Kevin is nothing if not methodical.
This, unfortunately, I’m learning at my own expense. In the days since my failed attempt at dominating his mind, I’ve attacked my new programming from every direction I could think of. Tried to shake loose of the tentative, but harmful messages he’s planted in my own mind.
It hasn’t worked. I hate to admit it—it honestly makes my stomach churn—but there’s a degree of coherence to his instructions. For a newbie who was thinking on his feet, he did a pretty good job.
I’ll have to congratulate him, when I do break free. Right before I take my revenge and destroy him, of course.
For now, though, I’m left struggling against the self-sabotaging conditions imposed on my own mind. First: I have to acknowledge that he has some kind of authority over me. That in itself is such a deeply insulting concept that it keeps me up well into the night.
Me, a feminist and a lesbian! Ever since starting university I’ve consistently used my power to emancipate women and deplatform misogynists. I’m taller, stronger, and smarter than Kevin. Maybe most importantly, I am the one with sanity-bending, reality-defying mind control powers.
And yet, in my own subconscious, I am forced to raise him upon a pedestal. This is no slavish submission, mind, definitely not the kind of iron grip a skilled mind controller would have inflicted upon a victim. It’s the mental equivalent of a subtle, respectful bowing of my head. But it’s enough to make me fume with impotent rage.
Hell, it was enough to let the bastard grope me with no consequences. No matter how much I screamed internally, the controlled part of my mind recognised his right to take liberties with a woman’s body, and stopped me from acting.
I don’t know how to remove this lever, but I have to. As night follows day, I try to stay away from Kevin as much as possible. I need time and space to figure this out, come up with a counter strategy. But I should have known this couldn’t last forever. That eventually he, too, would find the courage to act.
And that’s how this dreadful Monday begins. With me staring at his text message, which firmly puts the first lever into play.
The message is straight and to the point.
“You’ll come over tonight. I have new instructions for you.”
Simply telling him to fuck off is not an option. I may not yet be hypnotised to the point I will obey any command, but this is a sufficiently reasonable request that the first rule applies. Immediately my body stiffens, rejecting the idea of outwardly disrespecting him like that. I grit my teeth, willing my body to snap and obey me instead, but I know my power.
It doesn’t leave any job half-done, and for once in my life, I deeply regret that.
I could, of course, dodge his “invitation” with a lie… except that is where Kevin’s second lever comes in. This one, he can take no credit for: it was entirely my own subconscious, choosing to interpret the power’s commands in the only way it possibly could.
I need to always be honest and truthful with Kevin.
I pump a fist against my thigh in frustration. The power imbalance between us is such that I should be able to quash him like a bug. Instead, I’m fighting with a hand tied behind my back. I can’t just take over his mind, because my own power is preventing me from doing it.
I can still break free, but I need to do so without lying to him, or lashing out at his bossy ways.
God, this is so frustrating!
I take in a deep breath. I need to calm down. This is a marathon, not a sprint. A great game of chicken where patience and endurance will be rewarded. Kevin may have control for now, but ultimately, I’m the one with the supernatural abilities. Long-term, that is going to tell. Of course it is.
But for now, I have no choice except message my good friend Sandra that I need a raincheck for tonight. Ugh… cancelling plans with my friend so I can indulge the whims of the class incel! This in and of itself is such a violation that I find myself hyperventilating again.
Sandra takes it in stride, luckily. She’s quite used to my sudden cancellations. Of course, unbeknownst to her, those were usually motivated by… other… factors. It’s one thing to cancel on your friends because you have a submissive lesbian harem to enjoy, or a lecherous man to put in his place. But this, this is… enraging. Insulting. Demeaning.
Morosely, I consider that I haven’t even touched the Squad since the incident with Kevin. I cannot bear to.
A part of me—a honest, vulnerable part of me I haven’t listened to in a long time—tells me that maybe that should be my wake up call. That it should trigger a profound reflection on my harem, the nature of my power, and human nature in general.
That maybe we were never meant to have absolute power, lest we be corrupted absolutely. That our minds are not designed to cope with a situation in which we have no pushback, no opposition, no critique, and just get everything we want at the snap of our fingers.
I begrudgingly admit that maybe absolute power has warped my perspective. But it’s pointless to put my hand on my heart right now, and swear I’ll do better once I’m free. I need to break out of Kevin’s clutches, first.
And at least tonight, that means surviving whatever he has in store for me…
* * *
I used to own the night.
It’s hard to explain to a man how unsafe a woman can feel after dark. Just how frequent unsolicited encounters with predatory men can be. Just how conditioned we are by society that it’s our responsibility to avoid these encounters, while men are given a free pass.
