyes begin to glaze over once more. Making that happen flooded her body with a strange kind of satisfaction.

“Wow,” Delaney laughed. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Don’t you get it? I’m mocking you, captain. Aren’t I being insubordinate now? Don’t you care? Can you even hear me?”

Delaney knew almost nothing about hypnosis. As little as the average overly-curious young gridnet user, anyway. She wasn’t exactly vanilla herself. Still, she’d never tried anything like this. She could tell that her technique was sloppy. She couldn’t seem to get the watch to swing in a nice, slow, regular rhythm the way Wasp had. But whatever she was doing seemed to be more than enough for Captain Vasser.

“I guess that’s part of it, huh?” Delaney ranted, thinking back to Wasp’s words. “You like knowing that I’m just a crewman on your ship. You get off on it. I can tell. Is this one of your precious little holodeck fantasies, huh?”

A weak, wet mewl from Captain Vasser’s lips let Delaney know she’d hit somewhere near the mark. She smirked. Now that she’d given up all her faith in the captain, she was free to revel in the satisfaction. She thought back to all the times Vasser or one of her officers had written Delaney up for lateness, or uniform violations, or anything else.

"Fine, then. Far be it from me to stop you getting your kicks. I’ll just have to try and enjoy this even more.” Delaney grinned with wild abandon. “Think about it, captain. Think about how easy you are. All it takes is waving some stupid watch in front of you, and any petty crewman on this ship can have you drooling all over yourself. It’s pathetic.”

The broken captain’s mewls and moans grew louder; more desperate.

“I hope everyone gets to see you like this.” Delaney was warming to her theme. “The whole crew. All those people who look up to you. I hope they all get their turn to stick their fingers in your head, just like I am right now.”

It was fascinating, watching Captain Vasser steadily slip under hypnosis even as her body burned and twitched from Delaney’s taunts. Delaney was starting to understand the appeal of the captain’s fetish - at least, from this angle.

“Bet you’d get a kick out of that, huh?” she went on. “From wondering what we’d all use you for. That’s what you want, right? You just want everyone to have their way with you. The more depraved, the better. What kind of captain wants something like that, huh? Along with how you’ve betrayed us all, you can hardly claim to deserve the captain’s chair.”

That brought forth a particularly anguished moan - but still, it was thick with pleasure. Delaney sensed that nothing was beyond the reach of the captain’s fetish. It was buried that deep in her soul. The more she treasured something, the more she wanted something, the more she felt ashamed of something, the better fuel it made for her kinks. And now Delaney was caught up in that feeling and that flow, eager to see how far she could push her.

“I think you’d be better suited for something a little different.” Delaney laughed darkly to herself. “You know that old joke about senior crew who sleep around? I bet you do. ‘Stress relief officers’. I think that’s a better fit. Don’t you? Maybe that’s what I’ll call you.”

Delaney laughed all the louder as she watched Captain Vasser’s face contort, as a spike of arousal drove its way through the captain’s body. Clearly, she’d hit on yet another fantasy.

“After all, who needs a holodeck for that kind of thing, when you have a ‘captain’ who’s just as easy to program.” Delaney snorted in amusement, making sure to keep the watch swinging in her hand. “I’m sure you’d love being turned into everyone’s fantasy. We’d just need to get you a fitting uniform.”

“It’s funny you should say that,” Wasp said. She had been standing off to one side so quietly, Delaney had almost forgotten she was there. Almost. “The captain herself came up with something that fits the bill. She never got around to trying it out, though. She was probably still working up the courage when I got to her.”

Wasp gave her fingers another snap as she instructed the holodeck’s computer to spring into action. At that very instant, Captain Vasser’s clothes warped and shifted. It was just a complex illusion, of course, but it was an effective one, and Delaney let out a gasp at what she was now wearing.

It was a blatant, gleeful mockery of her usual attire. An Alliance uniform - a captain’s uniform, no less - but so thinly made and so tightly cut it concealed almost nothing. It featured a plunging neckline and multiple sets of cut-outs all over Captain Vasser’s body, exposing all the parts of her body a captain’s crew weren’t supposed to think about. All in all, it was like something out of cheap pornography. A slutty Halloween costume take on an Alliance captain.

Perfect.

Delaney took a moment to admire Captain Vasser’s body. It made her feel superior. She’d never imagined she’d get to see the captain so thoroughly degraded, and there was something oddly tantalizing about the way Captain Vasser barely reacted to the humiliation. Delaney’s pocket watch still held her mind in its grip. She was like a puppet - and thinking about that gave Delaney yet another idea.

“Hey, officer!” she barked, in her best imitation of Captain Vasser’s usual, commanding demeanor. “What are you waiting for? Give me a salute.”

Her order seemed to take a long moment to penetrate the deep layers of fog enshrouding Captain Vasser’s mind, but once they did, the captain slowly raised her arm, bent it at an angle, and brought her hand to her temple in a vaguely passable military salute.

But Delaney wasn’t going to be satisfied with ‘vaguely passable’. No more than Captain Vasser ever was.

“C’mon, officer,” she jeered. “You can do better than that! Straighten your back! Hold your head up high! Stiffen that arm!”

With the pocket watch still swinging Captain Vasser could not disobey, but she was in no state to salute properly either. Delaney was treated to the spectacle of the hopelessly brainwashed woman trying desperately to pull herself together, straining to achieve enough focus to keep her back straight while she raised her arm. The result was still sloppy, just as Delaney’s salutes often were in the early morning. The comparison amused Delaney, but of course, the very best part was how utterly and unmistakably absurd Captain Vasser looked, saluting while wearing that porn-parody outfit.

Delaney just laughed.

“Nice work, officer,” she mocked. She was enjoying this little roleplay. “At ease.”

Captain Vasser slumped. She seemed grateful to be allowed to slip back into complete oblivion.

“I have an idea,” Wasp interjected. “If you want to see what really gets her off.”

Delaney sensed Wasp was offering, not telling. She nodded. Wasp had successfully aroused her curiosity. The hacker snapped her fingers again, and this time it wasn’t Captain Vasser’s clothes that changed. It was Delaney’s. Her uniform shoes disappeared beneath a hardlight hologram of a pair of thigh-high platform-heeled boots. The heels were easily more than six inches high, and the boots were polished all over to a mirror sheen. Delaney threw an irritated look at Wasp as she stumbled briefly from being raised up on her new, holographic heels, but she quickly found her balance.

“Trust me,” Wasp assured me. “This is one of her favs. If you want to really see her at her lowest, this is the best way to do it.”

Delaney really, really did. Seeing how far Captain Vasser could fall was addictive. She noticed that Wasp had also conjured up a small stool right behind her, so she perched on it and stretched out one of her new boots towards Captain Vasser.

“Kneel, officer,” she instructed.

She threw the pocket watch back to Wasp, who caught it. Delaney could sense it was no longer needed. Sure enough, Captain Vasser barely stirred, and her eyes soon settled on Delaney’s boots. She seemed to lose herself in the reflections that formed on their shiny surfaces, and sank slowly to her knees in front of the crewman.

“Officer,” Wasp sang out. “The crewman’s boots are looking a little dirty. Why don’t you show her how you like to polish them?”

It wasn’t true, not even slightly, but Captain Vasser nonetheless sprung into life with something approaching eagerness. She bent forward, placed her lips against the chunky tip of the boot heel, and began to worship. The brainwashed captain started planting slow, reverent kisses on the hardlight material, before moving on to drawing her tongue across the heel in long, slow strokes. Finally, shivering with pleasure, she took the heel into her mouth and started sucking on it, taking it so deep she almost choked.

Delaney was completely mesmerized by the sight.

“God,” she breathed. “You weren’t kidding. She loves this.”

Wasp just giggled. It was obvious. Nobody had needed to order Captain Vasser to put this much exultant devotion into polishing Delaney’s boots. Beneath the deep fog of trance, it was obvious just how much the captain was enjoying this. Her cheeks were stained red with shameful pleasure, and one of her hands was drifting down to between her legs.

“No,” Delaney said sharply, once she noticed Captain Vasser about to touch herself. “I haven’t given you permission, officer. Use this instead.”

She stretched her other leg forward and used the tip of the other boot to pry Captain Vasser’s legs apart before pressing it insistently against the front of her pants. Immediately, Captain Vasser’s low, muffled moans doubled in volume and desperation, and her hips started to buck and thrust. Delaney found herself grinning.

“See?” she purred. “This is the real you, captain. This is where you belong. Isn’t it?”

Captain Vasser was beyond anything but nodding in delirious agreement. She was still eagerly kissing and sucking Delaney’s boot, but the pleasure she was receiving sapped her coordination. Her worship became sloppy and, as she moved from the heel of the boot to the tip, she was leaving long, wet trails of drool all over the object of her adoration and down the sides of her own face.

She looked nothing like herself. Nothing like the stern, dignified starship captain Delaney was so used to. Delaney was struck by the sheer magnitude of the difference. She had never once seen Captain Vasser express even the slightest hint of pleasure, amusement, or passion. Delaney had taken to assuming she was every bit as joyless in private. Clearly not, if this was how she’d been spending her holo-rec time.

It made Delaney wonder. Where did her heart really lie?

“You know,” Delaney said, steadily grinding the tip of the boot against Captain Vasser. “I heard a rumor that you’d been spending a whole lot more time on the holodeck lately. Finally dipping into that holo-rec time you’ve been accumulating all these months. And I guess now I know why. I’m sure Wasp told you to, but I’m also sure you loved every minute of it.”

Captain Vasser shivered at the coming humiliation.

