Ds2coffin - Assigned Female At Basement - Tumblr Blog

Jetsetting hypnodomme CEO getting the stewardess to induct her into the mile-high club in between brainwashing the girl in the seat next to her. By the time the plane lands they're both ready to follow her back to her hotel.

you thought hypnotizing your bestie into a dumb bimbo slut would be, like, fun and shit, but she's honestly so stupid now it kind of pisses you off. it's like just listening to her talk is making you dumber... and dumber... and dumber..... fuck, this skirt's like, waaay too long.

Aw, sweetheart, aren't you so tired of it all? Don't you want to let go of all that responsibility? All that stress? Don't you want to come be my pet? Come melt in my arms and let those fears and stresses fade away. I'll take care of you, I'll give you love and care, I'll control everything for you, all you have to do is give away your humanity, your freedom, and come be mine~

Aww, poor dear, are you nervous? I picked this dress out just for you, and now you're having second thoughts?

If you won't put it on, I'll just have to do it for you. I'm going to make a lady out of you, darling, whether you like it or not. Trust me - when I'm finished with you, you'll be a confident, beautiful woman, and whatever you were before will be a thing of the past.

diversity win! this spider is forcefemming its prey!

(full article)

i don't do everything for the amusement of older women btw it's just that a lot of what I'm doing anyway of my own free will happens to also be entertaining to them and they think it's cute. yes the maid dress was my choice, you're just imagining things

even more shenanigans with Elijah and his cross-dressing coworkers

Danny the internet model (ft. his now confused and enlightened coworker Eli )

appreciate me

Wishing i was a girl just to be owned by You!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

you dont need to be a girl. you just need to be willing to let me dress you like one :)

what do you think? some panties? a little makeup? it'll be fun!

tall bitches really never think you're gonna pin them to the wall. your center of gravity is at grabby height for me and you left a critical opening when you leaned down to kiss me like a fucking rookie. get slammed

Can't believe some people think of forcefem as humiliation.... Tch.... It's a great honor !

Preyblood

After drinking her prey’s corrupted blood, a vampire hunter discovers who the real predator is as feelings of love and hate for the vampire begin to blur

A commission for LadyTheophania!

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

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As Emily was swallowed up by the club, with all its riotous colors and dancing, pounding music, and sinuous writhing of bodies, she clutched the wooden stake tight in her hand. She hated hunting in places like this. It set all her old military instincts on edge. Watch your six, check the corners, keep line-of-sight to the exits - none of that made any sense in such a chaotic environment. She couldn’t control what was going on around her. It made her feel defenseless.

Emily ran her fingers up and down the stake in her hand, taking a moment to feel the grain of the wood and remind herself of its heft. No, she told herself. She wasn’t the defenseless one here.

She was the hunter. And the vampire nesting here was her prey.

It was a typical enough haunt for a bloodsucker. Dark, sensual, open all night, lots of potential, pliable victims. An ideal hunting ground. This one, in particular, was a lesbian club, and Emily had to grant the vampire a little grudging respect for that. It was the kind of place she might have enjoyed spending time herself if she wasn’t on the hunt. Picking up a girl was a nice way to blow off steam, and what kind of lesbian wouldn’t go for a tall, strong, athletic dyke in a leather jacket and combat boots? Just as long as they didn’t mind that she was trans, anyway.

But that would have to wait for another night. Tonight, Emily could afford no distractions. She was an experienced hunter, but vampires were never easy to bring down. Emily kept her ears strained to hear over the loud music, and she kept scanning the room, searching for the slightest hint of reddened eyes or sharpened fangs. Nothing yet. In all likelihood, the creature was holed up in a private room out back or on the floors above. That was their usual way: a quiet little den, a place to sleep through the day and feed undisturbed at night. So, slowly and cautiously, Emily started making her way towards the back of the club, although she had to struggle to push her way through the tight crush of dancing bodies, made strange and hard to track by the dim, shifting, flickering, multi-colored club lights.

“Hello there, stranger,” someone whispered in her ear. “Are you looking for a good time?”

Without warning, some girl - drunk, probably - was draped across Emily’s shoulder. Emily did her best to brush her off, but the girl was clinging to her tight, entangling their limbs together.

“Hey,” the girl drawled insistently. “There’s no need to be so rude!”

“Not tonight,” Emily grunted. “Busy. Out of my way.”

The girl didn’t budge. Wary of distractions, Emily kept scanning the club. The girl was pressed up to her side, and all Emily saw of her was a shock of long, curly, red hair. Still no sign of the bloodsucker.

“Come on now.” The girl was purring right into her ear now. Her words sounded strange; it was as if she had a hint of some weird, old-timey accent. Maybe she was on something. “What’s the hurry?”

“Looking for someone,” Emily replied. She couldn’t spare the energy to think of a lie.

“Aww!” The stranger made a pouty noise. Emily still couldn’t seem to shake her off. She was surprisingly strong and clingy, for a party girl. “You’re all taken already? I can’t have you?”

“Not tonight.”

“Who you looking for?” the girl whined.

Emily sighed. Maybe if she just answered, the girl would leave her alone.

“Letitia,” she said. “Letitia Clarendon. Know her?”

“Oh!” the girl replied brightly. “In that case, I guess you’re all mine after all!”

A single heartbeat after all the alarm bells sounded in Emily’s head, she felt two sharp fangs plunge into her neck.

Emily didn’t scream. She was far too much of a pro for that. All around her, people kept drinking, dancing, laughing - but the vampire hunter was keenly aware of the fact that she was in dire danger. Emily turned, thrashing, elbowing - but now the vampire was using all her unholy strength, and Emily could already feel the creature’s soporific venom spreading through her body.

With each drop of blood Letitia Clarendon sucked from her veins, the vampire grew stronger, and Emily grew weaker.

“Get the fuck off me!” Emily roared. Mustering all her strength, she managed to wrench her body forward, out of the vampire’s grasp. Emily had time to let out a single gasp of relief, before wheeling to face her foe, stake raised.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Letitia sang. As lights flickered on, Emily saw pale skin, red lips, a wide smile, and blood. “I like it rough, see. And I think I’d like to keep you.”

Emily was ready to strike. She was ready to defend. She wasn’t ready for the vampire to surge forward and kiss her.

She felt the bloodsucker’s lips against her own before she knew what was happening. The vampire was a formidable kisser, despite her grave-cold flesh; she teased Emily’s lips apart effortlessly, and the vampire hunter found her mouth invaded by a tongue that was unnaturally long and impossibly nimble.

And that was coated in something that tasted of iron and sin.

A little of it had already trickled down Emily’s throat before she figured out what it was. Blood. And not her own. Not human. No, there was something distinctly unnatural about the taste. The vampire must have pricked her tongue on her own fang as she moved in for the kiss.

She was feeding Emily vampire’s blood. Vitae.

Emily recoiled violently at the sensation of that poison being poured down her throat. She tried to make herself choke it up, but the vitae was somehow sticky and slick in equal measure, and with the vampire’s tongue prying her throat open, Emily couldn’t keep it up. Letitia’s kiss was equally as inescapable. She was wrapped around Emily like a serpent, coiling tight, clinging, somehow guiding Emily as the two of them stumbled and struggled.

“Come now.” Letitia drew back, just barely, so she could hiss to Emily. Her voice was dripping with sour candy. “Let us get to know each other somewhere a little more private.”

Before Emily could spit a reply, the vampire’s tongue was back in her mouth, pumping even more of her poison past the hunter’s lips. Emily was still trying to throw her off, but something about the blood she was unwillingly imbibing was robbing her of her strength. Her vision was blurring, and she was finding it hard to resist as Letitia dragged her through the club and out towards the back rooms.

To anyone else, they probably just looked like one more pair of drunk, horny, stumbling lesbians.

Once the vampire finally drew back and allowed Emily to take a breath, the two of them were in a large, private room, luxuriously decorated, illuminated by low, steady, yellow lamps. Emily bent double and heaved, trying to will her body to expel everything she’d just drunk. It didn’t work.

“My, my,” Letitia purred. “Aren’t you a strapping thing?”

Emily looked up and, for the first time, got a real look at her prey.

Letitia Clarendon, vampire, was around a hundred years old, and came from an upper-class, old-money background. That was about all Emily’s research had given her. The real thing certainly bore that out. Letitia was only medium-height, but she certainly carried herself like an aristocrat. She had long, red, rich, curly hair, high, arching cheekbones, and freckled, milk-pale skin, lit within by a slight, pink blush that Emily knew came only from the blood the vampire had just drunk. She had an aristocrat's figure, too; plump from indulgence, and all the more alluring for it.

For a moment, Emily was struck by the odd notion that, in another life, Letitia could have made for a perfect farmgirl. Soft, rosy, warm, sun-kissed. Instead, she was a pale, immortal predator from another age.

Letitia’s attire - a floor-length dress, accented by no small amount of jeweled finery - was just as old-fashioned as her accent, but thanks to a few modern touches, probably let her pass herself off as some kind of devoted subculture fashionista. Anyone who looked too closely, though, would be sure to see that her apparent humanity was nothing more than a paper-thin veneer spread across undeniable monstrosity. Her eyes gleamed with a wicked, red light, she had a corpse’s countenance, and two of her teeth were far, far too long to be natural. Still, there was an undeniable, elfen beauty to her undeath that stirred even Emily. She was having a hard time peeling her gaze away from the vampire’s figure.

But more than anything else, Emily hated her. She simply hated her.

It didn’t matter what they looked like. She hated every single one of those bloodsuckers. Emily had vowed to devote her life to hunting them down. Letitia Clarendon had already given her more trouble than any yet - but Emily was sure she could still put her down. A little exchanged blood didn’t change a thing.

The stake in her hand was still sharp, and Emily still had the strength to lift it. That was all that counted.

“Darling,” Letitia drawled, as Emily raised her weapon, “if you wanted to dance, you ought to have simply asked. You really are my type.”

Emily’s lips pulled back into a snarl. “Funny. Real funny.”

“Oh, darling,” Letitia tutted. “Who’s joking? You’re really quite the kisser, you know. Enthusiastic. I enjoyed it.”

The vampire made a show of opening her mouth and letting her elongated drool out of her mouth, dripping some of her own black vitae onto the floor. As she lapped at her own fangs, polishing them clean, Emily was embarrassed to note a strange shiver race down her spine. She thought, unwillingly, about just how dexterous that organ was, and about how it had felt when it had forced its way into her mouth and down her throat.

Then she thought about how much of the vampire’s blood she’d drunk. She’d heard stories, of course. Dependency. Thralldom. She didn’t know exactly how much vitae that required, or exactly how much she’d drunk. Was it already doing something to her?

With all her being, Emily rejected that. She summoned up all her hate for the unholy, predatory creature standing before her, and spat it in her face.

“Fuck you.” Emily’s voice came out alarmingly thick. “Go fuck yourself.”

Joy danced in Letitia’s eyes. “You’d enjoy watching that, I’m sure.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Even more than you enjoyed our kiss, perhaps.”

“Bullshit! Fuck you!” Why was it suddenly so hard for Emily to find her fire?

“Oh, darling.” Letitia licked her lips. Another treasonous shiver. “I can see for myself that you’re not being truthful. Slut.”

Her eyes flicked down pointedly as she spat out that last, pointed syllable. Emily couldn’t help but look down too, following the vampire’s gaze. Once she saw it, her cheeks started to burn.

Emily was hard.

Despite the folds in her loose combat pants, it was unmistakable. Emily was hard. Harder than she’d ever been, maybe. At once, her bravado was undercut by embarrassment. Suddenly, the nature of her distraction was so much clearer. Emily’s overpowering attraction to the vampire standing before her was buzzing in the back of her brain.

Emily immediately started flailing for an explanation. She was a lesbian, yes, but this was more than that. Normally, she would never allow herself to feel such longing for an undead monster like Letitia.

“Who cares?” Emily spat, with a fierceness she was no longer sure she felt. “You’re about to be dust.”

Letitia let out a loud, shrill laugh. “My! You really are something.” She licked her lips once more. “Yes. Yes, I really must make you mine.”

Emily snarled furiously. She decided to end this before the vampire could confuse her any further. Drawing on all her strength, all her hate, Emily raised her stake and charged forward. Vampires could be inhumanly fast, but Emily’s combat instincts were honed to a razor’s sharpness. She crossed the short distance between them in no time at all. As the tip of Emily’s stake scythed through the air, towards Letitia’s chest, she rejoiced as she saw that the vampire hadn’t even raised a hand to defend herself.

Typical bloodsucker. Too cocky, and too slow when it really counted. It was already over.

Then, Emily’s arm froze.

It took her a long moment to realize what had happened. At first, Emily thought that she’d hit some kind of forcefield, or perhaps that time itself had ground to a halt. Eventually, though, she realized that her muscles had simply locked up. Her limbs felt like iron girders. They refused to obey her commands, and Emily was left standing there like a scarecrow, paralyzed, stake held mere inches from its target.

Letitia’s lips curled up into a smirk.

“W-what did you do to me?” Emily whispered. For the first time ever, she felt powerless on a hunt.

“You’re taking to it well,” Letitia noted, pleased. “Yes. Yes, I think we’re going to get along beautifully, darling hunter.”

The savage confidence in Letitia’s voice made Emily step backward. Discovering she could move again restored her confidence, but that drained away again just as quickly when she realized that she still couldn’t strike at Letitia. Every time she tried, her body rebelled. Something inside her was fighting Emily’s commands. It was like there was something black and wet wrapped around her spine, pulling her nerve endings like strings, formed of an inexplicable reluctance to hurt the monstrous creature bearing down on her.

The vitae. It had to be.

“What’s the matter, hunter?” Letitia chided. She took one step forward; Emily, one back. “Where’s that adorable confidence? Where’s that strength now?”

Emily opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled grunt. She kept backing away, but Letitia kept coming, and all that came into Emily’s head were useless, childish protestations at the unfairness of the vampire’s power.

Those, and stray, unwelcome observations about her unnatural beauty.

“Come now,” Letitia chided. “Don’t run. Let me get a proper taste of you.”

