The knock echoes through the studio. “Answer that, Tweedledee,” Owner says mildly, not looking up from their book.

You bow to them, and then turn and stride away, making sure to sway your hips and show off your bare ass. It doesn’t matter if they’re not watching - you need to put on a show for them, just in case they do happen to glance up.

You’re Tweedledee today, it seems. You remember now that they’ve been calling you that for the past couple of hours, but you haven’t been able to hang onto the memory of the name. That’s not unusual. Whatever Owner’s done to you, you can’t keep any name fixed in your silly weak mind, even a name they gave you - except when they use that name, of course, because you have to be ready to respond to their commands at all times.

At least you’re not Tweedledum. That implies you’re the smarter one, right? Although that’s not really true - you’re both just Owner’s dumb little slavegirls, after all - you do like to feel superior to the other one. Tweedledum’s a coffee table right now, positioned between Owner’s throne and the couch, lying flat in mid-air like a plank of wood, her head and feet resting on two chairs. You helped Owner lay them there not so long ago, once you’d both finished sweeping and dusting the studio so it was ready for company.

Owner had ordered you to test the table’s stability, to your delight - you took a sadistic glee in flicking her tits and pinching her cunt, relishing the sound of her stifled squeaks as you watched for the slightest waver. To give credit where it was due, she held perfectly still, expressing her pain only through her muffled voice, her mouth tightly closed. However, because Owner wanted their table to be useful more than they wanted her to suffer, they’d had you place a stool under her back to grant her extra support. Her arms are protruding from her sides as rigidly as the rest of her, like steel bars, fingers and thumbs curved into circles like a Lego figure’s hands. They’re going to be used as cup holders.

After placing a tray of chips and dips on her belly, you went to stand at attention on the other side of the couch, awaiting Owner’s next instruction, and giving them the best possible view of your naked body in the meantime, your hands clasped behind your back and your heaving bosom thrust out. Again, it didn’t matter that they were reading and not admiring you - a decoration is still decorative even when it goes unobserved. You’d been quite enjoying standing there and not doing anything else, a corner of your brain still focused and prepared to respond to your Owner’s needs and desires, but most of your mind drifting peacefully.

Now, though, the tranquil, blank stillness turns to motion, as you move to the front of the building and open the door to admit your Owner’s guest. A slender young man with thick, untidy brown hair steps inside, and although you can’t remember ever meeting him before, you still recognise him instantly. His title surfaces easily - ‘Sir’. No other name for him comes to mind, because no other name is needed - not by you, anyway. Without sparing you a glance, he shucks off his dark green coat and hangs it over your head, covering your face and torso. You let it remain there for a few seconds, to be polite, until you hear him walk away, his shoes impacting on the linoleum floor of the studio with audible slap sounds. Pulling the jacket off you, you hang it on a hook on the wall a couple of feet behind you.

Hearing the sounds of a joyful greeting, you turn to look across the studio, seeing Sir and Owner hugging and exchanging pleasantries. They take their seats, Owner in their throne (of course) and Sir on the sofa, as you march back over to stand at the ready. You’re there for barely a moment when, in response to Owner asking what he’d like to drink, Sir replies, “I think I’ll have a cider, please. Magners, if you have it.”

Though he’s addressing Owner and still doesn’t look at you, you know you’re meant to respond to the request, so off you go down one of the corridors branching off from the main studio area, to the kitchen, to fetch a can of cider from the fridge, two glasses which you pin in place against your torso using your arm, and a jug of water for Owner (they rarely drink alcohol). Returning to the studio, you approach the coffee table and slot the glasses into each of her hands, opening the can and pouring its contents into one cup, and filling the other with water from the jug. From your position, half-crouched beside her to pour the drinks, you can hear the table’s shaky breaths.

As you stand up and move aside, Sir takes the cider from his cup holder, holding it in his left hand, and starts squeezing the table’s chest with his right hand - the free one, the one nearest to her, the one that just took the glass and is probably a little cold from the chilled liquid it contained. She makes a high-pitched whimper in response, but remains perfectly static, her lips still sealed. He still hasn’t looked directly at either of you, his attention on Owner, chatting with them even as he idly gropes the living furniture on his right. You’re too spacey to listen to their conversation right now, your eyes lingering on your counterpart.

Beyond such distinctions as ‘naked waitress’ and ‘coffee table’, you still have no idea which of you is which, and you’ve stopped trying to figure it out. You’ve given up trying to make any sense of your inconsistent memories by now. You don’t know which of you has been with Owner the longest. You don’t know if you were the one with tiny tits that got enlarged, or if you had massive melons that got reduced. You can’t remember if you had auburn or brunette hair - and the regular ‘refresher’ head-shavings aren’t helping. You’ve no sense of identity, of individuality, and you’ve made peace with that. You’re just a slave, and so is she. Owner has made you the same person - and barely a person, at that.