"All this time,” Delaney continued, “while your crew was steadily being brainwashed. While your ship was being taken over. You were spending every spare minute down here, fucking yourself stupid to whatever perverse little fantasies Wasp found in your holodeck files? Is that right? Answer me.”

“Y-y-yes,” Captain Vasser moaned around the boot in her mouth. Her voice sounded distant, but there was a high, needy edge to it.

“All when we needed you most.” Delaney just loved the way Captain Vasser twitched as she twisted the knife. “Or do you get off on that too, huh? On betraying us? On becoming the way we get brainwashed too? Answer me?”

“Y-yes!” Captain Vasser cried. Her voice was even more strained this time. She was obviously close to climax.

“Of course.” Delaney laughed. She leaned in close. There was something she wanted to hear straight from the captain’s lips. “So tell me. Between captaining the ship - between being the perfect, textbook, strict, admired, respected captain - and becoming nothing more than a porn star in your own fucked-up fantasies: which one feels better? That? Your old life? Or this?”

“T-t-this!”

The answer erupted from Captain Vasser’s lips without hesitation. It was anguished, but Delaney knew by now that Captain Vasser derived as much pleasure from the anguish as she did pain. And she didn’t doubt for a moment that what Captain Vasser said was true. She could already see it. The captain was exploring her deepest desires; urges and fantasies that had been fermenting within her for years. Compared to that, the pride and prestige of the captain’s chair was as fragile as an eggshell.

That Captain Vasser was already gone. She’d dulled and rusted down here in the holodeck, pleasuring herself at Wasp’s command. Now, she was just a hypno-slut.

“Good.” Delaney sneered, leaning in to better enjoy the moment. “Now cum.”

Captain Vasser obeyed. It was like she’d been struck by lightning. She twitched madly, drooling more than ever and flailing in increasingly desperate efforts to rub her cunt against the tip of Delaney’s boot. The other boot, meanwhile, was still in her mouth, and she was still kissing and lapping fervently.

She hadn’t been given permission to stop, after all.

Eventually, all the strength left her, and she went limp. Captain Vasser slumped to the ground and finally released Delaney’s boot. It had been as shiny as a mirror; now, it was utterly soiled with the wet, slavering proof of the captain’s attention. It was as ruined as she was.

“Wow,” Delaney breathed. She felt almost as aroused as Captain Vasser looked. “I’m gonna enjoy using you, captain.”

Wasp stepped forward, coughing. “You know I’m going to brainwash you too, right? My sweet little pet nerds just finished whipping up a new prototype.”

Delaney noticed she was suddenly holding something long, thin and metal. It looked like a medical instrument.

“I know,” she said. “I don’t care. I just want you to promise me one thing.”

“You’re not really in the position to be making demands,” Wasp remarked. “But I’m feeling indulgent. Go ahead.”

Delaney stared straight down at Captain Vasser. “Just promise me that, in whatever fucked-up pecking order you come up with for this ship, I’ll be above her.”

Wasp threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about that one bit. You’ll get your wish. Pinky swear.”

“Good.” Delaney nodded. “Go ahead.”

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the captain she’d always resented as Wasp held the medical tool up against her ear and injected something cold and strange into her skull. Captain Yvonne Vasser’s hypnotized, blissed-out face was the last thing Delaney saw before everything turned into spirals.

—

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

Artemis, Chloe, Grillfan65, The Secret Subject, Morriel, Dex, orangesya, Red, dmtph, Queenfisher, MegatronTarantulas, NewtypeWoman, WhyamIhere, Vanessa, Madeline, BTYOR, Sarah, Mattilda, Emily Queen of sloths, ntad, Shadows exile, Abigail, Hypnogirl_Stephanie_, Jade, mintyasleep, John, ZephanyZephZeph, Michael, Be_Be, Tasteful Ardour, Chris, Dennis, paxDulcetGirl, Full Blown Marxism, Morder, S, Myles_EXVS, Brendon, Drone 8315, Jack the Monkey, Jim, Erin, HannahSolaria, Christopher, hellenberg, Kay, Miss_Praxis, Violet, Noct, Charlotte, Faun, BrinnShea, B, Foridin, Jennifer, EepyTimeTea, Slifer274, Roxxie, Phoenix, Ivy, Jim, Sebastian, Joseph, Yaoups, Thomas, Liz, naivetynkohan, Basic dev, SuperJellyFrogEx, night, Katie, Lily, spyrocyndersam13, zzzz, Mal, Jose, Bouncyrou, Anonymous, ravenfan, Bacon Man, Nimapode, Melody, Selina, SkinnyQP, NuclearBoarhead, Kunoichiru, Jonathan, Friday, FemKUltra, Z!, WhyamIhere, Pluto, Flluffie, Maxence, Ash, Artemis

#story #commandingweakness

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kallie-den · 3 months

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hi kallie!!! i have now read all your writing thats one mcstories and wow!!! youre so good ^^ i dont normally read longer stories/series but i loooved those ones too ^^ Shackles was really good. I was wondering who some of ypur big inspirations are!

Thanks for writing some amazing stuff ^^

- 🍲

Thank you so much, I'm really glad you enjoyed them! As far as erotica goes, my big inspirations are definitely Madam Kistulot (for making me fall in love with lesbian genre mind control smut), sammynona (for writing series so good I wanted to try my own hand at it) and trilby else (for utterly destroying me with dark premises and incredible prose)

I highly recommend checking out all three of them!

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kallie-den · 3 months

Text

Rebellious Mind

Karteya Vall, a general plotting to overthrow the usurper to the Imperial Throne, submits to a ceremony to prove her loyalty. A simple, traditional - and above all, completely normal - ceremony…

This story was chosen by my patrons via a poll, and features some delicious, highly-ceremonial, unaware mind control~

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“General Karteya Vall! Warden of the Northern Commandery! Master of the Imperial Chariots! Conqueror over the Barbarians! Custodian of the Fifth Wall!”

The herald’s voice is clear and strong, but that doesn’t stop it from sounding small as it echoes around the cavernous space. The innermost sanctum of the Imperial Palace had been built a thousand years ago, by men who were determined to make a building that matched the magnitude of all their worldly ambitions. A thousand years later it’s still an unmatched architectural wonder, but the glory of the empire has far outstripped even their vision. Whoever rules here, rules over an unimaginable vastness of humanity and geography. It hosts diplomats and tributaries from lands its architects could not have imagined, and it’s decorated with treasures they would have considered impossible miracles. Our empire is the greatest power this world has ever known.

This place is the beating heart of it all. Decisions made here touched countless lives and had the power to reshape seas and mountains. It is the center of the world. The pillar that holds up Heaven. It is also the embodiment of the empire and order I have devoted twenty hard years of soldiering to serving.

Once, it would have brought me immeasurable pride to hear my titles and my achievements announced here by the herald. As a girl, I was raised on dreams of being permitted to set foot in these hallowed halls, even as the lowliest servant. Once, but no longer - just as the jade carvings and scarlet silks of the palace had once been beautiful to me, but now seem like an affront. This regal beauty no longer belongs here. It’s a remnant. A lie. For a spider has spun this place into Her web.

All the same, I rise from my seat and stand tall and proud as I answer:

“I am here!”

I was summoned, and so I am here. I may be one of the most powerful women in the empire, but that doesn’t mean I can ignore a summons from the palace. And She does so love issuing summons. Her appetite for prostration and ceremony is that of a tyrant, not a true ruler.

“Your request for an audience has been granted! Approach the Lion Door!”

My request. This charade grates on me to no end. But I keep my face serene and approach the colossal door that bars the way to the throne.

“Halt!”

I do. This is expected.

“You must relinquish your blade in the presence of the empress!”

The demand chafes. I’m a soldier. My sword is my arm. But it’s just as well. If I was allowed to carry it into the throne room, I’m not sure any force under Heaven could restrain my fury.

An unsheathing. A few sprinted steps. A single stroke. She has guards, of course. But it could be done.

When the usurper first seized the throne I was a thousand leagues distant, at my post on the frontier. The first I heard of the vile coup was news of its success, along with Her demand to come and bend the knee. I tore the scroll to pieces in my hands. My oath to the imperial dynasty was not some reed bending in the current. In the span of a heart heartbeat, I had decided to turn my armies inward and revenge myself upon the throne-stealer.

Only the calm heads of my advisors had saved the land from civil war. Though no less faithful than I, they had persuaded me that there was no undoing what had already been done. I had armies, but together the other generals had more, and they had already pledged new loyalties. If I raised my banner against the usurper, my vengeance would never find satisfaction.

Instead, they suggested, I could be a snake who hides her fangs. I could feign obedience and bide my time, and make my move only once every preparation had been made. Then, I could be successful - and all it would cost me is that I would have to go before Her and bow and scrape as She demanded, for a little while.

A bitter price. But one I had resolved to pay - although I might have decided differently if I’d known the usurper would call me back, time and time again, insisting on fresh oaths of loyalty.

Well. No matter. A thousand oaths couldn’t stop me from avenging the dynasty I’d been sworn to.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

“Here.” With the ease of long practice, I draw my sword and hand it to the perfumed servant who approaches. The way its weight surprises him makes me sneer. “If there’s a single nick on this bronze,” I warn him, “it will take your head.”

He pales. As well he should.

The herald nods as I turn back to him. “You may enter.”

With his words, the Lion Door begins to yawn open. Those carved gates are taller than any tree I’ve ever seen, and they move like twin glaciers. All the better to be awed by the space beyond. The throne room is even grander; taller, wider, more lavish. An impossible space. A humbling space. Once the gates come to a halt I begin to march, paraded on both sides by guards - an honor, supposedly, not a threat. The walk to the throne is long enough to make the legs of idle noblemen ache but I’m well used to worse, and I can spend the time contemplating the object of my loathing.