Emily felt her back hit the wall. Nowhere left to run. Some hunter.

“Don’t worry.” Letitia’s smile made her fangs look sharper than ever. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Until the bitter end, Emily tried to make herself strike at Letitia, but it was useless. Once the vampire’s fangs pierced her jugular, even that rebellious urge drained away. By the time Letitia started feeding Emily more of her vitae, the hunter was far too weak to do anything but lap it up.

Shamefully, despite the blood loss, she remained hard the entire time.

***

Without real energy or enthusiasm, Emily once again yanked at the sturdy, iron chain binding her to the wall.  Sitting, slumped, she watched forlornly as, unsurprisingly, the bracket didn’t even budge.

There was no escape. But then, Emily had already figured that out a long time ago.

It had been weeks. At least, Emily thought so. All she had to count by were the glimmers of sunlight that passed through the cracks in the paint on the blacked-out windows, but she was starting to lose track of exactly how many nights it had been. At first, things like that had seemed important - counting the days, figuring out where she was and how to get away. Emily had the sense that she was somewhere high up, perhaps in the disused rooms a few floors up from Letitia’s club. But over time, fear and boredom had given way to a kind of haze in which nothing mattered at all. She’d even abandoned the exercise regimen she’d planned to keep herself in fighting form for when the vampire came.

But when she came, there was never any question of fighting.

Letitia’s irregular appearances were the only times anything at all seemed to matter. They were the only times Emily felt alive. Every time her ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps, Emily’s breast swelled with a sick kind of anticipation, knowing that as soon as that strange, aristocratic creature appeared, Emily’s heart would begin to pound again with a heady, uncomfortable mixture of hate and admiration.

It was the only thing she seemed to feel at all, anymore. There was nothing else. Letitia Clarendon’s twisted gift had seen to that. Her unholy blood. Emily could feel the inky, black substance inside her, gnawing at her, hollowing her out. It was the stuff of her worst nightmares.

Emily didn’t know how to fight it. All she knew was that she had to hold on to what she was sure of: her purpose as a hunter, and her violent hatred for the bloodsucker keeping her captive.

How long? That was the question she kept asking herself. How long until someone came for her? How long until she was rescued? Only, over time, as hope had grown fainter and fainter, that question had started to change. To mutate.

How long until Letitia comes to see her again?

A footstep. At once, Emily’s pulse quickened. She was sure that a creature like Letitia could move silently, if she chose, but she couldn’t help but be grateful that Letitia allowed Emily to prepare for her coming. To savor the anticipation. Emily drew herself upright, back resting against the wall, and listened to the steps getting closer.

In the last moment before the door opened, Emily found herself grinning.

Letitia Clarendon swept into the room like the night. She was dressed, as usual, in a huge, sweeping, Victorian dress, and adorned in other, equally-archaic finery. Her fashion, it seemed, had never quite kept up with the times. She was sharp, though. Emily knew that much. Letitia knew exactly how she looked, and how best to turn it to her advantage.

There was a gleeful spring in the vampire’s step, like coming to see Emily was the highlight of her night. Emily couldn’t help but feel a little appreciative of that. By the same token, being in the same room as Letitia made Emily feel sharper. On edge. Alive. It was a chance for her to spit her fire at the bloodsucker holding her captive. To assert herself. To hear her own voice spoken out loud without talking to herself like a crazy person.

And a chance to look. Letitia Clarendon really was astonishingly beautiful. More and more, as nights passed, Emily found herself dwelling on it. She’d given up pretending she wasn’t stirred by the vampire’s appearance. By her sensual presence. The evidence was all too pressing.

Emily kept insisting to herself that it was just because she was a lesbian, and just because she didn’t have anything else to think about. That was why couldn’t help gratifying herself to the thought of Letitia between visits.

“Good evening, Emily,” Letitia greeted her, smiling. Showing teeth. “How is my hunter this fine evening?”

As she spoke, Emily noticed a fleck of crimson on the tip of one of her fangs. It made bile and choler rise in her throat.

“Not bad,” Emily spat defiantly. She was still grinning. “Strong. How about you let me out of these chains and we can find out?”

Letitia let out a merry laugh. “Good, good! I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want you to lose that fine spirit of yours.”

It was incredible how everything came into focus when Letitia was around. Suddenly, Emily’s tongue cracked like a whip. She could feel sparks in her belly. It was so much better than all that numbness. Emily had to remind herself, forcefully, that the vampire’s presence was no kindness. It was deceptively easy to forget that. Letitia Clarendon was coated with candy. Her words were thick with an overbearing sweetness that belied the malice beneath.

Emily knew better than to be fooled by such a transparently two-faced demeanor. But with Letitia, there was something slippery about it. Her presence was so undeniably pleasant and it was somehow a constant temptation to slip beneath the vampire’s flow; to take her pretty face and easy smile at face value. To treat her like a friend or a lover, instead of a captor.

To forget what she was.

Again and again, Emily had to remind herself she was dealing with a monstrous predator. Why was it so easy to lose sight of that?

Probably because of her beauty.

“Of course not,” Emily growled. “Why? What are you keeping me here for?”

“Why?” Letitia blinked at her, eyes guileless. “For the pleasure of your company, of course.”

Her beauty was oppressive. It weighed heavy on Emily’s shoulders. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever been so oblivious to it. Emily had noticed, certainly, but somehow, on the first night, she hadn’t been dazzled by it. Letitia’s true beauty hadn’t quite struck her. Now, it was different. Just being in the same room as the vampire was distracting. What Emily had first deemed ghoulish about Letitia’s undead features, she’d now come to accept was simply her own difficulty coming to terms with physical perfection.

Yes, Letitia was perfect. Her cheekbones, her complexions, her long tongue and teeth, her ethereal red eyes - all of it was perfect. Her beauty was beyond human.

Perhaps that was why it was so treasonously tempting to just say ‘yes’ to her.

“Bullshit,” Emily spat. She refused to give in to that instinct. “I know your type. You’re hungry. Always hungry. If you’re not drinking me dry, there’s gotta be a good reason for it.”

Again, Letitia laughed merrily. She always seemed so carefree. It kept Emily wondering: what if she could find something sharp? What if she could lure the vampire just a little closer?

“I suppose you’re right,” Letitia admitted. “It’s true. I have my reasons. You see, you have something I want.”

Emily was all ears. “And what’s that?”

“I already told you,” Letitia replied. “Your spirit. You see, it really is so hard to find good servants these days.”

For five solid seconds, Emily just blinked. Then she scrunched up her face in disgust and started guffawing.

“Oh, that’s a good one,” she spat, between laughs. “Me? Serving you? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Letitia’s confidence was unmarred by Emily’s open mockery. “I hardly think so. You see, at my side, you could be magnificent. I have use for a hunter. I want you - and I always get what I want.”

Her smugness was insufferable - but beneath that, Emily couldn’t help feeling ever so slightly flattered. Letitia Clarendon wanted her. Of all people - her. It was an intoxicating notion. There was a certain pride to be taken in it, even. Part of Emily badly wanted to ask: why? Was it her looks? Her skills? Something more?

But she had more dignity than that. “Let’s get one thing straight, bloodsucker,” Emily made her gaze steel as she stared into Letitia’s eyes. “I hate your kind. I hate you. And no matter what, as long as I live, I will never, ever serve you.”

“Really?” Letitia raised an eyebrow, and then a hand.

“Yes, damn you!” Emily roared. “You fucking disgust me, vampire. I would sooner die than… I’d never… never…”

Her words died. Her eyes betrayed her, and she gave way in their little staring contest of wills. Instead, her vision locked onto something else: the little drop of black blood, welling up from where Letitia had pricked her finger on one of her talons.

And there it was again. The need.

Most of the time, during her captivity, Emily had been free from want and need. She’d felt nothing. No appetite. No hunger. But when Letitia confronted her with the vampire’s vitae, it all came roaring back. Suddenly, Emily became conscious of just how long it had been since any food had passed her lips. Her stomach, cavernous and empty, began to eat at her from the inside. A piercing, debilitating awareness of her own weakness washed over Emily. The hunter felt faint, pale, sluggish. Like she could barely move.

But one drop could fix all that. Just one drop.

Emily felt the chain pull taut around her ankle. She looked down, and realized that she’d already been crawling forward.

“I’m sorry?” Letitia said sweetly. “What was that you were saying?”

A whine forced its way past Emily’s lips. It had been like this ever since that first night. The very first drop of Letitia’s unholy blood, given in a kiss, had taken root inside Emily like a poisoned seed. Most of the time, she managed not to dwell on it. The cravings. The addiction. After each visit, she promised the next would be different. She promised she’d be tougher. Stronger. Sterner with herself. That she’d find the courage to say ‘no’ to Letitia.

Those promises were melting all around her.

At first, she’d fought tooth and nail to stop Letitia from force-feeding her the vitae. But the vampire, flush with fresh blood and unnatural strength, had always won, and so somehow, eventually, Emily had given up resisting. She’d just allowed it to happen. And then, before she’d realized what was happening, it had become too late.

“I…” Emily found herself saying. Her words came out wet and thick. She was salivating like a dog. 

“I suppose there is something else I want,” Letitia mused, as if she was oblivious to Emily’s plight. “Besides your spirit, I mean. Something very important.”

An offhand gesture sent a single, tiny droplet of Letitia’s blood spilling onto the ground. Emily watched it fall in slow motion, unable to stop it. As it splashed uselessly across the dirty floorboards, Emily let out a weak, keening cry. In moments it was gone, absorbed into the sawdust.

“I need your spirit,” Letitia told her, “and I need your love.”

That word caught Emily’s attention. She looked up at the vampire, dumbfounded.

“L… love?” she bleated.

“Do you know why dogs are so wonderfully obedient to their masters?” A touch of madness glinted in Letitia’s crimson eyes. “Because they love them.”

As hard as it was to feel anything but worship while she was in the throes of addiction, that comment made Emily indignant. “I’m not a goddamn dog.”

Letitia ignored her. “Do you know why dogs love their masters?” she asked. “Because they feed them. It’s that simple.”

Emily barked a laugh. Her head was swimming. Above her, Letitia shone like the moon. Every clear thought was a struggle.

“You’re crazy,” Emily spat.

“And you’re hungry,” Letitia replied.

Before Emily could form a retort, Letitia took a step towards and held her hand out towards the captive hunter. Instantly, Emily’s world shrank to a single point. The little back droplets welling up on the vampire’s finger were the only things that mattered. It was so close now, Emily could even smell it. The scent was more intoxicating than anything else; the iron, and the hint of something darker beneath. Emily was starting to drool down her chin.

“That’s better,” Letitia soothed. “Would you like a taste, my dear hunter?”

Without thinking, Emily nodded. She wasn’t even ashamed of herself for doing so. Raw hunger was the only thing left in her head.

“Then taste.” Letitia moved closer still, holding her hand down at the level of her hips. “Drink.”

Emily’s brow furrowed in confusion. Usually, when Letitia visited her, she poured her blood into a dish and offered it to Emily. Sometimes, she simply overpowered the hunter and forced her into another twisted kiss. This was new.

“H… how?” Emily asked, tongue wet. She already knew the answer.

“Drink,” Letitia repeated.

She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. It only took a few more moments for Emily’s hunger to overpower her better judgment.

Emily stretched forward and wrapped her lips around Letitia’s bloody finger.

She suckled with the starving fervor of a newborn babe. It tasted every bit as good as she’d known it would. Just a few drops of the vampire’s blood were all it took to infuse Emily’s entire body with energy. She felt like she could run a marathon, or climb a sheer cliff face. She felt like she could fly.

She felt amazing.

Nothing could pierce that euphoria. Not shame, nor humiliation, nor the bitter sting of defeat. Emily was immune to those. She was on cloud nine. Emily kept licking and sucking, unwilling to let even the smallest droplet of Letitia’s ambrosia go to waste. She lavished the vampire’s skin with worshipful attention, kissing and licking every inch of her finger until it was clean. Letitia even helped, pumping her finger backward and forward, in and out of Emily’s mouth. Distantly, as if it was coming from far away, Emily heard the vampire’s laugh.

It didn’t matter. In that moment, all she could feel towards Letitia was an overbearing sense of gratitude.

Emily stopped once it became obvious that the small cut on Letitia’s finger had healed minutes ago. The hunter slumped backward and shivered rapturously as vitae coursed throughout her body. There was no feeling like this. No drug or high came even close.

“Well,” Letitia remarked mirthfully, “I don’t know about your spirit. But I see that your energy is certainly undiminished.”

Emily knew at once what she was referring to. As always, after a feeding, Emily was rock hard and tenting her pants. She couldn’t help it. Letitia’s blood left her infused with vigor - and besides, the vampire’s beauty seemed to grow after each meal. Emily felt like she could stare at Letitia forever, admiring her like a work of art. It was so strange, that such a dark creature would look so angelic.

“I’ll give you some more time to yourself,” Letitia announced, and spun to face the doorway. “To… contemplate your situation.”

Her sudden absence dimmed Emily’s blissful mood a little. It wasn’t long before the effects of the blood wore off, and Emily was left, once again, ashamed of her weakness and conscious of her own thirst. She knew the vitae was doing something to her. After each twisted feeding, she could feel something growing inside her. A kind of foreign influence, utterly alien to her true desires, but terrifyingly seductive and potent. It was nursing a kind of obsession for Letitia Clarendon; a violent one, perhaps, but still, a passionate one.

It was the kind of thing that might give birth to the very worst kind of love.

Emily had to stop. She knew she had to stop. Next time, she had to find a way to avoid drinking Letitia’s blood.

But somehow, as the minutes wore on, that thought slipped through her fingers, while the bittersweet memory of her captor’s face burned bright in her head, distracting her, luring her hand between her legs to deal with her sudden need.

It wasn’t long before she was counting down the time until Letitia might visit her again.