But not me.
I used to be the ambush predator. To lie in wait in the darkness, ready to spring on my chosen targets. The privacy and covered offered by the dark has allowed me to hypnotise people in the open, right under everyone’s nose. An invaluable tool: not all of my targets were professors with office hours that I could confidently engage one on one, after all.
Maybe most importantly, I knew nobody could touch me, by day or night. My powers have always given me a layer of supreme confidence most women never get to experience. I pout as I draw nearer to Kevin’s door. In a way, I guess I wanted all women on campus to be able to feel this, too. To feel safe.
Instead, here I am, walking past the scene of the crime, the place of my misstep. Just walking past the courtyard and down the hallway sends shivers of shame and humiliation coursing through my body.
Even though I still have the power with me, ready to defend me against any would-be assailant, I don’t feel safe anymore. Most of all, I don’t feel infallible. Besides, there is one assailant against whom my power is currently unusable…
I look down at Kevin as he throws the door open. He may have commanded me to never, ever try to hypnotise him… his third lever, of course. Even so, my tormentor is wearing precautionary sunglasses. All I see as I stare him down is my reflection. With normal eyes this time, at least.
It’s still enough to make me shiver, which I realise with a grimace gives Kevin the advantage.
“Come on in,” he says, and of course my body responds in deference to the small but forceful request. I make my way swiftly past the threshold, gulping at the sound of the door closing behind me. I turn around once more, confronting this short, spindly guy who currently holds the reins to my powers.
Yeah, I don’t feel infallible anymore. But Kevin isn’t stupid enough to rely on his temporary control any more than he has to. He knows that I’m more dangerous when I know I’m not invincible, because I’m actually going to apply myself to our battle.
I begrudgingly approve of his choice to wear the sunglasses, rather than trust in his instructions completely. They were the only thing that saved him during our first encounter. As for me, if I never see a pair of sunglasses in my entire life, I won’t be sorry for it. It would still be one pair too much.
As we stand before one another, me glaring threateningly into the dark pool of his sunglasses, and him trying to affect an aura of confidence, I think it’s clear to us both what’s happening here. The dust from our initial encounter may be settled, but our new dynamic is starting to take on real clarity.
Me, the leashed tiger, and him, the improvised rider out of his depth, trying not to fall off.
We both realise that this is going to be a long war. And one I very much intend to win.
“Sit down,” Kevin says at last. His voice is tremulous, but stiffens a little as he takes in my immediate compliance. I, in turn, grit my teeth in rage. Oh Kev, you better believe
I’m keeping a running tally of each new indignity, and you’re going to pay them all back. With interests.
“Be honest and truthful with me,” Kevin says at last, pacing nervously before me, unable to sit down. “I want to know everything there is to know about your power, not just its mechanics but also practical examples. And…”
There’s a meaningful pause as I look up at him curiously. He’s asked a dangerous question, especially because I am compelled to answer honestly… but it’s pretty much one I was expecting. That’s the turf this war is going to be fought on, after all.
And yet, Kevin is hesitating. Does he have another question in mind? Which one could it be?
“I want you to provide a list,” Kevin says, deliberately, “of everyone you’ve ever hypnotised.”
Now, that catches my attention. If it weren’t for my personal stake in this battle, I would almost be impressed. I do have a substantial network of assets I could use to try and wiggle out of this—I just haven’t exactly figured out how yet. In retrospect, a mistake.
But I do take note, with interest, of his own misstep. He wants to know who’s my thrall right now, but has not hypnotised me to add extra provisions. Say, forcing me to notify him whenever I enthrall someone new… or even forbidding me from hypnotising people altogether. Gears begin turning in my mind.
Unfortunately, I have to take this one step at a time, which for now means answering his questions… honestly and truthfully.
To my own chagrin, the words begin to flow out of me.
I tell him about my power, just waking up to it one day, able to push my own thoughts in people’s minds. Changing them, compelling their worship, the slackening of their resistance under the relentless pressure of the surging waves.
I tell him about professor Carter, and all his colleagues I had to change to protect female students. I tell him about each and every instance of predatory behaviour I’ve punished and reformed. Kevin just shakes his head at that.
“You really are a radical extremist,” he says. “You wish you could regulate every little human interaction, including how people flirt. Even offering a girl a drink is harassment to you, just because she says no the first time. What, she’s not allowed to change her mind?”
“Kevin,” I say, my nails digging into my palms, my outrage winning against my instruction to be deferential… which fills me with hope that I can break free, eventually. “I need to be honest and truthful with you, so I should probably mention how it is absolutely essential to your life expectancy that you do not pursue this line of argument any further.”