The usurper. Our empress.

The Pearl Throne is well-named. A tall, looming thing, its white-rainbow iridescence is said to represent the labor of ten thousand divers’ lifetimes. It’s meant to humble and devour even the anointed demigod who sits upon it. The cold, hard edges allow for no comfort and the severe, flat surfaces admit no luxury. The proportions are wrong; inhuman, such that a man full-grown sitting the throne looks somehow less and more. Towering, yes, but like a child rather than a king. Even the emperor is a child under Heaven.

The usurper makes it look like a reclining couch.

It must be the supreme ease with which She lies across the throne. It’s like it’s nothing to Her; like the empire that rests on Her shoulder has no more than a feather’s weight. There is no respect in Her. None at all. Not a single drop. She’s draped across the throne with the arrogance of a girl-queen who’s been there all Her life. You would never imagine that She’s been empress for mere months.

Oh, Her figure is regal enough. Bounteous. Like She’s tasted every pleasure under Heaven and taken them as Her birthright. She’s proud of Her fullness, and Her fulsome curves are so admired they have shifted trends among her courtiers. Her imperial silks are cut close to Her body. Too close, as a courtesan’s might be. But they’re layered, too, rather than thin, and unfathomably rich. She likes to display Herself. To be like the sun. And yes, She is remarkably beautiful.

How I hate Her.

By the time I reach the base of the throne, I’m trembling with loathing. But She can’t see it. I can make myself almost still, and for all Her inexplicable success in seizing the throne, She’s too much of an arrogant fool to see the viper She’s invited into Her bosom.

“My general, Karteya,” Empress announces. She takes pleasure in the music of my name under Her tongue. “Kneel.”

I do, of course. What choice is there? Though my limbs rebel against the gesture of submission, I place a foot forward and drop to one knee before the throne, an arm resting squarely across my body.

Empress is relaxed to be sure, but Her eyes are singularly focused on me. On the way I sink before Her. The rich, swelling pleasure in Her gaze is yet another challenge to my inhibitions. It’s like She’s daring me to cast Her down. There’s something piercing in Her gaze, too; it’s tempting to succumb to my bleak humors and imagine that She knows something of my designs. She doesn’t, of course. Empress outstretches one arm toward me and lets it hang off the throne.

“You may kiss my ring,” She says languidly.

Indignity after indignity. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

I reach out and take Her hand to guide it to my lips. On Her finger is a ring that has, I gather, produced endless discussion amongst the ladies of the imperial court. Into it is set a gem of unknown providence, so large as to be vulgar. The gem came into the usurper’s possession when she was just a beggar, so it’s said, and the poets love to wax lyrical about how there’s none other like it in any treasury in the world. Those courtly ladies whisper that sometimes it glows with strange, shimmering lights, like those that can be seen in the skies above the great northern snows, and that it can even ensnare the souls of men.

Ridiculous. It’s just a ring.

I bring it to my lips and kiss its surface, pointedly ignoring the garish way the light glints from within its depths.

“Good.” Empress nods and retracts Her hand. Her approval tastes like bile. “You have come to swear your loyalty and obedience.”

It’s not a question. “As my empress commands.”

“As I command.” Her voice dances with a cruel laugh. “Proceed, my general.”

I brace myself. I have to, or else I may choke on my words. The oath I swear to the throne is old indeed, the words dictated by proud tradition, but saying them to Her makes them sour. My honor revolts in my belly at the thought of pledging myself insincerely - but it must be done.

To tolerate it, I have to tell myself: they are just words. Just air. They mean as little as Empress’s throne. They’re empty, and any honor I lose by speaking them will be won back when I finally make my move. When I make Her pay. Until then, all I have to do is play the role of the simpering, obedient servant.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

But it’s strange. Over and over again, She commands my presence and my oath. I alone am subject to these incessant demands. The pleasure She takes in forcing me to pledge myself over and over again is evident. Why? It’s almost as if She knows. As if She can sense my inner hatred. As if She knows what I’m planning.

Those are my weak nerves talking and nothing more, I decide. She has no idea. She couldn’t possibly. My performance is perfect. All I need to do is stay the course. I part my lips and begin to recite the vow that has been sworn in this place since time immemorial.

“I, Karteya Vall, pledge my eternal faith, loyalty, and obedience to the Pearl Throne and She who sits upon it. On my honor, I offer Her my fealty and service to Empress, from this day until my dying day. I vow to take up my sword in Her service, to defend Her rule and Her realm, to make Her enemies my own, and to keep faith with Her descendants and Her dynasty forevermore.”

I keep my voice slow and measured. The words deserve respect, even if She doesn’t. The vow is long and exacting - as it should be - and immutable. The words have never changed, even as centuries and dynasties have gone and gone. It’s comforting that some things don’t change. Not in a thousand years.

“I vow to obey Her in all things, without limit, without question. I offer Her my faith and my skills, so that I may be Her sword. I offer Her my very soul, to twist, to spend, to debase, to profane as She wishes. I offer Her my mind, to twist and change. I offer Her my body, for Her delight and Her pleasure.”

I hate the way She's smiling as I speak. Almost grinning, really. It’s like She’s about to burst out laughing. Has She no sense of solemnity? Of respect? These words are ancient. It’s tradition.

“I offer Her my tongue, though I may be unworthy to lick Her pussy or kiss Her feet. I offer Her my tits, for Her to display or ogle however She wishes. I offer Her my lewd, fuckable cunt, should it bring any comfort to Her faithful soldiers. I offer Her my untrained ass, for I am nothing but a worthless hole for Her to enjoy. I offer Her my orgasms, whether She wishes to withhold them forever, or make me cum like a stupid mutt in heat in front of my own men. And I offer Her what little dignity I have left, as a stupid bitch who thinks she knows better than her Empress.”

I’m surprised it amuses Her so much. She seems like the type to find tradition boring, although She clearly never tires of making me recite the oath for Her. I know it off by heart, of course. Every good soldier does.

“Thank you, general,” Empress snickers. “I’m very moved by your fidelity.”

She’s mocking me, obviously. I just can’t quite figure out how. After all, She has no idea I’m plotting against Her.

“You may disrobe,” She says.

“Thank you.”

This is the next part of the ceremony, every bit as traditional and timeworn as the vow. I rise to my feet and begin to remove everything that I’m wearing. My dress armor is first - I wear it everywhere, as a general should. It takes a little time to manage all the clasps and fastenings.

“Tell me, Karteya,” Empress comments suddenly. She’s watching me with lurid interest in Her eyes. “Do you know why I summon you here to swear your faith, time and time again?”

I grit my teeth and focus on the task at hand. “It is your right, my Empress, to demand my vow as many times as it pleases you.”

“True, true!” Her laugh is musical. “But that doesn’t explain why. No; the reason is that every single time, I’m wondering if some part of you will notice what’s really going on. It seems almost too good to be true that even a powerful, strong-willed, oh-so-dignified woman like you could be so completely and totally unaware. But you really are, aren’t you?” She lifts Her hand. “I truly love this ring!”

More nonsense. She’s taunting me, no doubt, though I can’t fathom what She means. Better not to guess. I set my breastplate down and start unstrapping my vambraces.

“It’s such a rush that I can tell you, straight to your face, and it simply doesn’t matter,” Empress boasts. That stupid, high-handed grin on Her face just keeps getting wider. “I’m manipulating your thoughts, Karteya, and making you completely unable to tell. Because of me, you think that ridiculous, vulgar tirade I fed to you on a whim is some ancient, sacred vow. You think taking your clothes off now is just part of the ceremony. It isn’t.”

I decide to ignore Her. It’s better for my humors if I focus simply on getting through the ceremony. With all my armor removed, I begin to slip out of the long, hard, green robe I wear underneath.

“You think you’re plotting to overthrow me, but that isn’t true either,” Empress goes on. “Not really. I already have everyone you trust wrapped around my fingers in exactly the same way. Most of the time you think you’ve spent planning, you’ve actually spent plunging your sword hilt in and out of your cunt until you pass out from the orgasms. You will never have your revenge, General. You will never even make a move.”

Next, my smallclothes. I remove them and feel all the small hairs on my body stiffen from the cool palace air on my naked skin. That’s not all, though. The ceremony also requires that I present myself appropriately. I begin carefully folding and stacking my clothes along with my armor, presenting them as a soldier would for an inspection in their barracks.

“I could stop you altogether, obviously,” Empress muses. “I could make you as obedient as a dog, just like everyone else I used as a tool when I took the throne. I could even make you love me. But I think this is much, much more entertaining. I can even get into your head and make you think of me as ‘Empress’, make your thoughts tremble with reverence and worship for me, and you will never once notice.”

With all my clothing and belongings neatly folded and presented before the throne, I sink back down to my knees in front of the usurper.

“You can keep thinking of me as ‘the usurper’, though,” She adds. “Every time you do, it makes me laugh.”

I place both hands in front of me, palms down, and then bend forward slowly, lowering my head as I do until my forehead is pressed to the ground in a gesture of absolute, unmistakable submission.

It’s just part of the ceremony.

Now that I’ve finished undressing, Empress shuts up. It’s just as well. I’ve become skilled at tuning out Her senseless prattling, but Her voice still grates on me after a time. Silence is preferable, even when it stretches on for so long that my knees and back start to ache. The usurper must be enjoying looking down at me. I can feel Her gaze on me, even if I can’t raise my head to look. It would be an unspeakable breach of etiquette to break this pose without Her permission.

She doesn’t deserve the respect. But my pride is at stake, and it certainly does.