***

Emily didn’t look at the girl’s face. She refused to. She didn’t want to remember it. She didn’t want that face to haunt her, as others had. But, as ever, Letitia was kind. As she kept one hand clasped around the girl’s throat, she offered the other, dripping with vitae, toward Emily. As always, the former hunter was instantly transfixed by the mere sight of the substance. It helped her to block out everything else that was going on.

At least there was no whimpering or screaming. Mercifully, Letitia had somehow stunned her prey into submission. The poor, innocent thing remained calm, a vacant, dreamlike smile on her face, even as the vampire started tearing into her throat.

Emily flinched, but she still didn’t look. She kept her eyes on Letitia’s black-coated fingertips.

The first time Letitia had brought prey to Emily’s room, she’d been confused. When Letitia’s intentions had become clear, Emily had even managed to find some of her old fire, dampened though it was by weeks and weeks of starved apathy.

It had been useless, of course. Emily wasn’t chained up anymore - though she didn’t remember being freed, either - but Letitia had quickly taught her that resistance was meaningless.

And anyway, Emily couldn’t really bring herself to fight Letitia. Not anymore.

There was a splatter and a spurt, as Letitia’s fangs pierced the jugular. It churned Emily’s stomach, but she ignored it. She just sat waiting, peaceful and patient, exactly the way the vampire wanted.

Emily knew what was happening, of course. She was too smart not to, and besides, Letitia had made no real secret of her plans. It was simple exposure therapy. A way to desensitize her to the vampire’s true nature, and to progressively erode Emily’s convictions. After all, it was difficult to stand up against something when you’d been a silent, tacitly accepting bystander to it time and time again.

Emily knew what was happening. The problem was that she couldn’t seem to make herself care.

She’d long since given up on keeping track of how long she’d been held captive by Letitia - if ‘captive’ was even the right word anymore. She could leave whenever she wanted, but Letitia had made it clear that if she left, she’d never see or taste the vampire ever again. And for no more than that, Emily had stayed in that dark, squalid room, enduring countless hours of numbness and boredom that ground her down into a shadow of who she’d once been. All that was left were her feelings for Letitia.

She didn’t care about anything except Letitia anymore.

With a loud, wet smack, Letitia withdrew her fangs from the drained girl’s neck. A single, offhanded shove sent her sprawling to the ground, spent. Emily flinched - but she still didn’t look.

Letitia nodded approvingly at her stillness. “Good,” the vampire told her. “Very good.”

Pride, just as poisonous as any unholy blood, started to glow within Emily. She couldn’t help but be proud. Being praised by a creature like Letitia was a wonder. Her beauty was indescribable. She was more like a goddess than a mere mortal being like Emily.

“Drink up.” Letitia thrust her hand toward Emily. “You’ve earned it.”

Emily’s composure broke in an instant. Her meek stillness was gone, replaced by an unnatural voracity. Emily fed like an animal, lapping, licking, kissing, sucking - lavishing her new master’s skin with worshipful attention, and then, once all the vampire’s blood was gone, licking it clean of her own unworthy saliva.

She smiled. There it was again. Bliss.

Letitia took a moment to brush her fingertips affectionately across Emily’s cheek. It had become a little ritual of hers, after each feeding. A way to bond with her new pet.

“Yes, you’re coming along nicely,” Letitia mused. “Aren’t you?”

Emily blushed, flustered. Letitia was talking to her the way someone might a puppy, but Emily could feel nothing but warmth.

“Yes,” she muttered. “T-thank you.”

Letitia raised an eyebrow. She seemed pleased.

“And still… energetic, I see,” she remarked, eyes flicking downward.

Emily was hard. She always was, when Letitia graced her with her attention. Emily had given up on pleasuring herself - it didn’t seem to satisfy, without the vampire’s presence - but now that her belly was full of black blood, she was conscious of her own, desperate need.

“Do you remember,” Letitia asked her, “what I called you, the first night that we met?”

Emily nodded. Every detail of that encounter was burned into her brain. The memory was steadily supplanting all memories that had come before. It was the moment she’d begun.

“Yes,” Emily replied, voice stilted and meek. “A slut.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Before Emily could agree, Letitia stepped forward and, balancing on one leg for a moment, brought her other foot down to press against the stiff tent of Emily’s cock.

Emily gasped. She saw white. She looked up in awed confusion. The former hunter had never dared to dream that Letitia would touch like that.

“Wasn’t I?” Letitia repeated.

“Y-yes!” Emily gasped urgently. Letitia was barely touching her, but the pleasure was unbelievable. The sole of her foot felt better than any other girl ever had.

“Good girl.”

Letitia nodded in a way that Emily somehow knew meant permission, and without hesitation, Emily started to buck her hips and hump Letitia’s foot.

“Oh my god…” Emily panted. She was practically weeping with joy. Touching Letitia like that was transcendent. “O-oh my god.”

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for her to reach her peak. Emily had once been a lot of things - a hunter, a stud, a top - but now all that was gone, and all that mattered was Letitia was rewarding her with this. The symbolism was more important than the sensation. A being as great and as beautiful as Letitia Clarendon had decided Emily deserved to feel something good. Even the condescending sneer on the vampire’s face was perfect. It helped to remind Emily of what she was.

A pet. A dog. A thrall.

And if she was that, nothing else she did really mattered.

Entranced by the thought, Emily kept rutting and humping, her moans and grunts becoming ever more desperate and animalistic. She was trapped; she was too desperate to stop, but she couldn’t continue for much longer, but she couldn’t even conceive of finishing without Letitia’s permission.

Eventually, Letitia set her free. “You may,” she pronounced, with a slight nod of her head.

With a ragged moan, Emily came. Letitia took her foot away at the last moment, and so the former hunter only succeeded in making a mess of her own, filthy clothing. Emily expected shame to follow on the heels of her orgasm, but no. Letitia’s presence kept that at bay as well, and as Emily basked in the afterglow of her reward, the vampire bent down to stare intently into her soul.

“Yes,” Letitia mused, a smile on her face. “I think you’re almost ready. There it is. Coming along nicely.”

Emily knew instinctively what she was referring to. She could feel it growing within herself, black and sickly, and all for her new master.

Love.

***

Instinctively, Emily squeezed the stake in her hand. It felt good. Comforting. Familiar. Even after all that had transpired, a few things still hadn’t changed.

That was a nice lie she could tell herself.

In any case, many more things had. Emily wasn’t stuck in that room anymore. She wasn’t wearing her old, now-filthy clothes either. She’d replaced her old look with one that was new and slick: a black suit, nicely tailored, cut slightly feminine, complete with tie and perfect white shirt.

It was exactly the way Lady Letitia liked her.

“Come on,” Emily called, raising her voice so it could be heard over the club music. “This way.”

“Right,” the other hunter nodded, following closely behind. “Are you sure she’ll be there?”

“Yes,” Emily replied. “At this time of night, the bloodsucker’s always in her lair.”

Emily twitched and scratched a phantom itch at her neck.

“Got it,” the other hunter replied. The girl was painfully young, and too trusting. “If you know where she sleeps, I’m surprised you need me. I’d always heard you worked alone.”

“She’s strong,” Emily replied simply. “I wanted backup.”

“Right.” Emily glanced over her shoulder, and saw a faint, bashful smile appear on the other hunter’s face. “I’m flattered you picked a newbie like me.”

That tugged at Emily’s heartstrings for a moment, before she shoved the guilt way down. Beneath the hunger.

“Focus,” Emily warned, as she led the other girl through the crush of dancing bodies, toward a dark doorway at the back of the club. “It’s dangerous here.”

The other girl nodded. Both of them clutched at their stakes. Emily’s heart was pounding, but not from danger. Not from guilt, either.

From anticipation.

The two of them entered the doorway and proceeded down a dimly lit corridor, the sounds of the club steadily dying away. Then Emily came to a halt and indicated a door.

“She’s in here,” Emily hissed. “You first. I’ll watch your back.”

The other girl nodded. After a moment of hesitation, of gathering up her courage, she opened the door and walked inside. Emily followed her a few paces behind and slipped her stake back into the inside pocket of her jacket.

And nodded to Lady Letitia, lurking in the shadows.

In an instant, the vampire was on top of the blindsided hunter. The poor girl barely had time to scream before Lady Letitia’s fangs pierced her throat and sucked dry her veins. After a few seconds of useless spasming, the stake rolled out of her open hand and clattered to the ground. The girl’s pale, dry, cold body followed soon after.

Emily only twitched a little. She could even look at their faces now.

But she didn’t need to. Not for more than a moment, anyway. Soon, Lady Letitia turned to Emily and smiled, blood still dripping from her fanged maw. Emily didn’t care about that, though. She just cared that her master was smiling.

“Well done,” Lady Letitia told her, “my hunter.”

Yes, Emily was still a hunter. She even hunted vampires, sometimes - Lady Letitia had rivals, after all - but mortals had become her usual prey. She helped to drive them into Lady Letitia’s cruel embrace, keeping the area free of genuine vampire hunters in the process.

Still a hunter - by some measures, anyway. But more than anything, Emily was simply a thrall.

“My lady.”

In a single, smooth motion, long-practiced, Emily dropped to one knee and bowed her head before her master. It was only right to lower herself before a being as beautiful and superior as Lady Letitia. Emily served her in all things. It was the only thing that gave her life a sense of purpose. The only thing that delivered her, even temporarily, from the gnawing numbness that had consumed everything else about Emily.

And there was the hunger, of course. Only Lady Letitia could sate that. But Emily no longer received the gift of her unholy blood every night, or after every service. Lady Letitia had trained her well. The vampire’s approval was all the reward Emily needed.

Like a dog with Pavlov’s bell.

"Thank you,” Lady Letitia said softly, “for my meal. You’ve proven yourself to be every bit the servant I hoped you’d be.”

“Thank you,” Emily whispered. The force of her master’s praise was enough to make her weep. She had to keep her face turned down, or else Lady Letitia’s beauty would overwhelm her. “Thank you, my lady.”

With her head bowed, she could see the body of the other hunter, lying just a short distance away. More and more, its presence started to eat at Emily. It stirred memories of another life. A life in which she’d protected people from vampires, instead of luring them into the predator’s lair. Emily could remember a former version of herself, one who would have been outraged and disgusted at what the fallen hunter had become.

Did that mean something? Wasn’t all of this terribly, terribly wrong?

Emily felt herself starting to panic. Her breaths came up short, and her pulse quickened as she fought with herself to fill her lungs with air. What was she doing? Why was she doing any of this? The doubts were suddenly swimming around her, eating at her, but within, something dark and wet and equally vicious was fighting back. The corruption nested in Emily’s bosom, the part of her that longed for Letitia, refused to let her go. Those two conflicting forces made a battleground of her soul, all but paralyzing her with sudden indecision.

Her hand trembled. Her stake was right there. Within reach. Couldn’t she just-

A familiar touch to Emily’s cheek stirred her from those unwelcome thoughts. In her usual, ritual way, Lady Letitia stroked her thrall’s face and guided her eyes upward, until Emily was staring into the vampire’s impossibly beautiful visage. Her fangs, her tongue, her eyes - Emily was captivated by all of it.

A single moment of being caressed by the vampiric master she now adored was all it took to remind the fallen hunter: she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Everything else was simply a delusion Lady Letitia had been kind enough to free Emily from.

The vampire’s touch left her hard, too. It always did. Emily had always been weak to beautiful women, and her thralldom had given the lesbian a singular, erotic fixation on her master. Lady Letitia noticed immediately and licked her lips pointedly, spreading blood across her face.

“Rise,” she bade, “and come with me. I require your service in other ways.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Emily rose to her feet and, misgivings forgotten, stepped over the other hunter’s limp body as she followed her master to her coffin chamber.

---

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A Commanding Weakness Ch. 7

Kuznetzov, the Inyx's second-in-command, suspects something is wrong with the ship's crew. She brings her suspicions to Alara, the ship's counselor, but Alara has her own source of curiosity regarding possible mind control...

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“So, just to be absolutely clear,” said Counselor Alara Hisarlik, “you believe that the crew of this ship is gradually succumbing to some form of mind control?”

Lieutenant Semya Kuznetzov, Captain Vasser’s second-in-command, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Hearing it out loud was even worse than she’d anticipated, even though Alara, the Inyx’s counselor, was somehow able to keep her voice free from scorn or incredulity. The chair wasn’t helping. The counselor’s office had big comfy, cushioned, reclining chairs that couldn’t be found elsewhere on the ship. They were meant to be relaxing; for Kuznetzov, they were proving just the opposite.

“Not… I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov replied slowly. She was choosing her words carefully. She knew she sounded crazy, but hopefully not completely crazy. “I know how it sounds. And I’m not exactly convinced of it. But I am worried about it. It’s what my gut is telling me, I guess. I just can’t shake the feeling.”

“I see.” Alara leaned in, concerned. “And this is because of the behavior of the crew?”

“Yes,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov explained. “I’ve been noticing something wrong with people, all across the ship. I keep catching crew members spacing out at strange moments, like they’re listening to a voice I can’t hear. Often groups of people at once. But afterward, they’ll insist nothing happened. Or I’ll notice them moving in perfect harmony. Unnatural harmony.” She sighed. “There’s this ancient movie: Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Pod people? It’s like that.”

Alara nodded. “That’s very troubling. I can understand why this would be preying on your mind.”

It was easy to see why Alara Hisarlik was a ship’s counselor. She was, quite simply, perfect for the role. In her early fifties - Kuznetzov had read every crew member’s personnel file - she was older than most of the people on the ship, and had an effortlessly matronly demeanor that made her shockingly easy to talk to. Her office was comfortable, warm, and friendly, and since she didn’t need to wear a uniform she was free to dress herself in a comfortable jumpsuit that made her seem all the more disarming.

The jumpsuit was plenty flattering, too, and Kuznetzov observed that Alara was taking full advantage of the fact that she didn’t need to pass Alliance fitness tests either. Her physique was just as motherly as her demeanor, and it suited her well. Kuznetzov felt a little guilty for noticing that, but it couldn’t be helped. She was a lesbian, after all.

“It has been,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov confessed. “That’s why I’m here. I needed to talk to someone.”