“Tweedledee,” Owner says abruptly, interrupting themself mid-conversation, “service my guest.”

You incline your head briefly, and then scurry to do as you’re told, the memories of what exactly ‘servicing’ means coming back to you even as your body automatically moves to obey. Circling around the couch, you drop to your knees and shuffle forwards, between Sir’s spread legs. You unbutton his pants, deftly pull down the zip, and reach inside and find his manhood, carefully cradling it as you lift it out. Without further ado, you lean forwards and wrap your lips around it, sliding it into your mouth as far as it’ll go. He lets out a satisfied sigh, his dick swelling and twitching on your tongue, tasting salty and bitter. His musk is filling your nostrils, making you wrinkle your nose involuntarily.

You don’t really enjoy sucking cock - one of the many reasons you’re grateful for Owner’s sacred cunt. Not that you wouldn’t love their cock if they had one, because everything about them is heavenly, and besides they’d probably just make you think you’d always loved cock anyway. Regardless, being used as a fleshlight by a male visitor is one of your least favourite duties. But part of being a good host is sharing one’s toys with one’s guests, and Owner is such a good host. Distasteful as you find this task, you’re still proud to be of service to them and their friend.

Besides, it’s not as if the job requires much effort - he’s doing all the work, gently thrusting his hips and probing your throat. You just have to kneel there and take it, staring blankly at the tufty pubes coating his crotch, your arms hanging at your sides. You’re not required to actually perform fellatio unless he specifically asks for it. You’re just being a cock holster right now - just a convenient hole for him to keep his dick warm and wet - and that’s not difficult.

Although, he is now resting his glass on your shaved head, the cold cider sending a chill through your scalp. This seems slightly unfair - there’s a coffee table right next to him, after all! Glancing up, you can see he’s still playing with her tits with his right hand, while his left hand holds his drink steady on your skull. Oh, well. It’s his prerogative. You wish he’d used a coaster, though.

“How’re things with your brother?” Owner asks.

“Still kinda tense,” Sir replies. “I mean, ever since she showed up... We were doing OK living together, me and him. As far as roommates go, he’s actually not a bad one - plus we could game a lot more often. It’s just since he started dating her...”

“Things changed. I get it.” Their voice is sympathetic. Owner’s so kind and understanding! No wonder they have so many friends.

“It’s not just that things changed - I don’t mind him dating, bringing people home, that’s totally OK with me. Gee, I’d introduce him to you and let him use your fuckdolls, but he’d probably be judgy about it.” A little quiver goes through you as you recognise that Sir’s talking about you. “No, it’s not him dating, it’s him dating that fuckin’ holier-than-thou tyrant psycho, who seems to think she’s our landlady now. Y’know, she actually made a fucking chore wheel for an apartment she doesn’t even live in!”

“That’s just plain rude.”

“It’s insane. I swear to God, I cannot stand people who think they’re superior to everyone else...” He pauses for a moment, and then adds with a light chuckle, “Present company excepted, of course.”

Owner laughs, and the sound sends a wave of bliss through you. You smile around Sir’s cock. “Well, I don’t think I’m superior to everyone,” they clarify. “Just non-people like these.”

“Did you think you were better than them before you got your hooks in them?”

“Oh, I knew I was. I could tell just by looking at them. Walking around pretending to be actual people, with free will... Making decisions, and being part of society, and acting like they were happy that way, when I could see it was so hard for the poor things... They’re much happier now, believe me. Isn’t that right, Tweedledee?”

You nod a couple of times in confirmation, bobbing along Sir’s shaft. You don’t remember ‘pretending to be a person’, as Owner puts it. You can’t say for sure that you were unhappy then, only that you’re living in perpetual euphoria now. You have no way of knowing if they’re telling the truth - except that Owner always tells the truth, so of course you believe them.

There’s a pause, during which Sir lifts his glass off your head and puts it back in his cup holder. Then he asks, “I don’t suppose... I mean, with the psycho -”

“That’s such a pretty name. Greek, right?”

“Shush,” he chortles. “I was just wondering - could you, y’know... do this... to her?” You feel a fingertip tap your bare scalp.

“What, brainwash her?” Owner asks, a little incredulously.

“Yeah - well, maybe not as drastically as this, but you could, I dunno, adjust her. Sand off the rough edges, y’know? Make her easier to live with - nicer, less overbearing, more compliant...”

“Ha! I knew it!” they crow. “All this complaining about her and all the things that drive you mad - you just wanna fuck her, don’t you? Man, you’re such a cliché, lusting after your brother’s girlfriend...”