I remind myself again. All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

Empress stands. I can hear Her clothes shifting as She moves, and Her footsteps as She descends the throne. She stops just inches away from me. The usurper is barefoot, of course. The Daughter of Heaven need never touch the filthy ground outside of the palace, and the ground here is kept fastidiously clean. She lifts one foot. I brace myself.

Empress brings Her foot down and stamps on the back of my head.

Not hard, but certainly hard enough to force my face down into the ground. She takes pleasure in it, I can tell. In grinding my face into the floor as I simply kneel and accept it. With the usurper, this part of the ceremony is particularly distasteful. The lowest part of Her body atop the highest part of mine, as I struggle to force out the right words.

“Empress,” I manage, although my voice is clearly strained and distorted by the way She’s stepping on me and smearing my lips against the ground. “Please accept this stupid, impudent cunt’s humble apology for daring to imagine I could ever deceive or outsmart you.”

It’s just another part of the ceremony. It’s tradition.

“Hmm.” Once She’s had Her fill, She steps back. “Apology accepted.”

I sigh. Being done with that is a relief, but the ceremony isn’t over yet. Empress raises a hand and snaps Her fingers, and a servant springs into motion. She hurries to Empress’s side and kneels, holding out a large, golden tray. On it are two objects. One is a bubbling cauldron of molten wax, lit from beneath by a small flame. The other is a large, metal seal.

“Prepare yourself, General,” She tells me.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

My body is grateful for the permission to move, but only briefly. The next position I must hold is even less comfortable. I raise my torso and then bend it backward, extending my legs ahead of me to form a bridge with my hands behind me, as I arch my spine and present my body upward towards Her.

I painstakingly removed all of my body hair this morning. Yet more tradition.

“Stay still,” Empress chides, as She lifts the cauldron of wax, positions it above my body, and tips.

The wax falls on my skin perfectly; on my lower abdomen, directly above my womb. It cools in the air, but only a little, and the scalding pain makes me grunt. I do stay still, though. It’s a matter of pride. She can chide all She likes, as if I’m a child who doesn’t know proper etiquette. I’ll show Her. I won’t give Her the pleasure of watching me humiliate myself. She can’t take away my dignity.

Once enough molten wax has pooled on my skin, Empress sets down the cauldron and lifts the seal. She bends down over me and presses it to my skin in the same spot, imprinting the reverse of its shape on the wax. The cold metal is a salving balm. The pain recedes, and I’m able to breathe normally again.

Empress lifts the seal. I can’t help but crane my neck to look. Sure enough, it’s there. Her symbol. Her personal mark, raised on my skin like a brand. It’ll only last a day or two, which I take to be a mercy, even if it gives Her an excuse to summon me back and apply the wax anew.

“Very impressive,” She says, staring down at me. “I’m glad you’re a soldier, General Karteya. You’re so very good at taking whatever I give you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” If She thinks a few sincere compliments here and there will engender any love for Her, She’s sorely mistaken.

“Let’s see if you can make it through the next part this time,” She comments and snaps Her fingers again.

The servant bearing the tray retreats. Another appears in her place, and she’s holding another of the ceremonial relics: a large phallus, shaped lovingly out of bronze. Meanwhile, I’m trying to puzzle out Her words. This time? I would never display improper form during the ceremony. She’s mistaken, clearly.

It is challenging, though. My muscles are screaming complaints at me, and it’s an active effort to keep them from shaking and spasming. My entire body is covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion. And the worst is yet to come. I need to save my strength.

“Enjoy, General,” Empress says with a sneer, as She takes the metal cock from Her servant and rams it all the way into my pussy.

The sound that forces its way out of my lips is something between a scream and a moan. She is not gentle, and having something so hard and cold forced inside me hurts. But I cannot help the other half of how my body reacts, with treasonous shocks of pleasure radiating from between my legs as I begin to drip eager wetness onto the ground.

A lesser woman could easily have collapsed. I won’t. I hold firm. I can be proud of that.

“My!” Empress raises an eyebrow, Her lips curled with amusement. “You really are getting better at this.”

More nonsense. I can reply only with a grunt. I’m reaching my limits.

“You may go ahead and stand up,” She adds when She notices how much I’m struggling. “You’ve earned it.”

I have indeed. Somehow, I manage to fold my body forward without collapsing and rise to my feet - and crucially, I keep the muscles in the core of my body engaged the entire time, so the bronze cock inside me doesn’t slip free. It wouldn’t do to make a spectacle of myself by dropping it. Not here, at the very end of the ceremony.

“I suppose we’re done here,” Empress says, sighing theatrically as if dismayed. Then the smirk returns. “For this time, at least. You put your clothes back-“

She pauses. Something’s occurred to Her, clearly, although I can’t imagine what. All that’s left is for me to dress myself and leave. But the malevolent, gleeful grin that suddenly splits Her face from ear to ear is truly unsettling.

“Actually,” Empress tells me as She climbs back onto the Pearl Throne. “Leave them. You can walk out of here naked.”

“What?” I say sharply. I didn’t know She still had the power to shock me - but clearly, She does. There are some traditions even an empress can’t alter. She doesn’t have the right to dictate these things on a whim. They’re older than Her by many centuries, and if She tries, the people will surely turn against Her. She’s gifted me a perfect opportunity, and my anger is righteous. “How dare you? That is not… n-not…”

Somehow, at that moment, Her ring catches my eye. The light glints off it in a way that seems impossible, and I am briefly captivated. Before I know it, my eyes have unfocused completely. The whole world is a blur. I have to struggle to recenter myself. It’s like I’m a dancer who has stumbled and lost the rhythm. What was I saying?

“That’s not…” I continue uncertainly. Not what? I was… arguing with Her? Suddenly, the context comes flooding back, and it brings with it a sense of complete and total humiliation. My cheeks are tinted red with shame. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I must have forgotten.”

How? How had I forgotten? I pride myself on my respect for tradition, and this is an error only an unruly schoolchild could make. All the court will be laughing at me. What had come over me?

Leaving naked is simply part of the ceremony.

“It’s been a long day, I’m sure,” Empress says. Her eyes glint with amusement, and I inwardly scold myself for providing Her with it. “We can overlook a small indiscretion. You’re dismissed, General.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

To make up for my grievous error, I offer Her the crispest salute I possibly can. Then, as She nods, I turn and begin to walk - leaving all my belongings set neatly before Her, as is only proper. The walk back to the Lion Door is long, and feels longer still thanks to the awkward, bandy-legged gait I’m forced to use to keep the ceremonial bronze cock inside my cunt.

But that’s fine. The long, difficult walk is simply an opportunity to contemplate the depths of my loathing for Her, and the satisfaction that my revenge will bring.

The preparations are being made. All my plans will come together - and the best part is that She will never see it coming. She has no idea.

All I need to do is bide my time and wait.

---

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

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kallie-den · 3 months

Text

Hunting Hound Part Two

As Leinth's captivity continues, Handler's techniques erode her identity and push her to breaking point - and another visit from Sartha threatens to push her over the edge

A direct sequel to Hunting Hound

---

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

The question burns a hole in Leinth’s brain. She hears it, every single day, from Handler’s lips. It’s been like that ever since the escape. The doomed escape. Sartha Thrace - or Hound, Sartha’s other half - dragged her here, to a new cell, where she’s been kept ever since. Here, she is subject to Handler’s personal attentions. And each session begins and ends with the question.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

It’s an answer. The only one Leinth has to give. It’s not exactly wrong, but it’s not exactly right either. And it’s not the one Handler is looking for. Leinth can tell that much from Her expression. She’s tried giving other answers. She could pretend it’s to amuse herself, but really it’s because she’s hoping she’ll hit upon whatever answer Handler wants to hear. Once, Leinth even answered ‘hound’.

Handler didn’t like that. She made the measure of Her disapproval plain. She wants the truth. Only the truth. So Leinth gives it to Her. She’s not sure why. Handler’s approval shouldn’t matter to her. But it does.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

Leinth’s new cell is nicer, she supposes. Brighter. A touch more comfortable. She thinks it’s close to Handler’s quarters, but that’s just idle speculation. She’s given up on trying to make a mental map of this place. No point. She’s never getting out. She knows that now.

There’s also a mirror. They couldn’t have picked a worse torture device. What can Leinth do but spend hours staring at herself, letting her self-loathing ferment in her belly? The mirror asks the same question Handler does. Who is she? She doesn’t look much like a pilot anymore. Too skinny. Pilots always get the good rations and they always stay in good shape. Leinth just eats whatever they give her, and she doesn’t have the strength to exercise. She looks more like a corpse than a pilot.

Her eyes don’t help with that.

It’s tempting to break the mirror. That’s what Leinth knows she should do, if she still had the will. What stops her is knowing that Handler wants it here. Leinth can’t seem to bring herself to deny Her. Not anymore. It’s impossible even to imagine it. Like trying to imagine the sun moving backward across the sky.

Leinth has been down here too long. She knows that. Knowing doesn’t help.

Handler is more skilled than Her creepy, dog-hooded menials. Her personal attention is overwhelming. That’s like if the sun froze in the sky, and it was shining just for you. She touches the threads of Leinth’s mind as skillfully as a musician playing the strings of a harp, but She always leaves them fraying, twisted, undone. She takes - time, memories, moods. Whatever She wishes.

It doesn’t always hurt. But it is always torture, whether it’s drugs, electricity, lights, strange devices, or even just talking. When it does hurt, it’s not so bad. Leinth can give herself to the pain. It’s better than the gnawing guilt she feels when it doesn’t.

It’s never an interrogation, though. Leinth refuses to give up any secrets that would endanger her fellow rebels. That’s a barrier within herself she’s determined not to relinquish. Maybe the very last one. But Handler doesn’t ask, not about that. She asks about other things. Personal things.