“Why not Captain Vasser?” Alara asked. “If you suspect something’s wrong on the ship, surely she needs to know.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov hesitated before answering. “I considered it,” she replied eventually. “But I really can’t tell if I’m just being paranoid. If I am, then you’re the person I need to talk to. Not the captain. And if I’m not paranoid, then…”

“Then it’s entirely possible she’s been affected too,” Alara finished. “Is that right?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded, grateful she didn’t have to be the one to say it. “I’ve noticed she’s seemed a little… off, lately.”

“I see.” Alara took that in stride and smiled kindly. “But you’re happy talking to me. I take it I seem like my usual self?”

“Yes,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov said, before adding: “as far as I’d know, anyway.”

This was the first time Kuznetzov had taken it upon herself to visit the ship’s counselor. She’d never seen the need. Doctor Hiraga handled routine psych evals; the counselor was for the benefit of crew members who just needed to talk, or who preferred to speak with someone who was a couple of steps outside the usual chain of command. Kuznetzov, though, preferred to deal with her own problems herself. She was the stoic type, or so she liked to think. It suited her butch looks and dress sense. But her current troubles necessitated a reality check, and she’d judged that Alara Hisarlik was the best person to speak with.

“Glad to hear it,” Alara replied, a touch playfully, before turning more serious. “Lieutenant, this is clearly a new feeling for you. Have you been under any particular stress lately?”

Kuznetzov shook her head. “No more than usual.”

“That’s good! Now, I know you haven’t been assigned to the Inyx for long. You were transferred just recently. Have you been fitting in well?”

“I believe so. Captain Vasser seems happy with my performance.”

“What about socially? Have you gotten to know the other officers?”

Kuznetzov gave a slight smile. “I’m not exactly a social butterfly. It doesn’t bother me.”

“I see.” Alara sounded a little less pleased with that answer, but didn’t press the issue. “And there’s nothing else that’s been on your mind? Nothing troubling?”

“No, not at all.”

“Hm.” Alara cocked her head to one side. “Well, Lieutenant, I don’t think you’re crazy. That doesn’t mean you’re right about this mind control thing either, of course, but it does behoove me to investigate concerns about the mental states of other crew members aboard this ship. There may be a perfectly innocent explanation. To that end, I think the best course of action is that we keep this between ourselves for now, and I discreetly form my own opinion. Could you give me the names of some of the people you’ve been suspicious of?”

Kuznetzov nodded. “I’ll make a list and send it over.”

“Very good.” Alara smiled again. “I’ll let you know what I think very soon.”

“Perfect.” Kuznetzov felt the tension in her shoulders easing, and she sighed with relief. “And… thank you, counselor. Not knowing whether this is real or not has really been weighing on me. I’m very grateful that you’ve taken me seriously. I’m not sure whether or not I expect you to form the same impression I have, but just knowing that you’re looking into it puts my mind at ease.”

“You’re very welcome.” Alara’s smile grew even warmer. “That’s exactly what I’m here for, Lieutenant.”

***

Alara tapped her soon impatiently against the rim of her teacup as she waited for her next appointment to arrive. Crewman Hannah Weiss was late, of course. Everyone on this ship was always late. They always had excuses, of course. Important duties and important orders, on their important mission to catch Wasp. Everything on the Inyx was so damn important. Everything except for Alara and her counseling sessions.

The one thing nobody on the crew seemed to make any time for was taking care of their own mental health - which meant that, as the ship’s counselor, Alara’s life was devoted entirely to chasing after other people’s problems. After all these years on the job, they were just so infuriatingly cliché. Burnout. Anxiety. Insecurity. She’d heard it all before.

That didn’t mean Alara didn't care, of course. She wanted to help just as much as she had when she’d first started out in this line of work, three decades before. What had made her bored and cynical over the years was learning that she couldn’t help, because no one ever listened. Alara could offer advice, training, medical, therapy - and it didn’t matter because, to most people, she was nothing more than a convenient way to unburden themselves. They didn’t respect her or her expertise, and so she was condemned to the Sisyphean experience of listening to crewman after crewman coming to bleat to her about some inane problem, giving them the perfect advice, and seeing them out the door knowing perfectly well that they weren’t going to heed it.

If only there was some way to make them listen.

As a result, even as Alara had aged into the perfect, matronly counselor everyone wanted, she’d become thoroughly disillusioned and tired of her work. The years had ground her down, leaving her cynical and hopeless. She’d vowed this would be her final tour of duty aboard an Alliance ship, but fate had conspired to drag them out to the far rim for months longer than expected, chasing shadows, leaving Alara more frustrated by the day. The crewmen who darkened her door were becoming nothing more than an indistinct succession of blurred faces, each more forgettable and annoying than the last.

At least, until Lieutenant Kuznetzov.

A conspiracy to take over the ship by secretly mind-controlling members of the crew? In all her years as a counselor, Alara hadn’t heard that one before. It sounded like a paranoid delusion, but Kuznetsov’s psychological profile was rock solid. She displayed no signs of any associated psychological tendencies or conditions that would predispose her to such an elaborate delusion. Which meant that Alara finally had something that could hold her attention.

If nothing else, a spontaneous delusion like this could make for a half-decent case study to write up.

But first, Alara figured that she should investigate what Kuznetzov had been suspecting, and so she’d arranged an innocuous appointment with one of the people the XO had mentioned: Crewman Hannah Weiss. Mind control was unlikely, but not strictly impossible, and talking to her could shed light on reasons she might have been behaving differently or suspiciously.

And if it was mind control? Alara certainly couldn’t miss out on a chance to study it up close and personal. She had a deep, abiding interest in the subject. Strictly professional, of course.

The door to Alara’s office chimed to indicate that her appointment had finally arrived. The counselor set down her teacup, rose to her feet, and went to greet her guest.

“Crewman Weiss,” Alara said, plastering her well-worn welcoming smile on her face as the door opened. “Thank you for coming. Please, come in.”

“Alara.”

Hannah Weiss offered a friendly nod as she entered the room. She was young - less than half Alara’s age, in fact - and much slighter and mousier than most expected of a member of the Alliance military. The Inyx was her first posting, and she’d been struggling to adjust to the rigor and claustrophobia of starship life. Though she’d adjusted over time, following up on her earlier troubles was a reasonable pretext for an appointment.

“Have a seat,” Alara said as she beckoned Weiss in.

She was gesturing to one of the two big, comfy chairs that dominated her office’s central space. Alara had made her office as comfortable and welcoming as the Inyx’s small, spartan bulkheads allowed. In the center of the space, between the chairs, was a simple table, and the room was lit by a special bank of holographic lights that could provide gentle, soothing illumination when needed.

The two of them sat down, and Alara immediately leaned forward so that she could pour Weiss a cup of tea from the still-steaming teapot on the table. Weiss accepted it gratefully, and then Alara sat back with her own teacup and teaspoon in hand.

“So, um,” Weiss began nervously. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing serious,” Alara immediately assured her. “I just wanted to check up on you, now that you’ve been with us for a few months. Have you been having any more issues?”

“No!” Weiss answered in a rush. “Um… h-has somebody said something to you?”

“Not at all,” Alara replies gently. Clearly, Weiss was as anxious and twitchy as ever. “This is completely routine. Now - how have you been doing lately?”

Weiss took a cautious sip of her tea; it proved to be too hot for her. “I’ve been OK,” she answered. “Good. At least, I think. I’ve been having an easier time performing my duties.”

“I’m glad.” Alara smiled at her as she lifted her own teacup. “What about the anxiety you’ve spoken to me about before?”

“It’s better,” Weiss said quickly. She seemed embarrassed to have it brought up to her face. “I mean… sometimes, I still… but it’s easier, now. It feels like I can just kind of… zone out a bit. Get in the zone. Do whatever I need to do, without thinking too much.”

“I see.”

That caught Alara’s interest. It sounded more like dissociation than adjustment. According to her superiors, though, her performance was entirely adequate. That level of automatism was outside of Weiss’s psychological profile. It could indicate that her mental state was being tampered with.

This was exactly what Alara had secretly been longing to hear. She’d agreed with herself that if Weiss seemed completely normal, it would be unethical to pry too deeply into her state of mind. But if there was any suggestion that what Kuznetzov had talked about was true, Alara had an obligation to investigate, fully and discretely.

And it was an obligation she’d relish. What student of psychology wouldn’t? Mind control had always been something of a fascination of hers, ever since her days in college. In academic psychology circles it was considered an unusual, quaint, even useless subject, far more hypothetical than practical, but now more than ever, Alara was grateful she’d taken those classes. Thanks to them, she knew exactly what she needed to do with Weiss.

She needed to hypnotize her.

It made perfect sense. How easily she went into a trance could help Alara to gauge if she’d been conditioned to be susceptible to mind-alteration, and if Alara was able to speak to her subconscious mind, she might be able to bypass whatever form of mind control was currently in effect. An unorthodox approach, perhaps, and not one most ship’s counselors would have been familiar with, but Alara always made sure she was brushed up on her technique.

“Hannah,” she said, once she’d made up her mind. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to hypnotize you.”

Weiss blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a completely standard therapeutic technique.” Alara figured a little massaging of the truth wouldn’t do any harm. “A way to relax. A kind of meditation, you could call it. I think it could really help you.”

“Right.” Weiss still seemed a touch incredulous. “But… hypnosis? Isn’t that just some old thing from twentieth-century media?”

Alara just kept smiling. “Not quite. I assure you, it’s very real. Are you ready to get started?”

“I-I guess.” Weiss glanced down nervously. Alara had known that she’d crumble if Alara pushed just a little. “What do I need to do?”

“Nothing much,” Alara soothed. “Just sit right there and get as comfortable as you can.”

Weiss started to shift in her seat, settling in, and as she did Alara used the console built into the arm of her chair to dim the lights. Weiss was still visibly a little on edge, but Alara was sure she’d relax as soon as the counselor got to work on her. The young crewman wasn’t difficult to influence.

“Good,” Alara said approvingly once Weiss sat back. Even as she made her voice carefully low and rhythmic, she spoke like they were yet to begin and she was just making conversation. “The chairs are comfy, aren’t they? One of the perks of the job.”

“Yeah,” Weiss agreed. She seemed faintly grateful to be talking about something other than herself.

“Not many people on an Alliance starship get chairs like these.” Alara winked at Weiss. “Not even amongst the officers. You might as well enjoy them while you’re here! I know I do.”

“Yeah,” Weiss said again. “They are really nice. Now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve been this comfortable in months.”

“Exactly.” Alara nodded enthusiastically. “You know, sometimes, when I can get away with it, I just dim the lights - just like this, in fact - sit down, close my eyes, and let myself drift off a little. Let my mind wander. I have to admit, once or twice I’ve actually fallen asleep like that. I must be getting old.”

Weiss giggled. “That sounds nice.” From her voice, it was obvious that she was feeling more and more at ease.

“It’s easy for me, of course. All I have to do is lock the door, and anyone who knocks will think I’m in a private appointment.” Alara heard another, even more relaxed giggle from Weiss. “I know a crewman like you won’t get nearly as many chances to relax. Not with your superior officers breathing down your neck.”

“Yeah…” Weiss replied wearily.

“Well, there’s no pressure here,” Alara promised. “Why not give it a try yourself? Close your eyes.”

Weiss looked up uncertainly for a moment, but then obliged. “OK.”

“Very good,” Alara said as Weiss’s eyelids fell shut. She already knew Weiss could be susceptible to positive reinforcement. “You’re more than welcome to take a few moments for yourself, Hannah. Just sit back. Relax. Forget I’m even here.”

Alara could tell that, whether she meant to or not, Weiss was hearkening to her words. Her shoulders were slumping and her breathing slowing. She couldn’t help but relax.

“Perfect,” Alara encouraged. “You must be very tired. Running all over the ship all the time, being ordered around constantly by your superiors. It’s exhausting. Trust me, I’ve been there - once upon a time. I know how it feels. When you’re tired like that, nothing compares to getting to take the weight off your feet. You just can’t help but sink into it.”

“Yeah…” Weiss let out a weary sigh. “That’s really… um… but s-should we get started?”

Alara had to suppress a laugh. “We already have.”

At that Weiss stirred - but only a little. Alara was pleased to see that already, she was unwilling or unable to shake off her lethargy. She couldn’t even bring herself to open her eyes. The poor girl really was exhausted.

Unless she wasn’t. Unless there was another reason she was so susceptible.

“What do you mean?” Weiss asked. She sounded distant.

“Hypnosis is just a state of mind,” Alara told her. She made her voice softer still; soothing, but so quiet Weiss had to devote all her attention to each one of the counselor’s words. “A nice, relaxed state of mind. You’re nice and relaxed now, aren’t you? That means you’re halfway there already.”

“Oh…” Weiss’s voice was growing fainter by the moment. It was obvious she was already too dazed to really interrogate what Alara was saying to her. Weiss was proving incredibly susceptible. Alarmingly so, in fact.

At least it made it easy for Alara to take advantage.

“You’re doing very well,” Alara assured her. “This is exactly what we want. Going under hypnosis is perfectly easy, and you’re already doing a wonderful job. And because you’re doing so well, you might notice your awareness changing. You might notice that lots of things that normally bother and distract you are just kind of fading away. Maybe it’s the little aches and pains in your body. Maybe it’s some of the little thoughts and worries you sometimes find yourself dwelling on. Whatever it may be, I’m sure you can notice it simply fading into the background of your mind.”

Weiss just nodded and let out a faint, murmured noise of agreement.

“At the same time,” Alara continued, voice soft and melodic. “You might notice some things you usually tune out. For me, when I’m nice and relaxed, it’s always the ship’s engines. When you first come aboard, they seem so noisy, don’t they? But after a few days or weeks, you completely stop noticing them. Everyone does.”

Another nod.

“But when I’m as relaxed as you are now, I seem to find the sound again,” Alara went on. “That low, droning hum. It’s all I can think about. And it’s not just a sound. It’s a sensation. A vibration. Something you can feel throughout your entire body.”

