Jillian’s dulled mind had taken in the words the man in front of her had spoken. The ragged, sobbing breaths of… someone else. Even the metallic clinks of metal strained against metal that her professional training told her was handcuffs on something.

She’d absorbed all of it, but just as the woman had told her, she thought of it as not mattering. Nothing would matter, she’d been promised, until she could see again.

Just as well. If what he’d said mattered, she would have to be very concerned.

“You’ll always know you didn’t get to save her. And you’ll always remember watching her succumb. But don’t worry too much - once I’m done with her, the last reason you had to fight is going to be burned away.”

That had been said to someone who wasn’t Jillian. And that meant - so the little part of Jillian’s mind that was clear enough of the trance sensations to be thinking insisted - she was probably the woman who needed to be saved.

She should be fighting. Resisting. At the worst, screaming and fleeing. But the honeyed words of the hooker she’d met had gummed up the works of her mind. Her free will was trapped in slow, sticky honey. Taking actions for herself, on her own behalf, was beyond her.

Then the hood came away. Things mattered again now - but just as they did, her eyes met his. Or rather, her eyes met His.

She could actually feel her body lock into place. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t call out, couldn’t twist free or throw a punch or even break his eye contact. She was held in place, helpless and hopeless, just by the effect of his eyes.

That effect made no sense. There was something somehow real about his gaze. It felt more real and more important than anything else in her life to date. Jillian was like a leaf caught in a stream, pulled along helplessly by the force of that gaze. She saw herself as if from outside, as if she was a puppet, a toy. She found herself calm, peaceful, thinking as little as possible while still technically remaining sentient.

All these impressions and more flooded through her at once, and the personality within her head seemed to curl up into a ball in response, becoming inaccessible to her mind. She felt as if the only thing keeping her upright was her complete inability to break eye contact with this man. And without her personality, her mind couldn’t start any thoughts or other processes; only carry those she was given on to their logical conclusions.

That out of body impression of herself as a puppet felt ever more accurate. She had no motivation of her own, but she could be set in motion, drawn along by those hypnotic eyes.

She would obey. She could not resist. She could not act for herself.

Jillian had read the reports on what happened to her sister, even the ones reconstructing the unsuccessful attempt to take the Thoughtsmith to court. This should all have been familiar, but the thoughts needed to put the facts together wouldn’t start. Not unless the man with the hypnotic eyes started them for her.

Jillian could not even realise how helpless she was.

*

Christina felt tears welling up in her eyes, and she wrenched again at the pipe she’d cuffed herself to, but the sharp pain at her wrists told her just how much that wasn’t going to work. She hadn’t felt the pipe so much as budge. It clearly wasn’t hollow, was better anchored. It wasn’t going to let her go.

She tried to scream around her gag but the results were less than impressive. Virtually no noise and she nearly choked; her eyes swam in water that wasn’t just tears as she tried to recover. By the time she was properly able to focus on the world around her once again Jillian was helplessly frozen in place, her body locked stiff except for her mouth. Her lips and jaw moved mechanically, shaping words syllable by syllable with compelled precision, her tone unchanging.

“I serve my Master… I serve my Master… I serve my Master…”

Beyond her, Christina could see Henson watching both her and Jillian, licking her lips excitedly as Jillian succumbed, still cautiously watching Christina.

But Christina couldn’t do anything about any of this. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t call out, couldn’t move away from the pole. She had no way to interfere. Why was Henson concerned?

“I serve my Master… I serve my Master… I serve my Master…”

The monotone obviously excited Henson; the Thoughtsmith, Christina knew, would be getting hard too. She could understand why; even as she continued to fight against his programming, the shape of his wishes was still present in the way she formed her thoughts, the approach she took to any decision or action. If this had been anyone but her sister, she wouldn’t have broken free. And if she hadn’t broken free, she would find this just as arousing as Henson did, and for the same reasons.

“I serve my Master… I serve my Master… I serve my Master…”

Christina blinked away her tears and realised she was not as far from the Thoughtsmith as she’d thought. She shifted position slightly, walking her feet out from under her, step by step, until rather than dangling on her knees she squatted off-balance, arms stretched back against her cuffs.