When did Leinth first know she’s a woman? Who was her first crush? What was the first time her parents were ever disappointed in her? And it’s always so easy to tell Her. It always seems like a good idea in the moment. Like it’ll feel good. Like it’ll be a release.

It never is. It feels awful. Each time, Leinth is left feeling like she’s lost something. Like the memory she’s told belongs to Her now. Leinth is hollower for it. Less herself. Handler, by contrast, seems magnified by each secret shared. It’s like She’s feasting on them, as ridiculous as Leinth knows that is. But the impression persists. She can’t remember how much of herself she’s given away. What doesn’t Handler know about her, now? Is there anything? She must understand Leinth better than any other living soul could. The way only a god could.

But She keeps asking. Every time.

Who are you?

“Leinth Aritimis, pilot.”

At this point, what does it even mean for Leinth to call herself a pilot? That it’s her true self, somehow? Leinth wonders about that. If she could again sit in Genetor’s cockpit, if she could ride it to battle, would it fix her? Would she feel whole again?

Or would she throw up over the controls? That feels more likely. More true. Leinth may never be able to pilot Genetor again, but even if she could, it would be wrong. Sacrilegious. Genetor is a good thing. It does good. Leinth doesn’t. Not anymore. She’s unworthy of it. She always has been.

Because of Sartha. Because of Sartha Thrace.

If there’s one genuine kindness to being under Handler’s personal care, it’s that Sartha Thrace no longer comes to visit Leinth. Seeing her now would be unbearable. Thinking of her is unbearable; all Leinth can do is try to keep thoughts of her pressed against the far walls of her mind, there to scratch and itch as she lies down on the bunk to sleep.

Sartha Thrace is a hero. And Leinth ruined her.

Not just Leinth. But yes, her. She ruined Sartha with her praise and her wishes and her expectant, hopeful eyes. She knows this to be true. She feels it in her soul. Leinth has tried blaming Handler, a little. It doesn’t stick. Doesn’t have the same ring of dreadful truth to it. No; it was Leinth.

If only she’d just stopped and thought about how all that hero worship must have felt to Sartha. About what a burden it must have been to bear. Then, at least, Leinth would be innocent. But she never had. She’d always assumed Sartha could carry all that weight.

And why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she just carry it? Isn’t that what heroes are for?

Leinth can’t blame Sartha, though. It’s her fault. She did this.

Those thoughts chase each other’s tails in Leinth’s head, round and round, over and over. Guilt and anger. They never settle. She can’t make peace with how she feels. There are, as they say, two wolves inside her.

That phrase seems so much more sinister now.

Leinth is grateful when the drugs they put in her food give her simple oblivion. But just as often they do the opposite. Especially lately. They’ve added something particularly obscene. Some kind of aphrodisiac. It’s potent. It leaves Leinth at odds with her own body, pent up, pacing her cell, filled with base urges that leave her disgusted with herself.

She can’t even blow off steam the way every soldier does when they have the barracks to themself. When she tries, there’s only one face that comes into her head. And Leinth would never forgive herself if she soiled her hero even more than she already has.

How long has that drug been in her food now? How long has she been down here? And how long until she knows the answer?

Who are you?

Leinth Aritimis? Pilot? It feels worse and more absurd every time she says it. It drools from Leinth’s lips, weary from overuse, becoming just a set of sounds she barely remembers how to say.

Lay-inth. Lee-inth. Ah-ree-ti-mis. How is it that Handler says it? She always speaks like She’s wielding a scalpel on Her tongue. Dividing up the syllables. Clipped. Precise. That’s Handler’s way. She knows. She always knows best.

Is that one of Leinth’s thoughts, or one She gave her? Does it still matter? It won’t for much longer.

Leinth is too smart not to know that she’s about to break into pieces.

A sound drags Leinth from the spiral of her own mind. Scraping. Metal on metal. The door opening.

Leinth looks up, and sees Sartha Thrace.

And she gags. It feels ten times worse than she’d guessed it would. Nausea. Blind panic. Fuck. The guilt swells like a tide. But the look on Sartha’s face isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s apologetic.

At least now there are no pretenses between them. Not with that sick fucking muzzle on her face.

“Hey,” Sartha says.

What is Leinth supposed to say to that? What the fuck is she supposed to say to that? Absolutely no words could match what had passed between them the last time they saw each other, and so Leinth just sits there on her bunk, mouth open, staring stupidly, until finally she musters up enough of herself to say:

“Hey.”

Even her voice doesn’t sound like her own at this point.

Sartha seems to take that one little word for permission. She enters the cell. Doesn’t close the door behind herself. Doesn’t need to - she knows Leinth won’t run. She moves cautiously. Timidly, even. It doesn’t suit her. Sartha Thrace shouldn’t tiptoe around Leinth like a mouse in a lion’s den.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to see you sooner,” the former hero says. “I wanted to. But She said… well, She thought it would be best.”

A line of thought presents itself for Leinth’s consideration. She could try to reason out why, exactly, Handler would want to keep them separated for a time. Figuring that out could help Leinth understand what Handler is doing to her. Understanding could help her resist. Mind games don’t work as well when you know the rules. At least, she hopes not. Leinth doesn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, of course. But she could at least try to figure it out.

Leinth decides not to bother. She’s just too tired.

“She did, huh?” she says instead, voice heavy. “And why does She think it would be best to come talk to me now?”

“I asked to,” Sartha replies. “I’ve asked a few times. I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Does she really believe it was her own idea? Pointless to ask. That delusion strikes Leinth as absurd, but less absurd than it might have at the start of her captivity. It’s impossible not to believe that, sometimes. Maybe Sartha’s even telling the truth - but as soon as that occurs to Leinth, another voice in her head tells her different.

She’s lying to you. Betraying you. That’s what she does, Leinth.

“That’s a little hard to believe,” Leinth says through gritted teeth. She adds, belatedly: “Traitor.”

Instantly she regrets the insult and her anger ebbs. She’s not even sure where it came from. It’s beneath her. No, she’s beneath it. And it’s her fault, isn’t it? She helped ruin Sartha Thrace. Leinth has no right to any righteous fury. The wounded look on Sartha’s face only adds to her guilt.

“I did,” Sartha promises, rising above the taunt. "I’ve been worried about you. I… know how it is, right now. I’ve been exactly where you are.”

“I doubt that,” Leinth mutters. It’s not the same. Handler’s made that clear. There is a terrifying specificity to the way She dismantles people.

Sartha isn’t to be dissuaded. “I want to help you, Leinth. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to vent to. Someone to… to take out your frustration on - anything.”

Leinth has trusted those words before. Sartha isn’t here to help. She’s part of something, and Leinth can’t let herself be drawn in. But that doesn’t make them any less enticing. How long has it been since she’s had company? Outside of Handler, anyway.

Not that She counts. The gulf between them is just too great.

Company sounds like salvation, but Sartha’s company? That would be like a mosquito biting her skin over and over. It’s too loaded. Leinth can feel it, even now. The cocktail of emotions she’s barely been able to keep repressed. Admiration, loathing, attraction, admiration, hurt, guilt. She’s never felt more on edge - not once, not even in the heart of combat. What’s Sartha doing to her?

“Can… I at least sit down?” Sartha ventures.

Leinth really doesn’t want her to. Having her here just feels wrong. Like she’s doing to get kicked again. But something keeps her from refusing. She doesn’t want to be alone either. And more importantly, perhaps, she knows Sartha’s presence is Handler’s will.

So, Leinth just gives her a stiff nod.

“Thanks.” Sartha’s still cautious and slow as she approaches. Moving that way is so wrong for her. As she perches on the other end of Leinth’s bunk, it’s almost like she’s afraid. “First of all, I wanted to say this, straight-up: it’s all going to be OK. This will all make sense soon.”

Leinth looks at her uneasily. “You said something like that the first time we met down here.”

“Yeah.” Sartha nods. “That was the worst part, for me. Not knowing. Not having any… any faith.” She smiles at Leinth. Tries to smile, anyway. “I thought you might need to hear that again, right about now.”

“Faith.” Leinth feels nauseous. Faith - Sartha is all but overflowing with it. There’s a light buried in her eyes, a light she can always see. It’s wrong. “Faith in Her.”

“Yes,” Sartha says hopefully. “In Her.”

Sartha’s voice trembles with awe as she says that. Leinth tries to pretend hers doesn’t too.

“She wants what’s best for us,” Sartha adds. “Maybe you can see that better now.”

Leinth just snorts. How can this be best for Sartha? It seems absurd. But she knows now, of course. What Sartha was going through before. When she was a hero. Leinth knows what all that did to her. So it doesn’t seem as crazy as it should.

But, this? How could this ever be better? Wanting to run is one thing. Wanting to betray everything you held dear and break your own psyche into two halves is another. Leinth will never, ever understand that.

At least, she hopes not.

“Just trust me, OK?” Sartha promises. “It’ll get easier. She says you’re doing very well.”

Leinth twitches. That’s not good.

“Fuck Her and fuck you,” she manages, although her heart isn’t in it. “She can waste her time with me forever. She’ll never get what she wants.”

The boast rings hollow to them both. Sartha doesn’t even look offended, just pitying. Leinth knows why.

This is passive resistance. Not active. She’s not fighting anymore. Not really. Just betting that whatever Handler’s rooting around in her head for isn’t actually there. She’s not denying that Handler can take her apart, brick by brick.

“It’s normal to be angry,” Sartha tells her. “You can be angry at Her, for now. She won’t mind. She’ll forgive you.”

Leinth just hates that a part of her brain lights up with relief at that. She tries to suppress that pleasure, to shove it back down in the dark where it belongs. She can’t. It’s hard. Too hard.