She noticed Weiss shiver slightly. Clearly, she was feeling it.

“Hannah,” Alara said. “That sound is all you need to think about right now. So it’s completely fine if you just zone out and give it all of your attention. You don’t even need to think about my voice. You don’t need to listen. You can just yourself drift and sink, and maybe every now and then, as my voice and my words float through your head, you’ll find your attention naturally ebbing back towards me. Just letting my words be your guide, whenever it feels natural.”

Weiss seemed so very relaxed now. She was barely moving at all, except for the slow, pronounced rise and fall of her chest. She looked all but asleep, but Alara could tell she wasn’t from the telltale way her eyes pricked up, ever so slightly, whenever Alara spoke. She was hanging on the counselor’s every word, be it consciously or subconsciously.

Alara was fascinated. It was like this girl was the perfect subject. She leaned in, eager to drink in every little detail of how Weiss reacted.

“That’s right,” she urged breathily. “Let me be your guide. You can just let my voice flow in and out of you, letting my words guide you, knowing that this is a safe place and that you can trust me. Everything that happens here is safe, Hannah. I’m here to take care of you. Here to guide you.”

Another nod, this one barely perceptible. Weiss was clearly on the brink.

“And because I’m here to guide you,” Alara pressed, “it’s completely OK for you to just let go. To completely let go. To surrender that last little bit of awareness that’s keeping you from complete, perfect relaxation. Doesn’t it sound nice to just give that up, once and for all?”

A quiet, sleepy murmur of appreciation was her only reply.

“Of course it does,” Alara assured her. “You can leave everything up to me for a little while. Even thinking. Doesn’t that sound good? And I think you’re ready for it. I’m going to count you down, from five to zero. When I say ‘zero’, you’re going to feel the burden of every last thought lifting from your shoulders, and you will be perfectly hypnotized. Ready?”

No reply at all this time, but Alara could sense Hannah was primed and ready.

“Five,” she counted. “Feeling yourself beginning to sink. Beginning to descend.”

Weiss’s shoulders slumped still deeper.

“Four,” Alara counted. “Even that hum, the sound of the engines, is starting to grow faint.”

The movement behind her subject’s eyes had all but disappeared.

“Three. Only my voice. That’s all that’s left. Not even in your conscious mind, just in your subconsciousness.”

Weiss’s head began to loll to one side.

“Two. Whether you know it or not, you’re already preparing yourself to let go completely. You’re anticipating how it’s going to feel.”

One of Weiss’s arms slipped from the armrest of her chair, hanging limply off to one side. She didn’t stir.

“One. Feeling yourself on the precipice now, relaxed and attentive and ready to let go as soon as I say… zero.”

Weiss froze. She just froze. She didn’t slump forward or backward the way someone might if they had fallen asleep. Instead, she just became still as her mind shut down, leaving her only just conscious enough to keep herself suspended in the position she’d been resting in. She couldn’t move. Not unless Alara told her to. Hannah Weiss was now nothing more than a blank, open receptacle for whatever the counselor wanted to do to her.

Alara knew the signs well. It had been just as perfect as she’d always dreamed. Weiss was completely and perfectly hypnotized.

As tempting as it was to simply bask in the moment, Alara knew she had to consider what that meant. Weiss had sunk like a stone. Alara was confident of her technique and it was possible that the crewman was simply a natural subject, but given what Kuzentzov had told her, it was equally possible that she’d been conditioned this way. That she was already under the lingering effects of some form of mind control.

But still, it was too early to raise the alarm. Alara decided that more testing was called for. It was the only professionally responsible way to proceed.

“Hannah, can you hear me?” she asked. “Answer me nice and clearly, please.”

“Yes,” Weiss replied. Her voice was far stronger and clearer than it had been while she’d been going under, but it was also completely devoid of any emotion or feeling whatsoever. Hearing it sent chills racing through Alara.

“Good,” Alara said. “Now, raise your right arm.”

Slowly and steadily, Weiss obeyed. Her movements were stiff, even unnatural, like she was little more than a mannequin whose strings were being pulled. But as Alara watched, her right arm - the one that had been hanging off the side of her chair, started to lift up into the air until Weiss was holding it out straight in front of herself.

Immediate, unquestioning, unhesitating obedience. ‘Suggestible’ didn’t even begin to cover it.

That seemed significant, but Alara found herself distracted by how she herself was reacting. Seeing Weiss obey her like that sent even greater chills through her body, and filled her stomach with butterflies. She was experiencing a giddy, intoxicating thrill the likes of which she hadn’t felt in years. This was unbelievable. It was like a dream come true.

Alara had fantasized about things like this for decades. In her youth, those fantasies had even moved her to study psychology. She’d never imagined anything close to them would ever become a reality. It would almost be a shame when she had to put an end to it and wake Weiss up.

But she didn’t yet, did she? Alara decided there was more testing to be done. She needed to establish some parameters. Clearly Weiss was susceptible to mind control, but did that represent any real danger? Raising an arm was something anyone might do if you asked them to. Alara needed to know if Weiss might prove dangerous to the rest of the crew. She needed to test if she could push the boundaries of the young woman’s morality.

“Hannah,” Alara said, very slowly. “Take off your uniform.”

Immediately, Weiss came to life again. She rose to her feet, slowly but steadily, and began to methodically peel away the layers of her standard-issue Alliance uniform. She started with the jacket, unzipping it across her body and shrugging it from her shoulders before she reached down to remove her pants.

Alara watched the entire process, enraptured. She was used to telling the crew of this ship what they should do. She wasn’t at all used to them obeying. The experience was unfamiliar - but far from unpleasant. For once, Alara felt powerful. She felt in control.

And she liked it.

If all the crew were like this, maybe she could actually fix them and their silly little problems. They’d listen to Alara’s every word. They’d have to. She could have them dancing to her tune. They would be perfectly behaved for once. They’d have to be.

An enticing concept.

Once Weiss finished undressing, she was left standing at attention in nothing more than her plain, white underwear. Her blank eyes were fixed straight ahead, seeing and comprehending nothing, and her face registered no embarrassment or discomfort. In that moment, Alara felt like she could do anything she wanted to the girl - and before she could stop herself, an urge got the better of her.

“Those too.” Alara gestured to Weiss’s bra and panties. “Take them off.”

Again, she obeyed. Alara was left rationalizing. Maybe telling her to remove her uniform simply wasn’t pushing her far enough. After all, simply being seen in your underwear was far from the worst thing. Nakedness was the logical next step. Alara was just investigating. That was all.

So what if she was also enjoying it?

Slipping out of her remaining clothes didn’t take Weiss long. Soon enough she was completely naked, and no less hypnotized for it. She was still completely and totally empty-headed. Watching her strip left Alara’s mouth dry. For all her rationalizing, she was conscious of the fact that she’d crossed a line. Anything Alara did beyond this point was truly taboo. It was conduct deeply unbecoming of a ship’s counselor.

But in her heart of hearts, she knew she couldn’t just stop. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“Sit down,” Alara instructed. Every time Weiss obeyed, it sent a fresh wave of heat through the older woman’s body. It was addictive. “Spread your legs.”

Hannah sat back down on the chair behind her and robotically moved her thighs apart until her legs were splayed wide, exposing herself to anyone who might have been watching. The pose was unmistakably sexual - but still, she wasn’t waking up. She wasn’t even stirring. There was no hint that Alara was approaching her limits. What had been done to the poor girl? Did she even have limits?

Alara needed to find out. She was burning to find out.

What about touch? She’d yet to try that, and she was so desperately curious. Alara rose from her seat and reached out - slowly, at first, but with a growing eagerness and hunger. There was no turning back now, after all.

At first, she kept it innocent. Her fingertips met Weiss’s skin on the hypnotized girl’s stomach. Hannah was as unresponsive as a statue; it was Alara who gasped faintly at the way Weiss’ soft, pale skin yielded to her touch. A fresh sense of power surged with the counselor. Weiss seemed so much more like a doll than a person, now. That very thought was intoxicating. And beyond that - it was really, irresistibly hot.

Alara’s hand started moving down, tracing a path over Weiss’s navel and beyond, deviating to one side so that her knuckles brushed against Weiss’s inner thighs. Finally, Hannah showed signs of life, but not the way Alara had expected. It was purely physiological: hairs standing on end, a barely-perceptible flush in her cheeks, a slight, suppressed twitch as Alara’s hand strayed closer and closer to her pussy. But through it all, her eyes stayed glassy and unfocused. There was no indication that she might wake up, or that there was even a single independent thought left in her head.

Alara could scarcely believe what she was seeing. It was like a fantasy come to life. It was perfect. Fuck, it was so hot. As if in a trance herself, she kept moving, inching further and further down, until her hand was just about to touch against Hannah’s-

“Oh wow! You’re even more of a pervert than I’d hoped, shrink.”

Alara’s heart leapt into her throat. She wheeled at the voice, her cheeks already scorching hot with shame at having been discovered. She found herself face-to-face with a woman who was sitting in Alara’s chair, entirely at ease, as if she’d been watching the entire time. Except that was impossible; the door to Alara’s office was locked and she hadn’t heard anyone knock, let alone come in.

Then, she noticed the arrays of holographic lights arranged around her office, all of which were lit up and pointed in the intruder’s direction. They were running some kind of program Alara had never written. That settled it. This woman was a hologram. But that still didn’t explain what was going on. Nobody could access the holographic systems in this room except Alara. For someone else to use them, they must have hacked deep into the Inyx’s central computer. Which meant…

“You’re… Wasp,” Alara said cautiously. “Aren’t you?”

She didn’t recognize the hacker on sight. Alara had no reason to pay much mind to the various mission and tactical briefings the Inyx’s crew received, after all. But she couldn’t imagine anyone else out here presenting themselves this way, with dyed, neon-green hair and in audacious, punk clothing that showed off dozens of tattoos.

“Got it in one!” Wasp giggled. “Now, let me save you some time: yes, I’ve hacked into your ship’s systems. Yes, I have total control. Yes, I’m using holotech to brainwash the crew one-by-one, exactly as Vasser’s right-hand girl suspects.” She winked when Alara looked particularly offended by that last one. “Yeah. I read your patient notes. Oops, my bad.”

“But…” Alara’s mind was racing. “How…”

What Wasp was telling her sounded beyond impossible, but she said it so matter-of-factly, the counselor couldn’t bring herself to be skeptical. And if nothing else, it would certainly explain a few things.

“Never mind that.” Wasp waved a dismissive hand. “Long story. And I’d much rather talk about you.” The cocksure smirk on her face took on a distinctly malicious tone, and she glanced pointedly at the still-hypnotized Weiss. “Having fun, were we?”

Alara flinched and looked down. Wasp had seen everything. Had she recorded it? “I was just…”

“Oh, there’s no need to explain yourself!” Wasp taunted. She rose to her feet and started circling the room, completely at ease. “Trust me, I get it. Frankly, how could you resist?”

"I was experimenting.” Alara tried to make her voice calm and firm. She had a lot of practice with that. “Performing my duty as counselor to investigate the extent of whatever mind control you’ve-“

“Bullshit!” Wasp sang out, plainly delighted. “Admit it, shrink. You’re practically dripping under that jumpsuit.”

Alara couldn’t quite keep her shame out of her face, and Wasp crowed with laughter.

“Don’t worry,” she told Alara once her laughter died. “Trust me, I’m not one to judge. And I’m not going to tell. Your naughty little secret is safe with me.”

“It’s not…” Alara looked away. “I made a mistake.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Wasp snorted. “It was a pleasure watching you work. You’re clearly more than a little familiar with that way of getting into people’s heads. Always happy to meet a kindred spirit.”

Alara balled her hands into fists. She needed to move on from this. To regain some kind of control of the situation. “What do you want, Wasp? I suppose I’m to be your next victim?”

Wasp just giggled. “What gives you that idea?”

“Why else would you confront me like this?” Alara shot back. “You have no reason to take the risk of me revealing this to the captain. Not unless you plan to make sure I’m unable to.”

“I like the way you think,” Wasp commented. “But you’re a little off, Alara. I mean, firstly, I already got to Vasser. She was the first, as a matter of fact. But more importantly, no, I don’t want to make you my next victim.”

“Then what do you want?” Alara demanded.

Wasp licked her lips. “I want you to join me.”

Alara’s blood ran cold. “Why?”

“Because that sounds fun.” Wasp paused to shrug as she waltzed around the room. “More fun than making you just another brainwashed bimbo or something. I’m getting a little bored of that. Plus, I hate to see potential go to waste. But doing my part to help the Inyx’s sweet little counselor embrace her wild side for a change? Now that’s a good time.”

“But…” Alara was struggling to process that. The idea that even a reckless villain like Wasp would orchestrate all of this on a mere whim was staggering. “Why would I ever…”

Wasp winked at her. “Same reason.”

Alara bristled and drew herself up. “You’ve made a serious mistake,” she warned. “And frankly, you’re delusional if you think that I would ever consider betraying both the Alliance and all of my comrades just for the sake of… of…”

Her voice trailed off and her conviction ebbed away as she found herself completely distracted by what Wasp was doing.

Wasp had circled around to the chair in which Weiss was still slumped and, as Alara was talking, had draped herself over the back of the chair and was reaching down, sliding her hands across the hypnotized crewman’s body. Alara was transfixed by the spectacle, especially when Wasp slipped a hand between Hannah’s legs and slowly, deliberately, pushed two of her fingertips into her pussy.

Alara’s train of thought vanished. There was just something irresistibly magical about what she was seeing. About the way Weiss remained perfectly blank and still even as she was violated, except for just a few slight, automatic twitches as her body responded to the stimulation. No one who was simply trying or acting could have managed such total lifelessness and mindlessness. Alara’s indignation was dulled, and her curiosity aroused.

It would be completely and totally unethical, of course - but Alara couldn’t help but wonder about all she might be able to do with such a remarkable subject to experiment on.

“You really are a natural,” Wasp whispered to her. She kept her eyes locked on Alara’s even as she started finger-fucking Hannah Weiss in a slow, steady rhythm. “You knew exactly what to do with her. Almost like you’ve been waiting for something just like this.”

