tagMind ControlThe Process Pt. 06

The Process Pt. 06

byannadixon©

Flashes of memory, later. Being lifted from the wheelchair, onto a couch, strapped down again, stripped and prodded, her hips buckling in reflex. Questioning – repeated, insistent, the same questions over and over and over, staring into the light, her mouth dry, her cunt inflamed and dripping. The scratching of a pen on paper, taking notes. And the arousal, the smell, the scent of her cunt wafting constantly in the room like a narcotic.

And then she suddenly finds herself sitting on her bed, washed and smelling of soap, in a clean gown. And the nurse walks in to announce that it's time for her behavioural training.

***

She sits in what looks like a gym, straddling what looks like an obscene version of a push-up bench: only this version has two phallic protrusions, one of which is now lodged in her vagina – "to begin with," as the nurse said as she lubed her up. She is awake – sort of: the chemical soup flowing through her veins on a constant basis keeps her permanently sluggish – but she falls into a slight daze as the images on the screen before her flash. A naked woman, kneeling in a darkened room. A man standing before her – only the bottom of his trousers and his shoes appearing onscreen. The crop caressing her skin. The leather collar. And his commands as he touches. Spread. Open. Lick. Bow. Pulses in her cunt rewarding her as she imitates the woman on the screen, pulsing again as her cunt clenches, in a control and reward loop. Pavlovian conditioning, muses an old voice in her head for a second, before being quelled by the chemistry and the surge of visuals and voice. Yet she has a vision of herself as a naked bitch, tethered to the spot on all fours, her mouth forced open by wires, drooling at the ring of a bell just out of sight, and she cums helplessly.

***

Exhausted after many repetitions and many orgasms, she feels cool hands on her, helping her off the bench. Someone she doesn't know: a woman in her twenties, exotically beautiful, her caramel skin and dark eyes and hair in stark contrast with her pale hospital gown. "There we go..." she says with a slight accent. "And... that's it." The young woman steadies her on her feet and smiles, a radiant white smile. "Wow! Must have been intense, yes?" She laughs. "Oh, sorry, I forgot you can't speak with... that on" she gestures around her face. "I'm Gabrielle. They sent me to clean you up. Part of your training, apparently... and part of mine." She smiles constantly, with such genuine warmth and glee that it is hard not to feel happy in her presence.

She tries to make a questioning gesture, showing the palms of her hands and raising her shoulders, grabbing her gown and pointing at Gabrielle. _You too?_

"Yes, me too," answers Gabrielle. "I'm a slave. Like you.".

She tilts her head in amazement. Incomprehension. Gabrielle laughs out loud. "Yes, I know. Too chirpy by half. Not quite the stereotype. Oh well, I suppose however much brainwashing you get, there are some things you cannot really remove. Like being a total chatterbox. I hope my master enjoys conversation, because otherwise I think he'll be asking for a refund in no time at all!"

She pauses. Mimics a smile across the black leather on her face. Points at Gabrielle.

"Am I happy?"

She nods. "Ecstatically," she says, with complete honesty. "Apparently, I have already been assigned to a master, who has requested some special features, and that's why I'm here. So I can get tweaked before meeting him". Her smile turns suddenly eager, even hungry. "And I. Can't. Wait."

A brief pause, in which both slaves imagine what the "tweaks" will be and something in them twitches. And they both know it. Then Gabrielle takes her by the hand and leads her to the showers.

Gabrielle takes her gown off and positions her under the shower, propping her head against the tile wall in such a way that the water won't touch the leather mask. "We wouldn't want to spoilt that beautiful leather, would we." Then she lets out the cool water – "Too cold?" – pours shower gel onto a sponge, and starts lathering her up. She closes her eyes behind the mask and leans against the wall, feeling suddenly disconnected – as if the thing below her neck was something else entirely , nothing to do with her, surrendering it into Gabrielle's capable hands.

But Gabrielle is not willing to allow her this disconnected mental privacy. Her hands roam over her body, sliding under her arms, her neck, the small of her back. Then they slide between her legs. "So beautiful... You are going to make such a wonderful slave... So naked and open and obedient..."