That does make him flinch a little. Score one for the feminist with mind control powers, I guess. But then, I resume talking, sharing every detail I can remember about the people I’ve enthralled.
Eventually and inevitably, I get to Sarah and her posse, the bullying I suffered through, the hazing they performed against other girls… and how I used my power to stop them. And for the first time in a while, Kevin’s posture shifts slightly, and he even finds himself nodding.
I assume bullying is something he’s also had to deal with, and he seems to almost approve, or at least empathise with my countermeasures. It’s a small and rare piece of common ground, with the sea in storm raging all around it, in the middle of our war.
As I descend into graphic descriptions of my harem, its team-building activities, and the rapture of sapphic dominance, he starts pacing again. I smirk to myself, thinking of the hard-on my description must be giving this undersexed loser. It’s one small reversal, but it’s better than nothing.
Kevin continues pacing long after I finish my tale, a hand on his chin, staring into nothing through his sunglasses. When at last he stops, he points to the mirror hanging right next to his bed—cramped room, of course, like for everybody here on campus.
My stomach drops. I suppose I should have seen this coming, but I really hoped I wouldn’t have to take any new instructions for him, not while I’m still trying to come up with a counter-strategy to the commands he’s already put in me.
Unfortunately, this kind of system admin access to my own power is precisely the one leverage he truly needs to make my position more complicated. Unable to resist, I slowly climb to my feet, and make my way to the mirror.
“Go on,” Kevin says. “Hypnotise yourself.”
I take in a deep breath, dreading the feeling I’m about to experience, but knowing I have no way of escape… for now.
I stare at the reflection in the mirror, trying to see her as a person other than me. The person in the mirror is a confident girl, used to be in charge of every situation, but fundamentally unprepared for the takedown that only mind control can deliver.
A lot like many of my victims, I suppose. Strength, turning to weakness. Pride, bending in defeat before something mightier. Something nobody can withstand.
My eyes are afire as I push my power into the mirror, and into my own mind.
I have just enough spare capacity to notice Kevin turning his back to me. As well he should. Even through his sunglasses, I was pulling him under last time, right until my reflection got to me. It’s simply not safe for him to stare at the preternatural might emanating from my brain right now.
But that’s my last tangential thought, before the entire weight of the ocean crashes on top of me.
I reel, the flat heels of my boots digging against the floor as I try to maintain my balance. But this time, I don’t resist. I know I will need the energy later, and that there’s no use wasting it in a losing fight against a power that cannot be stopped.
With my own mind control turned against me, it’s not through pure blunt force that I can win this war. I will have to use patience, leverage, and any loophole he is careless enough to leave. Like his omission about future thralls… provided that he doesn’t close that loophole now.
In any event, that will have to wait. For now, I let the wave wash over me, the tide taking me under, into the depths of submission you can only experience when your very mind gets turned against itself.
Once again, I experience the erotic-adjacent feeling of the snap. Resistance slackens as the grip tightens around me. My muscles lose tension and go limp, my lips stretch into a tiny oh that’s half air escaping me, and half surprise at my new constriction.
Being on the other side of the fence has taught me how my victims feel when they give up. The sudden docility, the acceptance of captive status, the almost… freeing sensation that comes with surrender. In this state, it’s hard to register, emotionally, that I should care about a misogynist pulling my strings. It’s hard to feel anything at all, except for compliance.
The feeling of being easily led.
“I am open and ready to receive instructions,” I say in a flat voice, which is Kevin’s cue to turn around and face me.
Interesting. The small part of my mind that can still think for itself files that away for future reference. I’m beginning to gather the various pieces of the puzzle. I may be able to surprise him, the next time he tries this. But first, of course, I have to see what he has in store for me.
“I have instructions for you, Serena,” he says at last. “You will be aroused all the time. I’m confident that’s going to make you considerably less insufferable.”
“Yes…” I say, my jaw slackening, while cursing at him internally. Even I have to admit that’s a good one. Horniness is the supreme enemy of clear-headed thinking. It’s a morass that makes everything else harder, and few things can push you to make dumb decisions like arousal can. Still, it could have been worse.
“And!” Kevin adds, clearly feeling supremely self-satisfied, “you will always respond meekly to male aggression and authority. I don’t want you to actually enjoy it, of course, you’re still a lesbian. Just to comply with it.”
“Ugh,” I blurt out, wishing I wasn’t hypnotised so I could bash his skull in with a baseball bat. I can’t believe it! Does he want me to suffer sexual harassment, not just at his hands, but everyone’s? What kind of disgusted, perverted fantasies are swirling in that cesspool he calls a mind, right now?
Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay on this one.
I beat desperately against the glass of my own mind as Kevin steps one more right into my personal space. He holds out a hand, cupping my breasts with near-reverence, amazed that he can do this with no opposition from me.
I shudder in disgust, but feel myself compelled to meekly let him have his way with me. That is… that is…
There are just no words. I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to fighting exactly this, and now here I am, trembling like so many vulnerable girls before me, while a man sees fit to explore my body without my consent. And I have to let him do it, because my own power tells me to!
His other command is starting to activate, too.
He hasn’t touched my sexual orientation. I’m still a lesbian, and meekness aside, I am utterly disgusted by his touch. But a distant, low-level buzzing of arousal is definitely there—not due to his clumsy, inexperienced fingers running across the length and width of my body, but because this is to be my new normal.
I know I’ll have to learn to live with this buzz, constantly sapping at my concentration, my ability to focus, until I can break free. But for the time being, the clash between it and my revulsion is a conflagration that has me reel inside.
It’s like a delicious cocktail, laced with horribly bitter medicine. The two flavours intermingle without ever really merging, and the dissonance is making me feel like puking all over his floor.
“Strip for me,” Kevin says at last, and the trembling hesitation in his voice reminds me I’m not dealing with a fearsome woman-tamer. This guy is a desperate incel and this might well be his first sexual experience. He may be forcing me, he may well be about to even rape me… a thought I consider with such alienness that I immediately know to be dissociation.
But he’s also clearly out of his depth. That may yet prove to be my saving grace.
In my forced compliance, I take off my boots with a sad pout—the symbols of my power, even though they can’t help me here—and then my jumper. I take off my jeans too, trying unsuccessfully to hide the embarassment and anger that’s making my cheeks flare.
I make it functional. There’s no teasing in this stripping. I just take off my clothes, until I’m standing in just my bra and panties, hating how exposed and vulnerable this makes me feel. His male gaze crawls over every inch of my skin, making me shudder.
“All of it,” he says, enraptured. “I want to see you.”
I lift my chin defiantly as I unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor. I know I’m conventionally attractive. I know I turn heads, with or without the power. To be honest right now I would rather be invisible, though.
I feel so objectified, so demeaned, so fundamentally disrespected as a person. To Kevin, right now, I’m just a slab of meat, or his own fantasy becoming real. Yes, he’s taken in by my beauty, but what he would never understand is that this is an entirely solipsistic appreciation.
In his mind, my beauty only exists to pleasure his wishes, to make them come true. I count for nothing. My own wants, my desires, my consent—they’re seen as inconsequential at best, obstacles to be actively overcome at worst.
As I complete my stripping, standing nude before a man unwillingly and for the first time, I know the sight alone is almost enough to make him bust his nut. And I hate that I have to almost wish for it to happen, because then, at least, he will not touch me.
“Get on the bed, Serena,” he says, whispering in what sounds like utter disbelief that this is happening to me. “I want you to be my first.”
Were it not for the instruction to be deferential, I would snort right now. Seriously? Everything else aside, that’s how he wants his first time to take place? Non-consensually, with a lesbian who’s hating every minute of it?
To be honest, he should be begging me to fix him with mind control. It’s way easier, and way less expensive, than the many years of therapy he would need to even begin approximating an emotionally mature adult.
Even so, I climb on the bed. His vague command leaves room for doubt, but I apparently can’t consider it consciously—I just naturally get on all fours on the bed, exposing myself to him.
Responding to male aggression and authority, evidently. My own subconscious reaching for the gestures and postures it considers signs of sexual subordination and respect. Those I must have imparted on my own sapphic pets a million times before.
I can sense the significance behind this act, the gender-coded nature of my submission. Here I am, presenting myself to a man like a bitch waiting for inspection. Open, accessible, vulnerable, defenseless.
Even if I do break free, even if I do turn the tables, this moment can’t simply be undone. I’ll have to live with the memory forever: a strong, confident feminist, forced to heel while on all fours like a fucking dog, at the hands of the most stereotypical incel she could ever meet.
Kevin joins me on the bed, and even though I don’t turn around to look at him, it’s clear he has no idea what he’s doing. He fumbles with his hands, which feel so wrong against my naked skin, not quite sure how to proceed from here. I can sense his rapid breath, but also his confusion.
Eventually, he tries to enter me, which has me roll my eyes in exasperation. Were it not for the quiet lubrication provided by his arousal command, it’s likely he would simply fail.