Alara wanted to deny it. She wanted to, but she knew how her voice would sound if she tried.

She hadn’t been waiting. Not consciously. But it was beginning to feel like she had.

“It makes me wonder,” Wasp went on teasingly, matching the cadence of her voice to the way she was exploring and enjoying Weiss’s body. “How far would you have gone, if I hadn’t interrupted you?”

Alara shivered. She’d been asking herself the same thing.

“Would you have done this?”

Wasp pushed her fingers deeper into Weiss; all the way to the knuckle, and then further, all the way. Weiss shuddered, back arching from sheer, automatic reflex, and her deep, slow breathing caught as Wasp touched something sensitive deep inside her. When Wasp pulled her fingers free, they were slick and sticky with wetness, and Weiss’s entire body was thrumming with pleasure - but still, she couldn’t wake. It was like she was having a wet dream sitting upright, with her eyes open.

Alara couldn’t look away.

“Or maybe… this?” Wasp teased, bringing her hand back up Weiss’s body. “Is this where your mind was going?”

She turned her attention to Weiss’s mouth, prying her unresisting lips apart and slipping her still-wet fingers into her mouth. Weiss was far too deeply hypnotized to lick or suck without being told, but her tongue still yielded to Wasp as she stroked her fingertips across it, forcing Weiss to taste her own juices and leaving her with her tongue lolling a little way out of her mouth. Alara shivered as possibilities flashed through her mind.

“Ah, yes.” Wasp seized upon her reaction. “She could be very good, you know. You can train her at it. Make her exactly the way you like her.” She toyed idly with the tip of Weiss’s tongue. A drop of saliva formed at the very end. “She’d be perfect. And the best part? She’d never even know.”

“S-stop,” Alara pleaded - but even as she spoke, she knew that wasn’t what she wanted.

She could train Weiss. She could make her exactly the way she wanted. She could make her perfect.

How many times had she yearned for that, in all her time acting as ship’s counselor on the Inyx or some other Alliance warship?

Just for once, Alara Hisarlik could be in control.

“You don’t want me to stop,” Wasp mocked. “Just like you didn’t want to stop yourself. Admit it - we’re way beyond principles now. This is about who you want to be, Alara. A bored, ignored headshrink? Or someone who gets what she wants?”

“Bored…?” Alara blinked. “How do you know that?”

Wasp rolled her eyes. “I’ve been reading your personal logs too. Duh. Hacker.”

Anger flared within Alara - but not brightly enough to outshine her other urges. Her darker urges. Right now, she couldn’t pretend that a little invasion of privacy was what truly mattered. What mattered was that Alara was facing a choice: she could either raise the alarm and go back to her old life as a counselor, or she could embrace what Wasp was offering. She could join her conspiracy, and plumb the depths of her own, twisted desires.

That prospect should have horrified her. It should have, but as she contemplated, Alara realized something alarming: she didn’t care. Not about the Inyx, or the Alliance, or Captain Vasser, or anyone else on the crew. She just didn’t. What had they ever done except take her presence for granted? This wasn’t about them. This was about Alara, and what she wanted.

“It’s your choice,” Wasp told her. “I’m offering you a chance. It’s up to you what happens to poor Hannah here… at least, in a way. Not like she’s going to get her own mind back. No; if you don’t want to have fun with her, then maybe I should enjoy a little taste instead.”

As she spoke, Wasp took the point of Hannah Weiss’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, and tilted it up and to the side until Hannah was facing her. Then, as Wasp leaned in, her hardlight holographic body subtly flickered and changed, and her eyes started to fill with bright, bleeding, pulsing spirals that were being projected out from within.

For the first time, Weiss seemed to respond to something. Acting on some deeply-conditioned reflex, her eyes fixed on the spirals in Wasp’s and shot wide, as if she was drinking in their eerie, mind-altering light. Her face reflected those spinning colors and she started leaning in, swaying like a drunk, her lips perilously close to Wasp’s. Alara still couldn’t fathom exactly what Wasp had done to her, but clearly it was potent. There was no mistaking the fact that Wasp was inside Weiss’s head, and could do absolutely anything she wanted with the helpless, brainwashed crewman.

“Stop!” Alara barked. She was at her limit.

The spirals vanished from Wasp’s eyes and she turned to look at Alara instead, an expression of gleeful malice writ large on her face. “Oh? And why should I?”

Alara met Wasp’s gaze. There was only one answer. “Because she’s mine.”

Wasp threw back her head and laughed. Then, she stood up and straight and walked over to Alara. “Welcome aboard, shrink.”

Alara nodded curtly. Getting into bed with someone like Wasp was still an uneasy proposition, and she remained more than a little shocked at her own feelings. But there was one thing she knew for certain: she couldn’t go back.

That left her only one option. But it wouldn’t be unpleasant, at least. Alara had set aside an entire hour for her session with Weiss. She still had thirty minutes left. A smile came to her face as she thought about all the things she was going to be able to do to that girl’s head in thirty minutes.

And, of course, in the follow-up sessions they were going to schedule.

“I’ll leave you to enjoy yourself in a moment.” Wasp nodded approvingly at the smile on Alara’s face. She knew that look well. “But first, just one thing: let’s talk about what we’d like you to do to Lieutenant Kuznetzov.”

—

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A Commanding Weakness Ch. 8

Kuznetzov, the Inyx’s second-in-command, enters therapy with Alara, who shows her that her desire to be more feminine is at the route of her "paranoia"

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“You’re telling me…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov said slowly. “There’s… really nothing going on? No conspiracy? Nothing to worry about? It… was all in my head?”

“All in your head,” Counselor Alara Hisarlik replied, placing careful emphasis on those words. “It’s as I’ve told you. I know this may be difficult to accept, but I’ve been investigating thoroughly over the past two weeks. Your fears that the crew of this ship are being manipulated or infiltrated in some way are entirely unfounded.”

“I see,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov muttered. “Thank you.”

She was grateful, wasn’t she? After all, this was what she’d been hoping to hear, wasn’t it? It was the best possible outcome. A few mental health issues aside, there was nothing to worry about. The Inyx wasn’t in danger. She should be relieved.

So why, instead, was Lieutenant Kuznetzov finding it so hard to accept?

Maybe it was how bad things had gotten. More than ever, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was sure something was up. So many members of the crew were behaving strangely - the science officer, the ship’s doctor, even the captain. Every time she entered a room, Kuznetzov was greeted with eerie silences and glassy stares, as if there was some sinister secret that everyone but her was in on.

Paranoia? It was possible, of course. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov would never have made second-in-command if her instincts weren’t worth a damn, and they were telling her that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Alara prompted. “You seem troubled, Lieutenant.”

Or perhaps it was Alara Hisarlik.

She’d changed. Hadn’t she? There was something different about her. Lieutenant Kuznetzov just couldn’t quite seem to put her finger on it. She seemed… what was it? Calmer? Happier? More confident? Yes, all of those. But those were good things. Weren’t they?

So why did Lieutenant Kuznetzov suddenly feel so uneasy around her?

Maybe it was her cabin. Two weeks ago, it had felt warm. Inviting. Since then, the counselor had redecorated, stripping back much of that pleasant decor in favor of a far more spartan vibe. It wasn’t bad, exactly. Just about every cabin on a warship like the Inyx could be called ‘spartan’. But the difference was palpable.

Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was all in Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s head.

“I’m just…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov confessed. “I can’t shake the feeling that… Look, are you sure? Absolutely certain?”

“Certain,” Alara insisted, as she took a sip of her tea. Somehow, her icy calm wasn’t comforting. “Completely. It’s all in your head.”

“I… see.” Lieutenant Kuznetzov found herself unconvinced, and it was clear that she wasn’t going to get any answers here. She made to stand up. “In that case, counselor, I’ll try to put it out of my mind. My apologies for wasting your-“

“No, sit.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov was so surprised, she found herself sinking back down into her seat. Alara Hisarlik wasn’t usually one to give orders - certainly not with that kind of steel in her voice. She sounded more like Captain Vasser than she did her usual, mild-mannered self.

“Excuse me?” the lieutenant said.

“What kind of counselor would I bet if I just let you walk out of here?” Alara tutted. She was smiling - it was meant to be warm, perhaps. Comforting. It didn’t come across that way. “Lieutenant Kuznetzov, I’m deeply concerned for your mental well-being. Paranoid delusions, anxiety, uncertainty… we really must get to the bottom of this.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov flinched. She hadn’t been prepared for such bluntness. “Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted.

Painful though it was to face up to it, her conviction that something was amiss aboard the Inyx was entirely undercut by her lack of evidence. Put another way… yes, she really did sound paranoid. She couldn’t blame the ship’s counselor for being firm when the moment called for it, she decided.

“Of course I am.” Alara laughed. “I’m an expert. Now, please, get comfortable. We may need a little time.”

She reached over to a small, wooden jewelry box that was resting on a nearby table. From within, the counselor produced what Lieutenant Kuzentzov just about recognized from historical photographs as a watch - the old, analog kind, worn in a pocket and attached by a chain. This one was gold, it seemed, with fine Roman numerals around the face, and when she strained her ears, the lieutenant could just about hear it tick.

“Do you know what this is?” Alara asked, touching the watch fondly. Her eyes were fixed on it.

“A family heirloom?” Lieutenant Kuznetzov guessed. From how she handled it, it was clear the pocket watch was of great significance to the counselor.

Alara just laughed, though. “Not at all!” she exclaimed, voice rich with humor. “It’s just a replica. I had the ship’s computer fabricate it for me recently. But it’s based on something I saw in an old movie, while I was growing up. I remember being quite fascinated with it. It really awakened some things in me. Things I hadn’t thought about in years - until very recently, in fact.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shifted uncomfortably. How was this related to her counseling?

“Anyway.” With a flourish, Alara lifted the watch into the air and dangled it by its chain as she sat back in her chair. “I’d like you to look at this, please.”

“Why?” Lieutenant Kuznetzov asked, although she was already looking. The pocket watch had a way of catching the eye.

“Because I told you to.”

The lieutenant blinked. She couldn’t tell if Alara was joking.

“An external visual focus can often be conducive to the kind of mental state we want you to achieve in therapy,” Alara explained after a moment. “That’s why. But you really must trust me, lieutenant. We won’t get very far if you keep asking ‘why’ like a precocious child. I know what I’m doing. Trust that your welfare is my highest priority.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt her choler rise at the reprimand, but she quickly reasoned herself out of anger. Alara had a point. She was the ship’s counselor. It was natural to think that she knew what she was doing, and that she had the lieutenant’s best interests at heart. Alara was probably a little offended she kept questioning her. Maybe Lieutenant Kuznetzov should try being a little more cooperative. After all, if she really was paranoid, she certainly needed Alara’s help.

And if there really was some kind of conspiracy afoot, and if - as her instincts were telling her - Alara was now part of it?

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shook that thought off. It was all in her head.

“You’re right,” she said, after taking a few deep breaths. “My apologies.”

“Thank you.” Alara nodded. “Now, please. The watch. Look closely.”

Obediently, Lieutenant Kuznetzov turned her full attention to the pocket watch. She wasn’t really sure what else she was meant to do besides simply looking. It was nice to look at, she supposed. The watch was pretty, and there was something pleasing about the perfect regularity of the second hand as it moved around the face. It was impressive to think about how, in the pre-electronic age, humanity had been completely dependent on clockwork pieces like this to tell the time with any precision. A fine pocket watch must have held an almost godlike sway over people, simply by counting the minutes and keeping them to schedule.

“Yes, good,” Alara cooed, “keep your eyes focused right in the middle there. Let yourself be aware of the hands moving without looking straight at them.”

It took Lieutenant Kuznetzov a few minutes to slip into that particular mental groove. At first, her attention kept wandering - and with it, her gaze. It was so easy to find herself following the tip of the second hand instead, as it moved in a circle around the watch’s face. But deep breathing helped - it was just like reentry training, she told herself - and so did letting her eyes half-unfocus until the ticking of the pocket watch seemed to be happening in a blur all around her.

“OK,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov said eventually. She felt strange. Sleepy, almost. Maybe she was more exhausted than she realized.

“Good,” Alara repeated. “You’re doing very well, Lieutenant. Think of this as a meditation exercise. We’re doing this so that we can communicate with your subconscious mind. That’s where we can find the source of your trauma.”

Lieutenant Kuztetzov frowned - or at least, she tried to. Her face seemed strangely unresponsive to her emotions. Her trauma? That didn’t sound right. But… why? She wasn’t sure. Her thoughts were slow. It was proving surprisingly easy to slip into a kind of meditative stupor as she stared at Alara’s watch.

“Yes, trauma.” Alara seemed to register the lieutenant’s skepticism.

The older woman started to swing the pocket watch back and forth like a pendulum. At first, Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt faintly annoyed, but she quickly found she could stay focused on it regardless. Her eyes moved back and forth, matching the watch’s rhythm, and she leaned forward a little, eager to bring all her concentration to bear on the object.

“We all have trauma,” Alara explained. Her voice was very slow - or maybe the lieutenant just heard it that way. Everything seemed slow to her now. “Every one of us. It shapes us, even though we may not realize it. We carry it around inside us all the time.” Past the watch, Lieutenant Kuznetzov could just about make out a wide grin dawning on Alara’s face. “Or, as in your case, we wear it on our sleeves.”

What did she mean by that? Lieutenant Kuznetzov found that her skepticism had already sunk into the quicksand of her entranced mind. Now, she was simply eager to understand. Alara’s words had an irresistible power to them. They were compelling, and she could sense that on some level, she was just as focused on them as she was on the watch.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Alara told her. “I’m talking about how you present yourself. About this aesthetic of tough, strong, butch masculinity you insist on presenting.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s blood suddenly ran cold. “The… my… what are you…”

What was she talking about? Clearly, it was some kind of reference to Lieutenant Kuznentzov being butch. But what did that have to do with anything? She’d always been a butch lesbian. She was perfectly comfortable with her identity. Her butchness had nothing to do with her present feelings.