He was just in reach, and she swung out her foot with a vicious, frustrated kick. Her foot connected with the Thoughtsmith’s thigh as he stood, and he stumbled forward, exclaiming “Fuck!”

But even as their eye contact was broken, Jillian’s voice continued in the monotone for a few moments longer before faltering to a stop.

“I serve my Master… I serve… uh… serve…”

Christina watched her sister’s slack features shift slightly, but all that dawned in her expression was confusion. With a sinking heart she realised that Jillian’s consciousness was too deep to return so quickly.

“Look at me, Jillian,” the Thoughtsmith commanded. Her head was already swivelling to face him when the Thoughtsmith spoke again. “Look into my eyes.”

Christina saw Jillian’s body stiffen and still again as contact was made. It was as if the life and personality of her sister was brushed away just from that moment.

“I am your Master,” the Thoughtsmith said.

“You are my Master… You are my Master… You are my Master…”

Jillian responded by sinking into her mantra though she’d never been told what to do, and if it could, Christina’s heart sank even further at the realisation.

She’d fought and fought to break the Thoughtsmith’s control. After initially offering her sister to him, she’d realised only when the plan was in action and she had seen her sister again what guilt this made her feel - and that guilt had motivated her, the real her, the part his power had ground down and paved over with new rules and ideas and beliefs, to break free, to claw out of the slave-shaped coffin where she’d been buried.

But she’d never gotten fully free, and it turned out that her programming had had safeguards.

She remembered confessing her self-doubts to him, when she thought of him as Master, in spite of that inner insistence and rage. And she’d been foolish enough to think that she still had a chance, that his attempts to reinforce programming afterward had failed, because she was moving more freely within the cage of her programming constraints.

She hadn’t realised that he’d simply surrounded her with another cage. And when he’d told her to forget, the part of her which submitted to him most easily had managed to hide it all from her own conscious mind.

Now here she was, frustrated, free in mind and trapped in body. Unable to cry out or intervene or safeguard her sister. She had a front row seat for her sister’s corruption and enslavement, and it had come in part from her own efforts to save her.

She could only think how helpless she truly was.

*

There had been a moment there where Jillian wondered if she’d just seen her sister. If she had, her sister was handcuffed somehow in her room, weeping, and gagged, wearing a beat cop’s uniform that fitted her fine but not perfectly; it was much more likely that the image had come to her out of a dream of a hallucination.

Certainly her mind seemed off-kilter enough to believe a hallucination had happened. She felt fried, bewildered, off-balance; her head was spinning, she didn’t know for sure what was going on, how she’d got there, or how she felt about it.

Then the man - the Thoughtsmith; even addled this had been blatant enough to put together - told her to look at him. Jillian had obeyed without thinking or questioning, and had only been realising to her horror that this meant she was already under his influence when her eyes met his again.

It was like being pushed into a swimming pool; a moment of shock, then a complete change in how the world seemed to work. Her muscles locked. She stood, frozen and helpless, and stared, feeling as if she was falling forward, lost helplessly.

For the first time Jillian understood why Christina had toppled so completely. Any idea she’d thought she had of what it is to be mind controlled had been nothing to the reality.

She was chanting something. She didn’t know what, didn’t understand the words from her mouth, but she knew how they made her feel. New rules echoed through her mind, shivered up and down her spine, shone in her helpless eyes.

Her monotone voice was formed by lips which slowly shaped into a smile, as piece by piece, her mind and her behaviour were twisted and adjusted to appreciate and enjoy the future she could now expect.

From time to time the thing she was chanting changed, and some new portion of the person she was seemed to change with it. Jillian understood now the name this villain had chosen; it was as if her mind was soft and yielding, and the new words he gave her were the hammer, reshaping her.

One of the chants had changed her so that she found this as molten hot as her melting, twisted, reshaped mind seemed to be. She felt sweat beading along her scalp, a single trail running down her temple and dripping from her cheekbone. Was that heat or the struggle?