Gabrielle is sliding her wet fingers now over her clitoris, around her vulva, caressing her anus, at first distractedly, then more and more insistently. It's the first time a woman has ever touched her like that. "I... no..." she groans weakly.

"No?" says Gabrielle, raising an eyebrow. "A slave doesn't have that word in her vocabulary." She suddenly turns of the water and holds her head between her hands, her deep black eyes fierce. "What does a slave do?"

"Obey."

Gabrielle suddenly seems to lose focus slightly. Then she stands up straighter and her eyes, now glassy and fanatical. "Obey."

"Obey."

"Obey."

They stare into each other's eyes, re-echoing, in an ongoing cascade of obedience and arousal as their thighs grow sticky and their triggered minds soften and melt. Gabrielle's hand between her thighs, coaxing her into an orgasm that makes her drop to her knees – and still probing, kissing, licking, even as she lies wet on the bathroom floor, helpless to resist Gabrielle's onslaught.

Later – she has no idea how much later – she lies there in a half daze, in a puddle of shower water and their juices, next to Gabrielle. So close she can feel her breath on her neck, smell her sweetness through the mask leather. Gabrielle then lays a hand on her waist, and she cuddles into her warmth.

***

She looks out for Gabrielle in the days afterwards, in the brief space between behavioural therapy and the time when she is taken back to her room to be fed. She starts to meet with her in the large room where other inmates are occasionally allowed to sit in the afternoons and wait between whatever is being done to them: six or seven women in the same pale hospital gowns, with the same dazed expression which she knows she also wears beneath the mask. Yet Gabrielle, when she finds her, always seems so animate, so full of life and joy, it makes her feel warm just to see her. And even though she can't talk, Gabrielle does all the talking, prattling on about her happiness in being a slave, the relief of having such a weight lifted off her shoulders, her excitement about meeting her owner, how she really can't wait. She is just happy to be so close to Gabrielle's warmth again.

Then one afternoon Gabrielle is nowhere to be found. She sits on a windowsill overlooking the garden – their usual meeting spot – and waits and waits.

In the morning, at the time of her usual session, she finds a strange man waiting for her in Dr Farris's office. He removes her gown, places a collar around her neck, attaches a leash to it, and hands her a pair of stiletto heels to wear. She is left naked and leashed, tottering slightly – it's been some time since she last wore high heels.

"I'm taking you out for a walk today," says the man, and walks out of the office and down the corridor, with her following behind him like a bitch. He leads her to the main entrance hall, where Dr Farris is waiting with a clipboard, which he hands for the man to sign.

"No damaged goods," mutters Dr Farris. "This one's training is not complete yet. I don't want any cock-ups. So keep an eye on it."

"Hey. The sheik is being helpful here. After all, it was you who asked if she could be present too. He's doing us a favour. Extra training."

"I somehow don't think it will be a hardship for him," replies Dr Farris wryly.

She hears steps coming towards the hall, and another suited man comes in, leading Gabrielle on another leash, like her. Only Gabrielle is wearing no heels, and her beautiful dark hair has been completely shaved off. But what truly stuns her is Gabrielle's expression – or rather, her utter lack of any expression. She is just staring blindly, mindlessly ahead, as if gazing into some distant point which only she can see. The contrast with Gabrielle's usual happy, warm demeanour is so shocking that she reels for a second. She then glances at Gabrielle's shaved head. Dr Farris notices.

"No. No lobotomy. Wasn't necessary," he says. Then adds, "Not that we wouldn't have performed it if it had been necessary. If the customer had specified it." He looks at her again shrewdly. "It is horrified. Yet the idea also arouses it."

It's not a question. She realises that she had been looking for the tell-tale scar on Gabrielle's head, thought about her own shaven head, her own scar. Her own mindless, automatic compliance and obedience. Her own will forcibly removed. Cut out of her. She shudders in horrified arousal.

The man holding her leash tugs at it and leads her outside, where a large dark car with tinted windows is waiting for them. She is made to sit on the back seat, the leash tied to the armrest. The man then covers the eyeholes in her mask with the leather blindfold. The car starts, and she sits in the dark as they move, next to vacant Gabrielle, feeling her silent warmth.