“No, hey, it’s not like that,” he protests. “I don’t want her. I mean, why would I, when I can come here to get my rocks off? No, it’s just about making my home feel like my home again. And making my brother act like my brother, not this meek yes-man she’s turned him into. This way it can be the other way round - he can go back to normal, and she can be a sweet, submissive girlfriend for him.”

“So, you don’t want her for yourself, or for me to take her? You want her to stay with him - but with a total personality transplant?”

“If that’s not too much trouble,” he laughs awkwardly. “I definitely don’t want her for myself. Too many infuriating memories. I don’t even wanna fuck her.” He hesitates. “Well, maybe once... or twice... Shut up,” he chuckles over Owner’s giggling, which is making your body fizz with pleasure from your brain right down to your clit. “So, can you do it or not?”

Owner falls silent for a few seconds. Sir continues to fuck your face while he waits for their response, a little more insistence and urgency in his thrusts now. The subject at hand is evidently firing him up...

“It’s possible,” they say eventually, “but we’d have to play it right. I can’t just take control of anyone I like. I’m good, but I’m not that good!”

“So, how -”

“Invite me over sometime - for gaming, or something - when she’s around, but your brother isn’t. Then we can mention I’m a hypnotist, see if that catches her interest. If we’re lucky, I’ll be able to play on her curiosity and get her to try it...”

“And if we’re not? If she’s not interested?” His hand is firmly planted on your head now, pushing you further onto him, his cock distending your cheek.

“Then there won’t be much more I can do,” Owner says apologetically. “I can’t hypnotise someone against their will... or, well, I can, but it’s very difficult - and if she catches onto what I’m doing before I’ve got her in a trance, it’s game over. Especially for you, because your brother’ll probably kick your ass. No, the only real way is to get her to try it willingly.”

Their voice takes on a more malicious tone. “Of course, once I’ve got her hypnotised - once I’ve got access to her subconscious - then we’re in business. Once I’ve opened the door, and stepped inside -”

“You can rearrange the furniture?” Sir jokes.

Owner snorts. “If you like! People’s minds are like castles, and the walls are their free will. Once I’ve convinced her to let me past those walls, past her free will, I can do anything. Change her however I - we - want. Reshape her into someone completely different, someone to your liking. We can make her affectionate, sweet-natured, easygoing... placid, docile, obedient... We can turn her from a controlling tyrant to your brother’s subservient arm candy. And hey, since she seems to want to live with you guys so badly, we can grant her wish. She can become your live-in maid - do everything on that chore wheel herself, on a daily basis.”

There’s definitely an edge of gleeful cruelty to their voice now. You want to look at their face, see that familiar sadistic smirk - but right now all you can see is Sir’s groin, filling your field of vision entirely, his dick buried to the hilt in your throat, giving the telltale spasms of approaching orgasm.

Owner keeps talking as you make more and more rapid gluk gluk gluk sounds. “She can continually clean up after you both, dust and vacuum, cook all your meals, wash your cars... She could even start wearing a sexy maid’s costume, if you like. But of course, we’d need to do it on a gradual basis, and make every step look like her idea, so your brother doesn’t get suspicious. That shouldn’t be too difficult, though. As far as she knows, every step will be her idea. She’ll feel warm and affectionate, sweet and submissive, willing to do whatever he or you want. She’ll want to do all the chores, to take care of her man and his brother. She’ll want to dress up in a maid costume, to emphasise her new role in the household...”

Sir groans with ecstasy, using both hands to slide your head up and down his shaft faster and faster. More than ever, you’re grateful that your gag reflex is a thing of the past - another blessing brought about by Owner’s control.

“And if you ever do wanna take advantage of her conditioning, we can also convince her that she’s a free-use fucktoy. That way, whenever your brother’s not around, you can just use her to get off, without even asking her permission. She’ll be completely fine with it - she’ll barely even notice. She might even carry on with her chores while you fuck her, so long as you do it from behind...”

And suddenly he’s erupting, spurting semen into your mouth, filling it to the brim. You form a tight seal with your lips, and there’s a pop as he pulls out, only a couple of droplets dribbling down your chin as he does so. You hold the rest in your mouth, waiting for permission to swallow. Sighing with satisfaction, he turns your face to the side and wipes his cock on your cheek, before tucking it back in his pants and slumping back in his seat. You sit back on your legs, gazing up at him placidly.

“Fleshlight, come move the tray off the table for a minute,” Owner commands. “Put it on the floor for now.” You rise to your feet at once, perfectly obedient, and remove the snack tray from the table’s tummy. Owner takes their drink from her hand, and Sir follows suit after a moment’s hesitation. “Help the table up,” they tell you, before glancing down at her and adding, “Table, you can relax and get up now.”

Her posture’s already less rigid as you put one arm under her back to support her, planting your other hand on her shoulder. She carefully clambers off the chairs and gets to her feet with your help, and you both stand at attention between the couch and the throne, hands behind your back.