Because Jillian certainly knew she should fight this man. She should be resisting every word of the poison that was corrupting her. She should be pushing back on it. Fighting it.

And yet she didn’t know the changes being made. Lost in her eyes, her awareness was locked and trapped in strange ways. She knew she was chanting words he gave her. She just couldn’t hear what she was saying, nor what he’d said to her. Not consciously. Instead her entire consciousness was given over to staring fixedly into his eyes. Drinking deep from his power.

The initial reports on the Thoughtsmith had said that his victims were lost the moment he made eye contact. Jillian understood only now that she hadn’t properly accepted what that meant. She’d thought there was a chance to resist. That Christina had just been weak, where she would be strong.

She saw her error clearly now, but it was too late even to regret it. Instead she drank deep of new programming and waited for him to look away, so she could find out who she now was. So she could begin her service to her Master.

…That was a new idea, right? Something he’d planted? She was pretty sure she’d never considered the Thoughtsmith her Master before, nor had one. Yet now, it was so perfectly normal and reasonable that she should have one she could hardly believe it had ever been different.

Perhaps - and if she could move she would have shivered with delight at the thought - in a day or two she wouldn’t even realise how she’d been changed.

She felt that last shred of regret and resentment she’d harboured slipping away. Jillian was no longer a free-spirited, free-willed woman who’d chosen to turn her back on the police force and find another job. She was a corrupted cop to the core. The issues that had split her aside from her blue brethren were no longer reasons to distance herself; they were good arguments to betray them to their faces in service to her Master.

*

“I am better as a slave… I am better as a slave… I am better as a slave…”

Christina had to admit, the instructions and the brainwashing the Thoughtsmith had given her sister definitely seemed comprehensive. She’d listened carefully both as a bitter punishment to herself and just in case she heard anything that could be a weak spot - but she had a horrible feeling there weren’t any.

Jillian had been the only weak spot in Christina’s programming, after all. And she was… well, the Thoughtsmith clearly didn’t think she’d be a problem, and she could understand why.

There was a world of difference between learning your sister would also be enslaved and being made to handle it yourself. Even then, it had taken Christina days to break through. By contrast, she couldn’t really expect to have free will of her own much after Jillian could look away from her new Master - so what would there be to object to?

“I will not disobey… I will not disobey… I will not disobey…”

She tugged again at her handcuffs, testing the upright pole, but it still didn’t give. A wet sensation on one wrist made her wonder if she’d cut herself open. She should have turned her head and checked, seen whether there was any trickle of blood to track. But she refused to stop watching what was happening to her sister. She’d failed. She should be punished, and she’d only have the free will to do that for a short while yet.

Punishing herself was better than giving in to the fear.

“My Master deserves my best… My Master deserves my best… My Master deserves my best…”

Jillian’s voice was no longer a monotonous drone. There was a person there now saying those words, giving them emotion and tone and a certain breathy pleasure into the bargain. Christina saw her old self in her sister now, saw her clearly, and the very idea terrified her.

“I only matter because of my Master… I only matter because of my Master… I only matter because of my Master…”

To see what her sister had been reduced to was so painful. Christina’s glowering stare caught Mrs Henson’s eye and the older slave smirked slightly at her. Henson blew her a kiss, and Christina wanted to growl, but all that happened was a little more drool escaping her lips to drip down from her gag.

The Thoughtsmith took a step back from her sister and looked her up and down. The eye contact broken, Jillian blinked several times, more of an expression on her face with each one, until she looked at her Master and smiled warmly.

“Well?” Thoughtsmith smirked. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.” Christina had never heard her sister sound so happy. So perky. Between that and the broad, innocent smile she came off like a bimbo all of a sudden, and Christina felt the bile rising within her. This was sickening.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now don’t move.”

When his eyes had bored into hers, she had been locked into place, frozen, perhaps simply because of his power. This was different; Christina could see the tension that suddenly came into every limb of her sister’s body. She was holding herself still.

“Prepare her, Henson,” the Thoughtsmith said - it was so offhand it could barely count as an order, even if his slave sprang into action with another “Yes, Mistress.”