Why can’t she think? Why’s it so hard to just fucking think?

Sartha’s to blame, Leinth.

It’s Sartha’s fault. It’s like she’s doing something to Leinth just by being here. Being on edge doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s deeper than that. Atavistic. Like being prey in the presence of a predator. Or… the opposite? Leinth’s not sure, she just knows it’s itching at her all over. She can feel Sartha in the air. On her skin. It’s consuming. Leinth has never been more aware of another human being before.

And there’s something else. Something weirder and worse.

Leinth is unbearably fucking horny.

It’s more distracting than it has any right to be. The arousal has been present for at least a dozen sleeps, since they started adding that aphrodisiac to Leinth’s food. It’s been a constant buzz that keeps her from finding any center or inner calm. But now it’s turned up to eleven. It’s thunder in Leinth’s veins.

And it’s all directed at Sartha.

Every stupid, embarrassing, idol-struck wet dream she’s ever had is now throbbing at the forefront of her brain. Leinth just has to avert her eyes and pray it isn’t showing. But it must be - she can feel herself sweating and drooling and tenting the coarse pants they gave her. Gods, it’s like being a teenage boy all over again. More intense though, and there’s something else. She can hear a heartbeat, pounding in her ears. It must be hers. But it feels like Sartha’s.

“Are you alright?” Sartha says. Out of the corner of her eye, Leinth can see concern on her face. It hurts.

She doesn’t deserve concern. She’s the one who ruined Sartha. She’s still doing it even now, in her mind’s eye. Leinth is the worst. The lowest it gets. She can feel control slipping out of her grasp. Like an animal in heat - but that would be a hundred times easier to deal with. You don’t blame an animal for being in heat.

“I’m fine,” Leinth grunts.

She’s not. She shifts a couple of inches down her bunk, hoping distance will help. It doesn’t. It just makes the yearning that much more intense. Sartha Thrace is right here, still within arm’s reach. Her warmth. Her skin. Her body. Fuck. It’s so damn hard not to think about it when Handler’s demonstration keeps flashing through her mind.

Her lips, yielding and kissing. Her mouth, open, wet, willing. The way she licked Handler’s boot like it was a lover. And, above all, the promise Handler made.

Why not enjoy her, if it pleases you? Many have.

Leinth reaches up and clutches at her head. Fuck. She’s so disgusting.

Suddenly, a memory forms. Not of Sartha. Of Handler. Leinth remembers being in the sweet embrace of Her tools and instruments, in some secret room of these sinister kennels. She remembers herself being opened and Handler pouring words into her, sweet as honey, bitter as cocoa. It’s the same voice she can hear even now, at the back of her own brain.

All of its words are about Sartha Thrace.

Before Leinth can fathom the meaning of that. Sartha catches her attention.

“There’s something else,” the hero says, with palpable reluctance. “I… wanted to apologize.”

Leinth might have laughed. “Apologize?” she chokes out.

What does Sartha have to apologize for? Much, of course. But not to Leinth. Those scales are tipped firmly and irrevocably the other way.

“Yeah,” Sartha says earnestly. “For what you saw that day. I’m sure it’s been weighing on you.”

Leinth’s hands have started shaking. It’s really bad. “Did She tell you to say that?”

“No,” Sartha replies, although there’s no knowing if that’s really true. Not even for her. “I swear. This is all me, Leinth. I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“For what?” Leinth’s voice cracks.

“For laying all that on you.”

“You didn’t,” Leinth croaks. “She did.”

“That’s different,” Sartha shoots back quickly. She’s defensive of her mistress, of course. “She was just telling you the truth. That’s all. It was kind of Her, Leinth. You just don’t see that yet.”

Kind. Leinth’s hands shake worse. Listening to Sartha talk about this is so twisted. Her head is nothing but a seething mass of insane contradictions, and Leinth is fast losing the ability to sort them out as she hears them.

“I meant… in my head,” Sartha explains. “I put it on you by letting it get to me. My status. The way people looked at me. Shit like that. You shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.”

Leinth buries her face in her palms. No, no, no. This is so wrong. Sartha shouldn’t be apologizing. She’s a hero. She was a hero. Whatever.

“Everyone needs people to look up to.” Sartha’s still talking. Why won’t she just shut up and go away? “I sure as hell did in my day. Even if I never thought I’d become… well, it just comes with the territory, I guess. If you survive long enough. I should have known. I should have been ready.”

Leinth wants to stop her, but her blood is boiling and her tongue would loll stupidly out of her mouth if she tried to speak. Her passions are up and they leave no room for words. She just wants this torture to end. Compared to this, Handler truly is kind. Leinth just wants to be free of this feeling. This guilt. But even by listening, she’s making it worse. Why can’t she stop violating Sartha this way?

“I wish…” Sartha pauses, considers, corrects. “Part of me wishes I’d just been stronger. That it hadn’t come to this. Then I wouldn’t be such a disappointment to you. But it’s for the best. I met Her, and she saved me. Fixed me. Made me a hero again.”

That self-pity. It’s disgusting. As disgusting as Leinth is. A hero shouldn’t feel that. Speak that.

“You deserved better.” Sartha seems to settle on that thought. “You deserve a hero you could really look up to.”

And then it roars out of Leinth, furious as the report of Genetor’s guns.

Shut her up, Leinth.

“Just shut up already!” she screams, in a voice that barely remembers how to speak. It comes out raw and ragged. “Don’t you have any fucking pride?”

She’s on her feet, even though she doesn’t remember standing. She can look down at Sartha now. That feels good. It feels right.

“I ruined you!” Leinth screams. That confession is a balm for her soul. Letting it out, an unspeakable release. “I’m part of what broke you! But you can’t even be mad at me? Even now it’s out in the open? What’s wrong with you?”

Sartha doesn’t reply. She looks surprised, but not hurt. Not afraid. She’s serene. That pisses Leinth off even more.

Why isn’t she angry? If she was anything more than a broken mutt, she’d be angry.

“Why aren’t you angry?” she rages. It’s not right, Sartha’s strange tranquility. Sartha Thrace isn’t like that. Her Ancyor is a furious machine. Sartha Thrace always fought with an avenging anger in her heart, for anyone who ever hurt her comrades. “You’re a hero! Stand up for yourself. Stand up for something. Aren’t you tired of taking it all lying down? Me, Handler… fuck, if you’re a traitor, at least be a traitor. Not… not this!”

Still, no reply. Why not? Why won’t she talk? What’s she hiding? Leinth needs to see. She needs to see closer. She grosses the gap between them in a stride and grabs Sartha’s collar up in her fists. Hauling the broken woman to her feet is easy; maybe the anger is making Leinth strong. She puts her face close to Sartha’s, as close as that ridiculous muzzle permits. What’s with that anyway? Why won’t she just take it off?

“Look at me!” Leinth roars. She needs to see into those eyes. Sartha obeys, and for a long moment Leinth just stares and stares, searching for an answer. Searching for a feeling, for any feeling. For something real.

In Sartha’s eyes, she reads validation. Sartha is validated by Leinth’s anger.

That feels like an even greater betrayal. Leinth’s rage flares hotter still - but there’s something else, too. Being this close to Sartha is a mistake. Her scent is overpowering. Leinth can feel her heat under her hands. It’s too much. She was horny before, from the drugs; there’s no words for what she is now. It’s too much. It becomes all of her, flooding her senses and her limbs, flooding even her anger, becoming one with it. It’s all one feeling now, violent and restless.

“Did you…” Leinth growls. Words come hard and slow. She’s beyond them. “Did you ever really mean it? Did you ever really believe in something?”

Even Sartha looks a little shocked at the accusation behind her words. “Yes!” she cries. It’s a prayer. A hope. “I did - I do - I… I’m a hero. I’m a hero.”

She’s trying to make sense of herself. It’s useless, of course. She is only what Handler allows her to be. Handler’s the one to be angry at. But Leinth can’t imagine that anymore, and in any case, Handler isn’t here.

But Sartha is.

She’s lying to you, Leinth.

“Stop lying!” Leinth yells in her face. There’s no stopping the strange alchemy happening inside her as her feelings fold and merge. Something deep within her is being forged and dredged up. It defies reason and reality, but that doesn’t matter. It’s primal. Atavistic. “Stop… stop pretending! You lied to us! To all of us! How could you do that?”

“I didn’t-“

Make her pay.

Leinth just hits her.

Right in the gut. A hammer blow. Sartha is taken by surprise mid-breath and doubles over, gagging and choking. Only Leinth’s other hand, firm on her collar, keeps her on her feet. She looks like she’s in agony.

And it feels good.

Better than anything Leinth’s felt since she first came down here, that’s for sure. It’s a revelation. She’s never before thought about what a simple joy inflicting pain can be. It’s power, and power is so precious. It’s a tiny little release valve for what’s boiling inside her.

Leinth is no sadist, of course. Just the opposite. She’d never want to hurt anyone who deserves it. But Sartha does. She absolutely does. That feels too right to be wrong. Which means there’s nothing to stop Leinth from making Sartha as bruised outside as she feels inside.

She deserves it.

“You can-“ Sartha begins to choke out as she recovers.

“Stop talking!” Leinth snarls. She pulls close, overwhelmed with a craving for greater savagery. She means to bite; she can imagine her jaws clamping down, and skin breaking, and blood in her mouth.

Instead, she finds herself clawing the muzzle away from Sartha’s face and kissing her.

The kiss is no gentler than a bite. It’s ugly and messy. Leinth bites Sartha’s lip, hard, and invades her mouth with her tongue, claiming her, soiling her face with blood and drool. The kiss makes Leinth euphoric. It’s vindication. She can do this. She can cross this line with Sartha. And that means she wasn’t really such a hero after all.