Instead, he does slide inside me, eliciting a shudder out of me, but not much else.
I’m well-used to penetration and have strapons and dildos of various sizes and girths. I close my eyes and pretend it’s one of my girls sliding one in and out of me, rather than a man’s tool.
Fortunately, the feeling is not especially weird or alien. Sure, the texture is different, but the pure physicality of the act, while doing nothing for me, is not exactly unbearable.
I just block it out.
The psychology, on the other hand…
Kevin presses the palm of his open hand against my head, pushing my face down into the mattress, and holding it there. Honestly, he’s not exactly wiry and strong, and given his fumbling sexual performance, this grotesque attempt at dominance is as ridiculous as it is violating.
And yet, I still submit, pulled down by the yoke that’s been slipped around my neck.
I find myself in the impossible situation of being unable to take Kevin seriously, but also having to yield to what he believes are his manly rights. The ability to take what he wants from a woman whenever it strikes his fancy. The ability to override her consent with a snap of his fingers.
No matter how little I think of Kevin, or how unimpressive his rookie sexual performance is proving to be, I know how this would look, seen from outside. A girl bent in half, easily tamed and brought under control by the guy currently humping her. Her head pressed down into the mattress, out of the way, forced to bow before his mastery. Allowing him to focus on the parts of me he truly cares about.
Not my mind, my voice, my opinions, but my cunt, exposed and available for him to use.
It’s a betrayal of everything I’ve ever believed in, and worked towards. It’s such an indignity that I find my entire self-conception challenged to its core. How does a lesbian with literal mind control powers end up on all fours, being fucked by a guy she despises?
Am I a failure?
My low-level arousal is working overtime, trying to find something to cling to while Kevin tentatively pistons in and out of me, one hand possessively on my rear, the other now clasping my neck to keep me firmly in place.
I realise with a degree of shame that if this were a girl topping me, I could probably buy into it. I could sexualise my own humiliation, find a small thrill in the idea of the strong mind-controlling queen being deposed, demoted to a social inferior, little more than a maid to her former slavegirl. Having to swap clothes with her, trading her boots and jeans for nylons and a skirt, perhaps…
I never had a submissive bone in my entire body, but that’s the literal point of mind control powers: they can change you.
But Kevin, well… there’s nothing erotic about my temporary defeat at his hands, at least not for me. I know he’s having the time of his life up there, though. The humiliation I feel may be burning and terrible, but there’s very little about it that is strictly sexual.
Still, like so many women before me, I do submit. I kneel there and take it, let him use my holes as a receptacle for his pleasure. It’s an even more terrible defeat than the accidental self-hypnosis from last time. There is no shame in yielding to a supernatural power. But having my body turned into a cocksocket, a sleeve for Kevin’s sexual adventurism… that’s the most devastating form of humiliation I could ever imagine.
Predictably, he doesn’t last long, but at least he has the presence to pull out of me in time. With a grunt of pleasure, he releases all over my back, making me shudder as the warm cum hits my skin, trickling downward towards my shoulders and my neck.
Kevin collapses in the bed behind me, having finally lost his virginity to a girl. No matter how unusual the circumstances, I suppose.
I, too, collapse forward, adhering to the bed in full, as if trying to disappear. I turn my head, catching my reflection in the mirror, biting the pillow in frustration.
That’s it. It’s actually happened. Meet Serena, militant feminist, convinced lesbian, veteran mind-controller… with a man’s cum on her back. The person in the mirror looks humiliated and defeated, her hair disheveled, a freshly-fucked look on her face.
That’s me now. I’ve been violated, mastered, and man-fucked. I plan to have my revenge in full for all of this, but I can’t undo it. I’ve served cock with my body. And I still have treasonous mind control triggers inside my mind, waiting to be leveraged against me even further, bring me even further down from my pedestal… being dethroned, maybe for good.
Or maybe not.
I blink slowly at my own reflection, staring in growing disbelief.
I’ve been looking for loopholes in Kevin’s instructions, and to be fair there are some… he still hasn’t said anything about future enthrallments, which does provide me with an opening. But still, in the shock and daze of my self-hypnosis, I’ve been so stupid that I’ve missed something completely obvious.
The loophole has been right here, under my very nose, staring at me all the time, just waiting to be exploited.
My reflection in the mirror.
My revulsion forgotten, I smile to myself, a plan starting to form in my head.
Yes, this is going to be a long war. A great game between the incel and the lesbian, a battle of wits and wills with stakes that couldn’t possibly be any higher than this. And now, at last, I know how I’m going to make my move.
The game, at last, is very much on.