Christina could only watch as the older woman withdrew a small, sharp knife from her purse and began slicing the clothes from her unmoving sister. The gag stopped her even gritting her teeth. She anticipated first one disaster, then another; but none came, and in little time Jillian was naked but for the soft brown ankle boots she wore.

“Attention,” the Thoughtsmith said, a gloating, hungry tone to his voice, and both women snapped to attention. Not only that - Christina actually had to stop herself from giving into her first impulse to do the same. Even now, he had enough of a hold on her that outside the question of her sister she would still want to obey.

The Thoughtsmith grinned, and Jillian preened for being the cause. Christina attempted to screech, stamping her foot, just needing to register how much none of this felt acceptable to her. Jillian peered at her out of the corner of her eye, not even turning her head, and Mrs Henson frowned. The Thoughtsmith, on the other hand, turned to face Christina and smirked.

When he spoke, it wasn’t to Christina, though. “Who is this, Jillian?” he asked.

“My sister, Master.”

“She wanted to stop you from becoming mine,” he said. “What do we think of that?”

“Whatever you tell me, Master.”

Christina saw the moment’s confusion on the Thoughtsmith’s face. He had got much better, the past few months, at choosing his wording - but especially when he was showing off, he tended to forget and to slip up, saying silly things. Christina had been sent, once, to stop Ellie from following orders the Thoughtsmith hadn’t realised he’d given.

He tried again. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t like it, Master.”

“And what’s a good way to deal with her for that?”

“She should be yours, Master,” Jillian answered. There was no hesitation; Christina remembered just how readily she’d offered Jillian up, when it was just an abstract idea. Before it was a guilt-ridden betrayal. Before having to act on it cracked her conditioning.

Jillian wasn’t going to break from this unless the Thoughtsmith made her hold Christina still to be brainwashed. Maybe not even then, still riding the post-enslavement high as she was.

…fuck.

Christina had almost entirely forgotten that high. Now she remembered it clearly, viscerally. She shivered from arousal, wanting to feel it again, hating her weakness for doing so.

The Thoughtsmith might be an arrogant bastard but he’d been completely right. She’d failed to keep Jillian from him and now she was already feeling herself weaken against him - his programming was still in there, somewhere, and she’d been conditioned so heavily for so long that without a driving force to keep her going, she automatically started to weaken.

“You’re right,” the Thoughtsmith told Jillian, and her smile made her glow. “Go back to your bedroom and change into something skimpier than what we just cut off you,” he continued. “Then come on back. I’ll have more instructions for you then.

He turned back to face Christina as Jillian left the room with an eager “Yes, Master!” Christina swallowed, struggling back up to her feet, still cuffed to the post, still gagged.

Everything had gone wrong and she hated it, but there was nothing she could do. She squeezed her eyes tight, knowing it for a futile gesture; sure enough, she heard Mrs Henson’s heels clatter across the floor toward her, and her head was gripped firmly from behind, her eyes prized open gently but firmly - and the Thoughtsmith’s eyes were already in position.

It was like being pushed into a swimming pool; a moment of shock, then a complete change in how the world seemed to work. Her muscles locked. She stood, frozen and helpless, and stared, feeling as if she was falling forward, lost helplessly.

She was vaguely conscious that Henson had unbuckled her gag, that it came loose from her mouth with a wet pop, a trail of drool following it out in an arc as Henson tossed it to the floor.

And then she was chanting something, but she didn’t know what.

*

Now wearing a pair of knee-high white socks, a high-waisted powder blue thong, and a matching half-transparent powder blue bra, Jillian padded back into the living room as a final completion of her Master’s order. The scene had changed from the one she’d dimly glimpsed after her Master had finished opening her eyes to reality.

Her sister had been uncuffed. Still in her police uniform - where had she even got that from? - she was now on elbows and knees at Master’s feet, her ass high in the air, head to the ground, wiggling slightly as moans of pleasure and slurping sounds emanated from her mouth.

Bracing her elbows on the floor allowed her to cradle one of Master’s boots in her hands as she knelt, her head close to it. Licking his boots clean as he sat and smirked; Jillian felt something like family pride to see her sister back where she should be.