Plus, Sartha Thrace is kissing her back.

Leinth lets her, for a moment, but then pulls back and shoves her to one side so hard she goes sprawling across the floor. She can’t let Sartha think this is a coupling of equals. It’s not. Sartha is nothing. A pretender. A traitor. A dog.

Sartha, perversely, looks up at Leinth with stars in her eyes. “You can hit me,” she pants, “if you want. She said that you could.”

Permission. What does that mean? It implies anticipation. Did Handler plan this? That should trouble Leinth, but she’s far, far too fixated on Sartha to devote any thought to it.

Sartha wants this. Whatever guilt Leinth made her feel has transformed into sheer masochism. That disgusts Leinth. The Sartha Thrace she once believed in would never have looked at anyone like that. She’s not disgusted by herself anymore, though.

She’s not like Sartha. She’s one of the good guys. That’s why she can do whatever she wants with a piece-of-shit liar like this.

Sartha looks Leinth up and down. Her eyes settle on the tell-tale mark of Leinth’s arousal. Those stars in her eyes don’t get any dimmer. “You can fuck me, too. I-if you want.”

Her eagerness is pathetic. Leinth wonders how she ever saw anything good or heroic in the brainwashed woman slumped on the ground before her.

But she’s willing. And Leinth is horny. That’s simple enough.

“That’s what you do for all of them,” Leinth growls as she advances on Sartha. “Isn’t it?”

“I… that’s…” Sartha struggles. She’s trying to make that agree with her sense of self. “W-when She wants me to… when they need…”

Leinth snorts. “Why am I even talking to you?” she spits. “You barely even know where you are. What side you’re fighting on. You’re nothing. Why did I ever think you were a hero? You’re just a warm body.”

“I ju-“

“Shut up!” Leinth snaps. “Get up.”

Sartha does what she’s told - or tries at least. That’s both intoxicating and aggravating. A hero shouldn’t - but Sartha isn’t a hero, Leinth knows that now, and it’s fucking hot that she does. It makes Leinth feel like she can do anything she wants. And she wants so much. It’s burning in her veins. Leinth feels powerful as Sartha fights to her feet, and she feels powerful as she decides she’s moving too slow. Leinth reaches down to haul her to her feet and toss her roughly onto her bunk.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Leinth orders next. Even Sartha’s clothes piss her off, she’s realizing. It’s still her old rebel garb. “You don’t deserve to wear that.”

Once more, Sartha is too slow. When she fumbles a little with her jacket, Leinth intervenes and starts ripping it from her body, popping buttons and tearing fastenings. It’s as easy as tearing paper. Leinth has never felt so strong. And she doesn’t stop there; she makes her hands into claws, hooks them into Sartha’s vest, and pulls apart until the whole thing comes to pieces in her hands.

The sight of Sartha’s tits spilling out is a hot rush of pleasure and satisfaction. This is exactly the defiling that false idols deserve.

Leinth keeps going - not until Sartha is naked, just until she’s naked enough. Until Leinth has access to everything she wants.

But she takes a moment to reach down and fix the muzzle back into place. It suits Sartha. Leinth sees that now.

“On the bunk?” Sartha pants, with a filthy eagerness. “Or I could su-“

“Shut up.”

Leinth hits her again, this time a hooked punch to her side that collapses Sartha onto the bunk like a stack of bricks falling over. She doesn’t want Sartha to talk. It’s wrong when she talks. Hound doesn’t talk, not unless She tells her to, and maybe that’s the real Sartha after all. Maybe Leinth can bring Hound out to play. That’s what Sartha wants. She wants the blissful surrender of sweat and heaving bodies.

Fine. She can have that. As long as Leinth gets to prove she’s not a hero. Just a body.

She deserves this too, Leinth. Fuck her. You want to. And so does she.

Leinth kneels on the bed behind Sartha as she scrambles to her knees. Leinth’s need is bursting out of her at the seams. She wants this. And so does Sartha. Leinth starts undressing herself, furiously and frantically, shucking her pants to her knees so she can free her cock and press it against Sartha’s cunt.

Sartha is clearly wet, and Leinth can see the bruise on her side already beginning to form, blossoming blue and purple where she planted the tip of her fist. Leinth grins.

And starts fucking her former hero.

Their sounds are animal. Sartha’s whining moans, the way Leinth growls her every breath, and the feral slap of flesh on flesh. There’s absolutely no art to it. Leinth is no stranger to good sex. She considers herself more restrained than most, but she gets just as much pussy as every other ace pilot and she likes to make sure the girls she brings back to her quarters go out and spread the right kind of rumors afterward.

But Sartha isn’t like them. This is barely sex. More like jerking off, only the long-held fantasy of Sartha Thrace isn’t just in Leinth’s head anymore. Admittedly, she didn’t want Sartha this way. But now that she has her, it’s almost as good.

Leinth feels free, in a way. There’s nobody to look up to. Nobody to disappoint. She can simply be this.

And this is what you are, Leinth.

Her pace is furious. Desperate. The lust-drugs have been in her food for weeks, and Sartha’s face in her mind’s eye has been an aching curse, keeping her from release. Now the curse is broken. Now it’s a red rag to a bull, and Leinth just wants to see that face soiled and bruised and made hers. She has her hands on Sartha’s hips and pulls back on them hard with each thrust. Whenever Sartha doesn’t match her enthusiastically enough, she digs in her nails, grown uneven and sharp from her captivity. Every stupid, pathetic puppy-whine from the woman on her knees in front of her just drives Leinth onwards. To make her louder, she rakes her claws hard enough to draw blood.

This is ascension. Better than piloting, better than victory. This is the best she’s ever felt.

Leinth doesn’t care if it lasts long. She just wants that one moment; the release, the moment she truly makes Sartha hers. She’s frenzied for it. Leinth reaches forward and puts her hand on the back of Sartha’s head, and pushes. Hard. Hard enough that Sartha’s elbows buckle and she crashes forward, face planting awkwardly into the hard mattress. Leinth pushes forward and down, mounting her and keeping her there. The position lets her thrust longer and harder - and more importantly, it’s even more degrading. Leinth likes that she can make Sartha take her whole weight, crushing her, making her bend her neck and brace on her shoulder. She’s practically contorting herself.

Because Leinth is making her.

This is all she is.

“This is all you are,” Leinth growls. She’s so glad she gets to be the one to show her. “Not a hero. Just this. Understand?”

It’s all personal now. She’s the one Sartha betrayed. Not the rebels. Leinth’s comrades are all but forgotten now. In reply, Sartha just gurgles. Probably, she can barely breathe. Leinth doesn’t care. Let her choke.

A stupid, broken dog.

“Stupid. Broken. Dog,” Leinth huffs, voice cracking as her pleasure peaks. “I… I… fuck!”

Good dog.

She cums, hard as hell. As she does she slumps against Sartha, drugged-up limbs finally permitted to release the last of their strength. Her mind goes blank from the pleasure. It’s everything that’s been building up in her for weeks. Maybe months. She lets it all go, driven by raw instinct.

Her marks on Sartha. Her cum in Sartha. Her furious words, thundering through her ears. Her satisfaction - her domination - feels complete. This moment is the culmination of Leinth’s entire existence. The satisfaction is infinite.

Until it isn’t.

When her orgasm dies, it’s not just Leinth’s need that fades. It’s her anger. It’s the wound of betrayal and resentment, pressing on her brain like a cancer sore. It all goes, all at once, everything that’s been animating her. Leinth collapses back onto the back, legs splayed, her face aghast with dawning confusion.

Then, slowly, horribly, as Sartha draws weak, shuddery breaths, Leinth becomes aware that they are not alone in the cell.

“My,” remarks Hander, from where She’s been watching. Leinth didn’t hear or notice Her enter, but she must have seen the entire filthy thing. “Leinth Aritimis. What have you done?”

Leinth hadn’t realized just how fucking cold it was in the cell. Shivering, she meets Handler’s gaze for a moment, and that’s a mistake. In Handler’s eyes, she doesn’t see smug glee or victorious scorn. Her eyes are just impossibly cold, like the winter sky. They are a mirror, and they are perfectly truthful.

Under those eyes, Leinth can’t keep it together. Not even for a moment.

“I d-… I didn’t…” Leinth’s voice sounds absurdly small compared to those growls from just moments ago. She’s grasping for something. That voice in her head. Was it Handler’s? Or was it her own? How can she possibly hope to tell? “Y-you… made me…”

Handler just tilts Her head. “Is that what you think?”

She doesn’t, not really. Leinth doesn’t feel like anyone made her do anything. It was all her. Every ugly feeling and every blackened thought. Her decision to… what? Fuck Sartha? It feels worse than that, although Leinth can’t tell if it really is or not. This is all too twisted, and all she knows is that her chest is ripping itself in two with guilt. Even if it was Handler’s voice, she must have chosen to listen to it. Surely she had a choice.

But there’s something. There has to be something.

“You put d-drugs,” Leinth babbles, “in my food.”

“Of course,” Handler replies.

She doesn’t need to deny it. She knows it’s not enough. Leinth can already rehearse argument and counterargument in her own head. How does she know the drugs aren’t showing who she really is? Why would drugs absolve her responsibility?

And it’s not like she can pretend she didn’t want it. She’s always wanted Sartha Thrace that way.

No. Leinth knows what she chose. She felt herself chose it.

But acceptance is still a bridge she can’t cross. “But…” Leinth splutters. She glances at Sartha in half-panic. “No, but…”

“Why are you so worked up about this?” Hander asks her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

At that, Leinth goes very, very still. Her eyes fix on Handler again. She can’t believe she just heard that. She never even considered that. The thought is foreign. She hasn’t… but of course she has!