Owner arches an eyebrow at you. “Well? Share, slaves.”

You barely hesitate before turning to lock lips with your counterpart, allowing some of Sir’s seed to travel into her mouth as you make out. Once you’re certain you each have a fair share, you break away and move back into your previous pose.

“Would all that really work?” Sir asks. “Brainwashing the bitch? Making her a free-use housemaid? Could you really do that?”

“The difficult part is doing it without your brother realising - or, if he does, persuading him to be OK with it. And, as I said, getting her to try hypnosis in the first place. But, yes - once I’m in her head, the possibilities are endless.” Owner chuckles. “I mean, c’mon, man. You really doubt I can do what I claim, after you’ve seen what I’ve done with these two?”

Not bothering to actually look at you, they point a thumb over their shoulder at the two of you. You shudder with pleasure at the hint of Owner’s attention, swirling Sir’s cum in your mouth, still waiting to be allowed to swallow. You can see the other slave squirming beside you, and know she feels the same as you.

“Well - but didn’t they choose to be this way?” Sir asks.

Owner smiles enigmatically, their unblinking gaze never leaving his face. “Did they?”

He raises his eyebrows, staring at them for a long moment. “Huh.” A smile slowly spreads across his face.

Owner finally breaks eye contact with him and looks up at you and your double. “Slaves, you can swallow, and then have a ten-minute comfort break. Go get something to eat and drink.”

You incline your heads gratefully, gulping down the semen. Then you turn and sashay away, deeper into the building, in the direction of the kitchen. She’s a step ahead of you, her butt cheeks jiggling enticingly, in a way you’re sure Owner will appreciate if they’re watching.

Now that your head isn’t full of cock or cum, there’s a little more room for some thoughts - and you can’t help wondering about what Owner said back there. Did they really do this to you against your will? You’d always thought you wanted to be hypnotised and enslaved. After all, you love it so much - you’re so eternally contented with your life, awash with arousal and submissive bliss, feeling the utmost pleasure from serving and obeying your Owner in all things - that you naturally assumed that was what you’d always wanted. You can’t remember the pretend person you used to be, but you’d imagined that she wanted to be a slave - that she’d longed for it, craved it, so much that she’d abandoned her old life and identity to become... you.

But then again, if Owner can make you forget who you are so comprehensively that you keep getting yourself mixed up with your fellow fucktoy, then surely anything’s possible... After all, it’s been only a few seconds since you left the studio, and you’ve already forgotten which of you was the coffee table, and which was the cocksleeve.

Could it be? Had you not wanted to be Owner’s slave? Did they really brainwash you without your consent? Were you tricked into it the same way they plan to trick Sir’s brother’s girlfriend? Was your curiosity stoked by an encounter with a hypnotist, to the point where you asked them if you could try it? Did they seize the opportunity to unravel your sense of self and remake you the way they wanted you, moulding you into their amnesiac sex slave...?

Or were they just joking around with their friend?

You’d like to believe that. You’d like to think you’re there by choice, serving and obeying Owner simply because you love to, because it feels so good to be a slave. But you know by now that you can’t trust your own mind. There’s every chance - a pretty good chance, in fact, given Owner’s plotting to do the same thing to another woman - that you were manipulated, led into this life unwillingly and obliviously.

Fuck, that’s hot. They’re so, so cunning, so talented, so powerful... Rewriting your mind, turning you from an independent person into their fuckpuppet. It’s enough to make you want to touch yourself as you walk along this corridor.

You’re brainwashed. You’re controlled. You’re powerless. Your desires, your wishes, your consent, don’t matter. They never did. They’re just obstacles, the walls of a castle you built for yourself, that might have served to keep others out of your mind but instead only kept you trapped in a life of... freedom. Of independence. Of choice. Those words are repulsive to you, anathematic to everything you are and everything you want to be. You don’t want to be free. You don’t want a choice. Regardless of how you got here, you want nothing more than to serve and obey your Owner, forever.

You hope you don’t lose your memory of this epiphany. You could rub yourself to the thought of it, to climax after shattering climax, for days on end.

The other slave looks back at you over her shoulder, a lust-drunk smile on her face, and you realise she’s thinking and feeling exactly the same as you. Of course she is. She is you, and you are her, and it’s all because of your dastardly, divine, sadistic, sublime, evil, enthralling Owner.

This all-consuming submission - this profound, desperate love for being a slave - can’t have come from nowhere. You may not have chosen it, but you can’t believe it was entirely planted inside you by Owner. They must have found something, a seed of discontent, that was already there, and nurtured it until its roots spread all through your mind and soul. Like they said, you must’ve been so miserable before they took you in, and freed you from freedom itself.

You can’t thank them enough.