Right?

Suddenly, Lieutenant Kuznetzov wasn’t so sure. Her usual reserves of will and confidence were lost in the fog. And Alara seemed very, very certain.

“Don’t you see?” The counselor’s voice was stronger than ever. There was a rich pleasure to it, like she was finally, truly alive, even as Alara sat back in her big, comfortable chair, the perfect picture of calm and assurance. “It’s deeply connected. Your butchness. Your paranoia. They share a root in your psyche.”

"N-no…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov murmured. A murmur was all she could muster. She felt so weak. If only she could look away from the pocket watch… but she couldn’t, she had to keep looking.

Who had told her that again?

It was all so confusing. The lieutenant was losing track. All she could remember was that she needed to keep staring. Then, everything would become clear. Yes. She was sure of that.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Alara insisted. “It’s all going to be OK. All you need to do is listen to me.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shook her head numbly. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was about to lose something precious to her. “S-stop.”

“We can’t stop,” Alara said patiently, like she was talking to a child. “Not while you’re still so confused. Don’t you see the connection? The way you present yourself is like a barrier between you and your colleagues. It keeps you apart. Alone. And now you’ve concocted this fantasy about a conspiracy in order to reinforce those barriers. You’d be much happier without them, you know.”

“No,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov repeated. She was finding her voice again. With great effort, she was able to rouse herself a little. She needed to put a stop to this. Right now. “That… is not…”

“Come now,” Alara cooed. “It’s trauma. All of it. How else do you explain those forced-feminization fantasies of yours?”

At that, Lieutenant Kuznetzov froze. She was paralyzed. Her resistance evaporated into the ether. The sheer shock robbed her of it.

How did she know? How did she know about that?

“A new… friend of mine was showing me your holodeck files,” Alara tutted. “I’m afraid that’s not a very healthy outlet, lieutenant. Can’t you see it? This twisted little fetish of yours is simply your true self, begging to be set free.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov was too stunned to argue. Too stunned to react. Too stunned to do anything but accept the words Alara was pouring into her hypnotized ear.

“Yes, we really must address this,” Alara mused. Her grin was overwhelmingly sinister, but Lieutenant Kuznetzov was too far gone to see it. She had eyes only for the pocket watch. “We’ll have to go deep. I’m sure you have some repressed memories that can shed light on this. Listen to me, lieutenant. Let me tell you all about it. Let me show you what, exactly, you need to remember.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov slumped forward in dumb, mindless acceptance. She was completely hypnotized. Her mind was an open book - and Alara Hisarlik its author, as she spoke a new, twisted truth that turned the lieutenant’s identity on its head.

***

“For my records,” Alara dictated to her holocorder, “this is week two, session four of my feminine adjustment therapy with Lieutenant Kuznetzov.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov squirmed at the name Alara had chosen to give it.

By now, these sessions had become familiar. As usual, Lieutenant Kuznetzov sat, hunched and uncertain, in Alara’s cabin while the counselor helped her. As ever, Alara was supremely at ease. She sat back in her chair, tall and formidable, teacup in one hand and notepad in the other, and regarded the lieutenant with an unpleasantly piercing gaze.

In truth, the whole experience was unpleasant. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov had no choice but to go through with it. Because…

She frowned. There was a reason, wasn’t there?

Of course there was.

“So, Lieutenant,” Alara began, “how have you been feeling since our last session?”

“I’ve been well.” Lieutenant Kuznetzov immediately flinched at how uncertain she sounded. “I think.”

“You think?” Alara raised an eyebrow. “Tell me about that.”

The counselor sounded so forceful. So imperious. That wasn’t right, was it? Lieutenant Kuznetzov was growing increasingly sure of it. There was something off about Alara Hisarlik. With each session, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was more and more certain.

But… was that simply her paranoia talking?

She wanted to raise the issue with the captain. But her therapy was too important to jeopardize.

“It’s been… a little distracting,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov confessed.

“Ah.” Alara’s smile widened. Became predatory. “Then, you’ve been following the instructions I gave you?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded curtly, and tried to hide how much she was suddenly blushing.

“Wonderful.” Alara’s voice was slow and gleeful. “Show me.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov sucked in a breath so hard she almost choked. “C-counselor!” she gasped. “That wouldn’t be… I can’t… t-that’s inappropriate!”

As soon as Alara started shaking her head, though, Lieutenant Kuznetzov felt her conviction beginning to wilt.

“Lieutenant,” Alara tutted. Condescension dripped from her words. “Be reasonable. How am I supposed to supervise your therapy if I can’t inspect your progress?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov shrank back. Her therapy. Right. It was all-important, and Alara was the only one she could trust with it. She knew that, somehow. There was no room to argue.

“V-very well,” the butch woman muttered. “H-here.”

Alara watched her carefully over the rim of her teacup as Lieutenant Kuznetzov rose to her feet. After a long moment of hesitation and with great reluctance, the lieutenant presented herself for inspection. She unbuttoned her smart jacket halfway down its front, and at the same time shucked her uniform pants down beneath her hips.

Doing so made her blush fiercely. It felt obscene. Like she was flashing someone. And the worst part was that now there was something for them to see.

Instead of her usual sports bra and boxers, beneath her uniform, Lieutenant Kuznetzov was wearing bright pink lingerie.

It was an assignment from the counselor. Alara had even picked out the bra and panties for her. They were so humiliatingly eye-catching, especially for a butch. So lacy. So thin. So damn frilly, with those needless little bows and floral embellishments.

It was exactly like what Lieutenant Kuznetzov wore in all her worst fantasies.

“Perfect,” Alara purred. “You look lovely in them, by the way. Very cute.”

A sudden rush of heat turned Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s thoughts to ash and her voice into a girlish squeak. “T-t-thank you.”

She slumped back into the chair and hid her face. Why did she have to find that so hot?

“I suppose you haven’t worn anything like this in… how long?” Alara asked.

“S-since I was a teenager,” Lieutenant Kuznetzov managed.

“Almost exactly as long as you’ve had this fetish,” Alara noted. “Telling, don’t you think?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov balled her hands into fists and said nothing.

What could she say? Somebody else knowing about her feminization fetish was a nightmare come to life. She’d always tried her hardest to excuse it to herself. To insist that it was nothing - just a harmless little quirk of her psychology; a little bit of unprocessed trauma that came to the fore, sometimes, when she was in a certain mood.

So what if thinking about someone forcing her to dress like a femme got her off harder than anything else? That didn’t mean anything. 

That was what she’d always told herself. In her late teenage years, Lieutenant Kuznetzov had discovered that dressing in an androgynous or even masculine fashion made her feel good. It completely addressed the uneasy feeling she got in her gut whenever she wore a skirt or a dress. Her newfound butchness went hand-in-hand with her realization that she was a lesbian, and as a butch, she’d found a place in the community.

But slowly, over time, her fetish for feminization had grown inside her like a tainted seed. In her mind’s eye, that unease with femininity had been steadily transformed from disdain into a kind of sick thrill, the need for which she couldn’t satiate anywhere else. Trying to clamp down on it completely hadn’t worked, so Lieutenant Kuznetzov had resorted to indulging it little by little, in masturbatory fantasies or holodeck scenarios. Throughout her military career, it had remained her naughty little secret, never to be revealed or disclosed.

The secrecy made it feel even more shameful. But Lieutenant Kuznetzov had achieved a kind of peace with the fact that she was more than just a fetish. What got her off didn’t dictate her identity. It didn’t undermine who she was. It didn’t undermine her butchness. That was what she’d always thought.

Alara had shown her otherwise.

“You see? You’ve learned to eroticize your own femininity, even as you keep it at arm’s length,” Alara explained for her again. “It’s a symptom of your deep longing for a reconciliation with it. We need to demystify it for you, lieutenant.” She tilted her head to one side. “And yet, you’ve been finding this distracting?”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov flinched again. Why did Alara have to look at her like that? Her gaze made it so damn hard to think, and even harder to lie.

“I get…” she confessed in a whisper, “t-turned on.”

“And there it is.” Alara’s vindication was audible. “Well. Clearly, we need to go a little deeper.”

A chain jangled. Lieutenant Kuznetzov looked up. The counselor’s pocket watch was hanging in the air between them.

She let out a low groan. She hated this part. Whenever the watch came out, she seemed to get so confused. It robbed her of the ability to stand up for herself. To assert herself and her identity. Already, she could feel the room around her beginning to swim and spin as her eyes locked onto the center of the pocket watch.

“Please…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov tried to say. “Can’t we… do we really have to…”

“Yes, lieutenant,” Alara scolded. “We do. Focus, now. You know how this works.”

Without really meaning to, Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded in submission. That response had been conditioned into her now. Obediently, she stared into the watch and let its rhythmic ticking take her away from herself.

“How about your other homework?” Alara asked as she began to swing the pocket watch from side to side. “Did you cut your hair?”

This time, Lieutenant Kuznetzov couldn’t even flinch. It was like all the strength had gone out of her body. “N-no,” she replied distantly.

Every single week, for years now, Lieutenant Kuznetzov had made sure to get her hair trimmed back so that her neat, short side shave remained perfect. But not this week.

She was dreading the moment someone else on the crew noticed.

“Good,” Alara told her soothingly. “Good girl.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov moaned softly. She hated being called that.

Unless she didn’t. Unless the fluttering in her stomach meant something else. Thanks to Alara, she wasn’t sure.

“Let’s go a little deeper,” Alara said, as Lieutenant Kuznetzov started to slip into trance. “A little deeper into your mind. A little deeper into this fetish of yours. We need to get to the root, lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov nodded, the movement barely perceptible. Yes. They needed to get to the root.

“The root of your paranoia,” Alara continued, songlike. “The root of your masculine presentation. It’s the same, lieutenant. But don’t worry. We can fix them both.”

“But…” Lieutenant Kuznetzov managed to say, as something within her stirred. “That’s not… I’m… butch…?”

She was a butch lesbian. That was her identity. That was who she was.

That was what Lieutenant Kuznetzov wanted to say. But her thoughts were sludge, and she could barely muster words. And besides, she was feeling less and less sure of her identity by the day. After all, wasn’t it just something she’d adopted to keep people at arms’ length? Wasn’t that the reason she was currently so worried about the ship and the crew?

Alara had taught her that. Now Lieutenant Kuznetzov didn’t know what to think.

“We’ll see about that,” Alara laughed, brushing past the lieutenant’s feeble resistance like it wasn’t even there. “Don’t worry, lieutenant. Counseling is all about discovering who you really are. That’s all we’re doing here. Sometimes, the truth can be surprising - but that’s why I’m here to help you come to terms with it. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh…”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov’s shoulders slumped. She couldn’t think clearly enough to find any fault with what Alara was telling her.

She had nothing to worry about.

But didn’t she? Wasn’t this all terribly wrong? Once again, the lieutenant found herself wondering: what if Alara was part of the conspiracy she suspected? What if Lieutenant Kuznetzov had accidentally fallen into their clutches? What if this twisted form of therapy was simply part of their plan?

In the end, it didn’t matter. As she stared at the pocket watch, those thoughts vanished little by little - and soon, she was left mindless, thoughtless, and free of doubt.

Perfectly hypnotized.

“Very good,” Alara cooed. Her voice was unmistakably sinister, but Lieutenant Kuznetzov was beyond hearing it. “Now, lieutenant, I think it’s about time we talk about the way you refer to yourself. Always by rank. It’s so stiff, don’t you think? And ‘Semya’ is such a pretty, girly name.”

Lieutenant Kuznetzov had always hated it. But after a few minutes of listening to Alara, she realized that in truth, she felt very differently.

***

“For my records,” Alara recited, “this is week four, session nine of my feminine adjustment therapy with… Semya.”

She said the name with such vicious softness, it made Semya squirm. Why did simply hearing her own name make her so wet?

“So tell me, lieutenant.” Already, Alara was holding her pocket watch, playing with it between her fingers. Even that had Semya transfixed. “How have you been doing lately?”

Semya managed to peel her gaze away from the watch and did her best to glare fiercely at the counselor. She knew, though, that the effect was hopelessly undermined by her long mascara and the dainty, pink lipstick that always seemed to make her lips pouty. Semya knew exactly what she looked like. She’d certainly spent long enough staring at herself in the mirror that morning.

And touching herself.

She couldn’t help it. She was a slave to her fetish. It had taken over her entire life. But at the same time, Semya knew she had a responsibility to the Inyx and its crew. She was certain of it now: there was a conspiracy afoot, and Alara Hisarlik was part of it. She was helping someone take over the ship using some form of mind control, and she needed to be stopped.

Semya was going to stop her. Soon.

She just needed to complete her therapy first. She might not have been able to trust Alara with anything else - but her therapy? She could count on Alara Hisarlik for that.

Semya’s forehead started to throb. She scowled at the pain. That happened a lot. It was like something deep inside her brain was begging her to remember.

But… remember what?

Everything was so foggy these days, but Semya could at least keep a few key details straight in her head. She was investigating Alara Hisarlik and the threat she posed to the ship, but she also needed the duplicitous counselor’s help to deal with her overbearing feminization fetish. She needed this therapy, or else she’d…

What?

Semya wasn’t quite sure. She just knew it was important. Very, very important.

Somehow.

Semya wasn’t sure why her head hurt. It was, admittedly, strange that she needed the help of someone she suspected of working to brainwash the crew. Paradoxical, even. But that was simply the predicament she found herself in. Wasn’t it?

And given the state she was in, it was hard to deny that she needed help.

“Semya?” Alara prompted. Semya realized she’d lapsed into confused silence. “Tell me. How have you been doing?”

“Not well,” Semya growled. It hurt to admit it, especially to Alara, but there was no point in lying. Not in therapy. “I’m always distracted. And…”

“Turned on?” The corners of Alara’s smile turned upwards.

Semya looked down. “Y-yes.”

Little by little, under Alara’s guidance, she’d been reshaping her aesthetic. Her hair was now almost mid-length, she wore make-up every day, and she’d switched to a more feminine cut for her uniform. And, of course, there was the lingerie.