She reached the spot where she’d been stood when Master created the real her and came to a halt, standing a little nervously as she waited for Master’s attention. Luckily it wasn’t long in coming, as he looked up from Christina’s worship and spent a long while staring Jillian up and down, dwelling on each part of her body in turn.

He held up a single finger and spun it around silently; Jillian pivoted slowly on the spot, doing her best to strike the best poses for him at each step of the turn. She knew Master should never be disappointed.

He was grinning by the time she’d turned fully around, and beckoned her closer, still silent. She walked up until she stood just behind her sister’s kneeling form, and the Thoughtsmith unbuckled his belt.

“Come closer,” he told her. “Use your sister’s ass for a seat.” Jillian of course complied, though Christina’s persistent, enthusiastic and delighted wiggling made this surprisingly difficult.

“Now lean forward and start sucking,” Master told her. Jillian did as she was told, the two sisters locked in simultaneous devotion and debasement together, knowing only how glad they were to have a Master whose purpose gave them value.

*

2010

“…raid on the island by Ruckus of the Upstarts, supported by C.A.L.I.B.R.E. operatives, ended today with the notorious mind controller dead,” the newscaster read over the car radio. “Known as the Serpent, it is believed he controlled his captives and trained them into an army using a mixture of psionic abilities and a hypnotic toxin. These toxins were administered by snakes the Serpent appears to have controlled. It is unclear whether these abilities were scientifically applied or the result of a metahuman genetic quirk.”

Christina was reflecting on the mention of hypnotic toxins, remembering the drug she’d used to dose her sister before Jillian and she brought each other back to their Master, when she heard Master snort with amusement. “Idiot,” he said.

“Master?” Jillian asked. It was rare, with her assignments in the Boston police department, that she got to accompany her Master; she tended to be even more alert to his needs than his other slaves when she was given the opportunity.

“He had a little private army,” he said. “A little private harem, too. If you’ve got a whole collection of eager, trained slaves, and you get worked over and left in the dirt? You were a fucking moron.”

On the whole, Christina agreed. She glanced into the rear view mirror and saw Master chuckling to himself, a hand up Jillian’s skirt, another under her blouse.

She smiled, confident that everything was as it should be, and turned her attention back to the road. It was pleasant to have been allowed to serve as Master’s chauffeuse; after her… lapse (it was still hard to think about it - she couldn’t understand now how she’d allowed herself to be so wrong) she’d been demoted to the lowest rank of Master’s slaves. She’d been used for her beauty and her body, excluded from plans, not permitted even to serve as Master’s security.

It had taken until the new year before she was given any task that was not purely for his pleasure, and that had been to train Mrs Henson in certain skills she needed for duties not permitted to Christina.

She had been told every day that this was a punishment for her lapse. For her resistance, her disobedience, she had been lowered below all others.

She had been made to delight in it, until her Master was confident once again that she would obey any order she was given. This was the start of a road back to his side and his service.

Very quietly, though, she had started to test her own boundaries. She could not resist, but there were now some things she was capable of doing for herself, not for her Master.

Christina had no intention of letting Master see that, nor even her sister. She couldn’t be sure that Jillian had any interest, currently, in resisting or overcoming their Master.

She was reasonably sure that Mr Henson was pushing his own boundaries. Ellie and Mrs Henson were completely their Master’s tools. And Marcie was never around to see.

Christina would obey for as long as it took to get the opportunity she needed to strike. She still felt pleasure in obedience; it was no grating chore for her to let Master fuck her pressed up against the windows of the house, where anyone passing by could see. She was happy to walk across the property - or even outside the boundaries of Master’s home - completely naked and dripping from around a thick dildo she was made to hold in, just so long as she was ordered to. (And had been, once, when he decided he wanted a cocktail bringing to him on the golf course.)

She resented her Master even as she delighted in his orders. And a year after her sister had fallen under his spell, she was as determined as ever to bring him down.

She made a note, now, to remind him of today’s words when she did. To let him know before he died that, like the Serpent before him, he was a fucking moron.

And in the meantime, she would obey, and delight in her obedience.