***

They travel for hours. Then the car stops, and she is taken out of the car, with the blindfold still on. A garage – she can hear the men's and Gabrielle's steps echoing – then a lift, corridors. Soft carpets beneath her feet. Doors. Then knocking, a door opening. And her blindfold is removed.

They are standing in what looks like the penthouse suite in an extremely luxurious hotel. Large windows overlooking a night city landscape – she does not recognise the city. Then a Middle Eastern-looking man man in his fifties enters the room.

"Your Highness," says the man holding her leash.

"Ah," says the sheik, examining Gabrielle with avid eyes. "Finally. Excellent." He turns and glances at her. "And this is... the one I will be providing an object lesson for?" he asks in an Oxbridge-inflected voice.

"Yes, Your Highness".

The sheik laughs. "You should give me a discount, you know. I'm doing your work for you. It's lucky for your that I am such a good customer. In every possible way."

"We deeply appreciate the trust that Your Highness places in us," says the man holding her leash, dutifully. "And of course we are extremely happy that you continue to honour us with your custom."

"Well, you are the best in the business, after all," smiles the sheik, clearly happy with Gabrielle. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like to examine my property more closely. I take it that the operation was performed?"

"As per your request, Your Highness". The man sounds a bit unsettled here. "Although I would like to point out that it wasn't strictly necessary. Our brainwashing process is sufficiently intense and specific as to ensure that it will be literally impossible for a slave to experience pleasure without your permission. A... bodily procedure is really not required."

"I know, I know," says the sheik. "I'm an enlightened man, with a Western education. But still, I prefer my property to be cut. Call it a cultural specificity, or an atavism. Or just a fetish. I suppose I feel that it signals that she depends entirely on me. Even more, that is. Humour me."

"Of course." The men holding the leashes nod and diplomatically leave the room. A female servant then comes in, picks up the leashes, and leads Gabrielle and her into a bedroom. She poises Gabrielle in the middle of the room, standing rigid like a rod in front of a huge bed, and unclips her leash. Then she leads her to a corner of the room and gently presses down, making her kneel. Another servant walks into the room with a pile of what look like dark clothes, which she leaves on a chair. Then the sheik comes in.

He sits on the bed, facing Gabrielle, who is still staring at nothingness. "Beautiful," he whispers as he caresses her naked body. He gently parts her thighs, examining her vulva, running his finger along her lips and the scar while she remains impassive. "Beautiful," he repeats. "Just perfect." He then gestures to the servants and sits back on the bed to watch.

The women proceed to dress Gabrielle slowly and carefully, as if performing a ritual. No underwear or regular clothes. But black gloves up to the elbow, then a black abaya down to her feet. Then they place a black leather mask, similar to the one she is wearing, on Gabrielle's shaved head – only this one has no openings for the eyes or mouth, and just two nostril holes to breathe through. It is thickly padded, so that Gabrielle will be completely unable to hear or see. Finally, the women pick up a black burqa and place it over Gabrielle's body, so that the mask and her body completely disappear from view. And Gabrielle becomes a ghost. A thing, covered.

"That was the last time anyone else will see her face," says the sheik, and suddenly she realises that he is talking to her. "There is a story in the One Thousand and One Nights. A jinn keeps his human wife imprisoned in a chest because he is afraid that she will be unfaithful to him. So he only brings her out at night to fuck her. Yet she manages to steal the key to the chest and comes out during the day, when the jinn is asleep, and fucks every traveller she comes across. So the moral of the tale is, even a woman locked inside a box will fuck around."

He gazes at Gabrielle's shapeless shape fondly. "But of course I don't just want to ensure that my property won't fuck around. I also want to ensure that it will think of nothing but me. That it will exist for nothing but me. That every single breath she breathes is because of me. She will never feel sunlight again. She will be kept in the basement. In a cage and masked whenever she is not being used. Blind and mindless and in a state of perpetual arousal, perpetual yearning. No thoughts, no desires, no feelings, no perceptions. Just a thing made to be used. Is not that perfection?" He looks at her in the eye. "You want that. Mindless obedience. Ceasing to be. Existing just a thing to be fucked and used. You envy her so much right now, don't you?"

She realises that she is trembling and her mouth is so dry with arousal that she can't even swallow. The sheik smiles, then softly says "Cum," and she is swallowed by a darkness as deep as Gabrielle's.

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