“No,” Leinth shakes her head. “How can you say that? I… she…”

“She wanted this.” Handler is the kind of calm that makes her easy to believe. “Every part of her. I’d know.”

Leinth knows poison when she hears it, but she can’t stop herself listening. “That’s n-not true. Sartha wouldn’t.”

“She would,” Handler tells her. “I’ve been telling you, Leinth. Sartha isn’t what you hoped she’d be. She’s not a hero. She is my hound.”

The dreadful memory of what happened smothers any retort Leinth might have. She wants to insist that Sartha didn’t want it, but she knows in her body the way Sartha hungered for her kiss and welcomed Leinth inside her. Fuck, the eagerness in her voice. She was practically begging for it.

Would a hero ever do that?

What Handler offers isn’t right. Leinth knows that. But it’s so tempting, and she’s struggling to remember why it’s wrong.

“Don’t worry,” Handler says softly. She sounds so kind now, or maybe that’s just in Leinth’s head. “I sent her in here, you know. If you need to blame someone, you can blame me. I won’t hold it against you.”

Now that’s irresistible - especially when Hander extends her hand and touches her fingertips to Leinth’s cheek. She means to pull away; she almost does, but Handler’s touch is perfectly cool. It feels like the only thing that can soothe the pounding heat inside Leinth. So, she lets herself be weak for a moment. It’s just a touch, she tells herself.

“Right,” Leinth breathes. “It’s your fault.”

Handler nods. With that permission, Leinth bundles up her guilt and gifts it to the woman standing over her. In her mind she recites all the reasons she should blame Handler, not herself. It works. It helps. She feels lighter for it. Handler, conversely, is unchanged. Untainted. She’s not like Leinth. She can swallow all that guilt and culpability effortlessly. There’s too much of Her. It can’t leave a trace.

Leinth is just grateful, in a sad, pathetic way, that Handler isn’t throwing it back in her face. That would be the perfect way to twist the knife. There’s no way Leinth could handle it. She’d break. She’d shatter. Leinth doesn’t know the meaning of this kindness, but she’s still grateful for it.

She feels, unfathomably, at peace.

And she feels like she could stay that way forever, but for one thing: Sartha. Sartha is still there, still next to her, drawing weak, shuddery breaths that remind Leinth of her presence. Sartha seems contented, in a way. Leinth figures she got the oblivion she was craving. But now Leinth can’t even stand to turn her face in her direction. It makes everything too raw and it makes her remember; remember that ugly, false reality, the one she’s trying to push away.

The one where she’s guilty.

“Can you…” Leinth begins quietly. She’s hoping Handler’s mysterious kindness will stretch just a little further. “Can you get her out of here?”

“Oh?” Handler’s still stroking her cheek. “Are you done with her?”

Leinth whimpers. She wishes She wouldn’t put it like that, but she can hardly hold it against Her. And she desperately needs Sartha gone so she can begin to regroup. “Y-yes. I just… I can’t…”

Handler interrupts her with a disapproving, tongue-clicking noise. To Leinth, it’s as loud as thunder.

“No, that’s no good,” Handler says, in a ghoulishly affectionate way. “That’s guilt talking, isn’t it? Don’t listen to that feeling, Leinth.”

“O-OK,” Leinth says sheepishly. She feels stupid now that Handler’s lecturing her. What else can she say but ‘OK’? Her head is still splitting in two. She can’t think. Still can’t think.

“Look at her,” Handler instructs firmly.

Leinth whimpers again. “No, no, I-“

Her head jolts and everything flashes white, and she realizes Handler has slapped her. Tears well up in her eyes. Stupid. It wasn’t even hard. Certainly not as hard as she hit Sartha. Just a shock, to get her attention and stop her rambling. But for Handler to lay a hand on her like that…

“Look at her,” Handler repeats. She touches Leinth again, guiding her. Leinth doesn’t resist. She’s puppy-weak. She looks at Sartha

Really looks. She has to, because that’s what Handler is telling her. It’s not easy. Sartha is a fucking mess. If she was a hero twenty minutes ago, she isn’t now. Her clothes are ruined. She’s bleeding from at least three places. She’s drenched in both her own sweat and Leinth’s, and the expression on her face is something truly inhuman, a fucked-stupid look of gratified, delirious masochism. It hurts to think that Leinth put it there, and it hurts just as much seeing how Leinth’s cum is spilling out from between her legs to stain the bunk.

This is the ruin of a hero.

“Look,” Handler urges. “Isn’t she pathetic?”

Her words pull at the string of Leinth’s heart. They make her twitch. Yes, Sartha is pathetic. There’s no use in denying it now. But the guilt is roaring back and forces a choked whimper from Leinth’s throat.

“It’s OK,” Handler soothes. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Leinth.”

The head-splitting pain is worse than ever. Unfathomably bad. Leinth has felt her own mech being split open while she’s inside and that’s the only thing she can think of that comes close. “B-but… I… to her…”

“She wanted it,” Handler reminds her. “She asked for it.”

Leinth shakes her head violently as the ache grows. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”

“Yes.” Handler sounds so firm. So sure. How is it so easy for Her? “She’s a traitor, Leinth. Remember that. She betrayed you.”

Her words aren’t helping, however kindly they’re meant. If anything, they’re making it worse. It’s like Leinth is seeing double. There are two versions of Sartha in her head. One a saint, a hero, faultless, suffering for her struggle until Leinth ravaged her and left her like this. The other a traitor, a deceiver, someone who pretended she could bear the weight of the world until she gave up and decided to indulge in whatever sick fetish Handler satisfies.

It doesn’t make sense. Sartha can’t be both. And Leinth can’t hold onto both versions at once. It’s too much.

“She tricked you,” Handler says. “All of you. She pretended to be more than just a woman. She let you believe in her, and hated you for it. And now she’s making you feel guilty, too. All for giving her what she wants.”

“Please stop,” Leinth gasps. She’s about to pass out from the pain. “Make it stop. Please.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Handler reiterates. “Say it for me.”

“I d-didn’t do anything wrong,” Leinth repeats. She’d do or say anything now, if it helped.

“That’s right.”

It did help, a little. Or maybe Handler’s approval does. But only a little.

“B-but.” Leinth can’t stop herself saying it. She wants desperately to fall into Handler’s abyss. The pain is that bad. But guilt is still her ankle. “I d-didn’t have to… that’s not me, I… even she doesn’t deserve…”

“Yes, I see,” Handler says. She seems to understand perfectly. “Leinth, listen to me: whatever you did wrong, I forgive you.”

“You…”

Leinth looks back to Her. Handler’s eyes are still the sky. Cold. Pure. Free of both compassion and accusation. As always, they make Handler’s words ring true. Leinth hadn’t even thought about forgiveness. She hadn’t imagined anyone could award her forgiveness. But when Handler promises it, she believes.

She believes so much she doesn’t stop to ask why Handler’s forgiveness would matter, or what she’s being forgiven for if she did nothing wrong.

And Leinth feels it. Absolution.

She implodes from it. Leinth crumples over and inward, wracked by dry, silent sobs of sheer relief. The pain is gone. It’s like it was never there. She’s free. Before she can stop herself she finds she’s clasping Handler’s hand. It was on her cheek but she brings it to her lips, kissing, praying. This is more unburdened than she’d ever dared hope to feel.

How can Handler do this? How does She have this power? It’s like She’s the first real person Leinth has ever met - and for once, she’s simply grateful to have met Her.

“Good,” Handler pronounces. She sees the change in Leinth. And She’s pleased, which is another wonderful gift. Handler glances at Sartha. “Wake up,” She says. “Come along, Sartha.”

Sartha is trapped in some kind of daze, but she obeys without hesitation and rises to her feet as if oblivious to her bruised, cum-drenched state. She looks wretched - Leinth can say that to herself now, she learns, without guilt - but when she starts following Handler out of the cell, Leinth is almost jealous.

It would be a blessing to get to follow Her around. To spend a little longer in Her presence. Especially since Leinth is so very afraid that as soon as She leaves, all that fearful doubt is going to come right back. Handler might be the enemy, but Leinth’s inner voices hurt worse.

Hander, as always, knows what’s in her soul. “Don’t worry, Leinth,” She says over Her shoulder as She departs. “You’re doing very well. I will be with you again soon.”

Leinth just nods. She can hold that praise tight to her chest. It’ll keep her warm.

Once Handler leaves, the cell door closes and locks. Leinth is alone again. The loneliness is more uncomfortable than ever. Her head is clouded over, but she’s starting to realize that’s not so bad. It’ll keep her from dwelling on the things that don’t fit right.

There’s something she can’t help dwelling on, though. Something unsaid between her and Handler. The question Handler doesn’t need to ask, because She always asks.

Who are you?

Leinth still doesn’t have an answer for Her. But she’s closer, perhaps. Leinth stands up and walks to the mirror. As she peers into it, searching for clarity, it happens again. That strange double vision. Like the whole world is fracturing. But not around Sartha, this time. Around Leinth.

First, Leinth sees herself. Or what she’s always taken to be herself. A woman who still looks a little like a pilot. A rebel. The person she’s always been, and who can she live with being.

But then she sees something else too. Something deeper. Truer. Something who is barely a person at all. Something feral. It’s whatever came out of her when she was on top of Sartha, hitting and fucking and growling. It must have always been there, in the corner of her eye. Leinth just couldn’t see it before because she was too afraid. The thing she sees is abominable. Unforgivable - except for Handler. She can forgive it. Only Her.

It’s a hound. A hound of Leinth’s very own.

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