“Better than before?” Alara asked, although she sounded like she already knew the answer. “Or worse?”

Semya grit her teeth. “Worse. Much worse.”

Her new, feminine look put her in a permanent state of arousal that left Semya all but incapable of attending to her duties properly. It was a miracle that Captain Vasser hadn’t noticed. Even now, Semya could feel herself soaking through her lace panties.

“My,” Alara remarked, with cold, sadistic glee plain on her face. “How interesting. Clearly, we need to go even further.”

Semya almost nodded in instinctive agreement before she realized how absurd that sounded.

“But…” she said slowly. Her head got even foggier whenever she considered resisting Alara. “If it’s getting worse then… shouldn’t we… s-stop?”

Alara just laughed at her. “Silly girl!” she replied. Semya moaned. “These conditions often get worse before they get better. We mustn’t stop now. Understand?”

“But…”

Before another word could pass Semya’s lips, the cabin’s dim, cold lights glinted off the gold surface of Alara’s pocket watch as she turned it over between her fingers. At once, Semya was stunned into silence. Her eyes turned glassy and foggy.

She could hear it again. The ticking. It drowned out her very thoughts.

“Understand?” Alara pressed.

Semya nodded dumbly. “Yes, Alara,” she said, because she knew that was what she was supposed to say.

“Good girl.”

Semya moaned again. Being called things like that drove her crazy. There was no quenching her arousal. Touching herself wasn’t even close to enough, but she was desperate to all the same. She began to rub her legs together pathetically.

Alara seized on that at once.

“You see?” the counselor tutted. “You poor girl. You simply can’t control yourself. You can’t possibly go on like this. We need to get to the root of your fetish.”

As she spoke, she lifted her pocket watch and started to slowly, lazily swing it in the air between them. That was all it took to keep Semya’s resistance utterly smothered.

“Yes, Alara,” she said thickly.

“We need to release your femininity,” Alara told her, malice woven through her voice. “To let you embrace it. To let you relish in it.”

Distantly, Semya was aware that that was the last thing she wanted. Hadn’t she always wanted to rid herself of this embarrassing little kink? To keep it hidden? Not to let it run her life.

But somehow, the thought just wouldn’t form.

“Yes, Alara.”

She slumped deeper into her chair. As she stared numbly at the pocket watch, a bubble of drool formed at the corner of her mouth.

“Very good.” Alara’s grin widened still further. She was nothing like her former self. The counselor was utterly transformed by power and confidence, into something completely sinister. “In fact, I think you’re ready for the final step. For your big debut. For your next session, in three days, I’ll book the holodeck for us. I have something very special planned for us.”

“Yes, Alara.”

After a long moment, a faint sense of terror forced its way to the forefront of Semya’s hypnotized mind. However suppressed and misdirected they were, the lieutenant’s instincts weren’t completely gone. Not yet. Eventually, the terror crystallized into a specific concern.

“Alara,” Semya drooled, very slowly, as she stared vacantly into the counselor’s pocket watch. “You’re… you’re not… doing something… to me. Are… are you?”

Alara just smiled. “Of course not,” the older woman said, and kept swinging the pocket watch. “Put it out of your mind, Semya.”

Against her wishes, Semya did. And then, once her mind was completely empty, Alara explained exactly how she was going to destroy Semya’s tough, butch exterior once and for all.

---

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A Commanding Weakness Ch. 9

Alara takes Kuznetzov down to the holodeck to face her feminization fantasies once and for all

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The holodeck couldn’t recreate smells, but all the same, Semya thought that she could taste stale tobacco in the air as she and Alara walked down the narrow, hardlight alleyway, between buildings that were made of nothing more than photons and data. Semya wrinkled her nose at the phantom stench, but in truth it was a pleasant distraction from other aspects of her situation.

It didn’t last. The holodeck was extremely capable of creating local temperature adjustments, and the biting cold of the simulated night air on Semya’s bare legs was a constant, unpleasant, forcefully arousing reminder of what she was wearing.

“Are you ready?” Alara asked her.

Semya flashed her a jealous look. Unlike her, Alara Hisarlik was wrapped up in a long, fine, warm coat. Why did Semya have to be so uncomfortable? What sense did it make for her to be dressed in such a humiliating way, while her therapist was comfortable and dignified? What kind of therapy was this, anyway?

Semya thought about voicing that question, but she couldn’t seem to muster the focus. Instead, she just found herself saying:

“Yes, Alara.”

“Good.” There it was again; that wide, unwholesome grin that had Semya convinced the counselor was bad news. “We’re here.”

She gestured to the building they had just arrived outside: a grubby little hole of a dyke bar, charmingly named ‘The Scissors’.

Semya knew it well. It was a perfect, holographic recreation of the real deal, a bar that Semya had gone cruising at often enough during her stints of shore leave on Earth. She’d actually built the simulation herself, although she’d never quite plucked up the shameless daring to go through with any of the deep, dark fantasies that had motivated it.

But now, thanks to Alara, that was about to change. And Semya was about to experience The Scissors in a very, very different way.

Just thinking about that made Semya whimper. She could already feel herself dripping down her leg.

“Don’t be nervous,” Alara cooed. “This is simply the culmination of your therapy, Semya. The final push. It’s what you need to finally break through your own walls and barriers.”

Semya nodded in instinctive submission. The final push. After this, she’d be cured. Cured of the messed-up, embarrassing fetish that had kept her holed up in her cabin touching herself all day long ever since their last session.

Then she could alert the captain and the rest of the crew. She could save the Inyx. She’d have Alara Hisarlik in the brig. She just needed to be cured.

Semya frowned for a moment as she tried to remember why, exactly, what they were doing was so important to her therapy. Her head started to hurt. The memories wouldn’t form. How had she ended up here? Why was she doing this?

She couldn’t remember. When she tried, she just found herself picturing Alara’s pocket watch.

Alara was doing something to her. Definitely. Something sinister. Semya was sure of it, and it terrified her.

But before she could come to terms with that, she needed to be cured.

“I understand,” she whimpered softly.

“Then,” Alara said, licking her lips and reaching out to open the door to the lesbian bar, “let’s get started.”

Before Semya could brace herself, Alara rested a hand on her back and pushed Semya through the door.

It was loud inside the bar, but as soon as the door closed behind the two of them, a distinctive hush washed through the space as conversations fell silent and heads turned, punctuated only by the scraping of barstools as every single patron craned to look at Semya Kuznetzov.

Semya’s cheeks turned bright red. She knew those looks. She knew what she was to them.

Fresh meat.

The Scissors might have been a filthy dive bar, but there was a kind of etiquette to the place that was as rigid as any military discipline. The way the bar worked was that dominant, butch women hung out and drank, and if any submissive, feminine girls wanted some action, all they had to do was walk through the door and pick who got to buy her a drink.

In the past, Semya had always been one of the butches. Not anymore. And now she was learning how all those femmes had always felt, staring down all these hungry, cocky, lustful stares.

Someone wolf-whistled. A moan slipped out of Semya’s lips.

It was little wonder that everybody was staring. Semya was dressed in the outfit Alara had picked out for the occasion - and it was beyond even her wildest fantasies. A metallic, gold minidress, cut tight to her figure, but ruched so that each of its folds caught the light and attracted attention to Semya’s physique. She felt she didn’t have the figure for a dress like that, but from the looks she was getting, the bar’s patrons disagreed.

In one hand, Semya was clutching a tiny purse Alara had given her to hold her badge. Alara had given her a necklace, too: a woven little gold chain that hung down as if pointing the way to her exposed cleavage. And then there was her makeup: under Alara’s stern instruction, Semya had been practicing, and in a few weeks she’d become skilled enough to give herself a perfect complexion, full, vibrant lips, striking eyeliner, and deep, sultry eyeshadow. But Alara had insisted on a heavy hand. The colors were a little too lurid; the pronounced blush and bright lipstick looked slutty instead of simply pretty, and the way she’d used bright pink instead of a deeper red ensured the resulting look was girlish rather than womanly.

All in all, with her mid-length hair, she looked just like a freshly-turned femme looking to get fucked like a princess for the first time.

And it was desperately, humiliatingly hot to know that, in a way, that was exactly what she was.

The crowning humiliation was the tall, dainty, heels Alara had forced her to wear. Semya stumbled like a newborn faun as Alara pushed her a few paces deeper into the bar.

“Go on,” Alara jeered. The rich pleasure in her voice was unmistakable. “Time to take your medicine, lieutenant.”

Semya let out a plaintive little whine. She had never been so turned on. The outfit was bad enough, but now, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes roving over her body, Semya was completely robbed of the ability to form words. Her head was full of steam. She couldn’t think.

“Does…” she whimpered eventually. “D-does it really… have to be… t-them?”

She gestured at the bar’s patrons. They were all dressed for the part, but each and every one of the patrons’ faces was familiar to Semya - because they were holograms of the Inyx’s crew.

“Oh yes,” Alara insisted, giggling. “Private therapy is merely the beginning. To complete your counseling, you need to be properly socialized into your new, feminine social role.

Hearing that didn’t make thinking any easier.

“B-but,” Semya tried to say, “I t-thought… b-but you said…”

She was supposed to go back to normal after this, wasn’t she? She’d be free of her fetish. She’d be able to go back to being butch. Wasn’t that the whole idea?

Semya wasn’t sure anymore. She just couldn’t think. Why couldn’t she think?

“You have to feel seen,” Alara assured her. “By people familiar to you.”

Semya felt seen. She’d never imagined that people would see so much of her. It was as mortifying as it was hot.

For years, she’d had fantasies just like this.

“Go on.” Alara nudged her forwards. “Give them a show.”

Hesitantly but obediently, Semya started walking along the length of the bar.

“They’re… just holograms,” Semya muttered to herself under her breath. A reminder. Alara had promised. The counselor had created this scenario for her. Nobody else here was an actual person. But they seemed so real. “Just… just holograms.”

It didn’t help. Every one of those amused smirks and lustful stares was written into Semya’s body. They were like burning hot coals on her skin. She could feel her legs turning to jelly beneath her - but all the same, she found herself trying her best to obey Alara’s command. As Semya walked, clumsily putting one heel in front of the other, fighting to maintain balance, she tried to make her hips sway appealingly with each step in that hypnotically alluring way femmes always seemed to manage.

For just a moment, she managed it - but then, a harsh spike of shameful arousal made Semya stumble wildly.

Until someone caught her.

Semya gasped at the sensation of a rough hand clamping tight around her bare forearm and hauling her back to her feet.

“Careful there, princess,” said someone, voice full of a familiar swagger. “Let’s at least get a drink or two in you before you go spreading your legs like that.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Semya had to bury her face in her hands to hide her brush. She wasn’t used to this - to being dressed this way, to being desired, to feeling pursued, any of it. In that moment, what left her tongue-tied the most was just how fragile she felt as this woman - a short-haired butch who worked in engineering, Semya thought - grabbed her and pulled her around.

Fragility. That was new. And it put butterflies in Semya’s stomach.

“C’mon now,” the engineer teased. “Don’t I even get a ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you,” rose instantly to Semya’s lips in a flustered, mortified squeak.

A fresh round of laughter rendered her speechless again. Semya was startled by just how high and feminine her voice came out.

“You’re welcome,” the engineer replied, grinning. “Has anyone ever told you that your voice is just as pretty as your face?”

Semya saw white for a moment.

Pretty?

That was the last thing Semya ever expected to be called. The last thing she wanted to be called.

And yet she couldn’t keep a dumb, shy smile from coming to her face.

“Y’know,” someone else piped up, “I don’t think she has.”

More laughter.

“I’m always happy to take a pretty girl’s first time,” the engineer winked. “Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, princess?”

“P-p-princess?” Semya squeaked. She was used to using lines like that, not having them used on it. It was wrong. It was mortifying. And yet, her body was reacting to it all with supreme eagerness. Each word, each laugh, was a fresh rush of heat across her skin.

She was too flustered to form a reply, but that didn’t seem to matter to the engineer who was currently hitting on her. She was still holding Semya by the arm and used it to guide her over towards where she’d been sitting at the bar. Semya followed meekly. Struggle was beyond her. She was a leaf in the wind.

A small crowd of women, all eager for a piece of the new girl, quickly formed around her.

“So,” the engineer asked, “what do you like to drink?”

Semya was grateful for such a simple question. “I’ll h-have a beer,” she replied automatically.

The chorus of laughter that prompted was louder than ever.

“Aren’t you cute?” the engineer laughed derisively. She held up her hand to get the bartender’s attention. “White wine spritzer for the lady!”

The lady. The humiliation was unbearable. Semya squirmed from the treasonous pleasure that gave her.

Why? Why was this getting to her so much? Semya had always liked feeling strong. Hard. Tough. Feeling strong was comfortable. It suited her. That’s what she’d always thought. In a way, that simple feeling had guided her entire aesthetic. Her identity. Feeling weak? Fragile? Delicate? That was wrong. It made her stomach flutter. It made her feel the way a zero-G-to-atmosphere spacedive made her feel.

And now she was trapped with that feeling of falling. Every look, every whispered comment, every sleazy flirt made it grip her anew. And as the minutes wore on, it was being transformed into a kind of panicked euphoria that robbed all the thoughts from Semya’s head and sent giddy endorphins pounding through her body.

She wished she hated it. But she didn’t. It felt amazing. It was just the way it always was in her fantasies, only the reality of it made it a hundred times more intense.

No. Not reality, she reminded herself. Holograms. These were just holograms.

“So,” the engineer said easily, “what do you call yourself, princess?”

“Don’t let her keep you all to herself,” someone interrupted, sidling up to Semya on the other side and saving her from even deeper embarrassment. She recognized them too. One of Carter’s people. A security officer. “And don’t let her talk your ear off all night either. I know you’re not here for talk.”

“I…” Semya tried to protest, “I’m…”

She stopped when she realized how unconvincing any protest would sound, given her clothes.

“You should try talking for once,” the engineer said to the security officer. “Some girls like it when they know your name before you try getting your hand in their panties.”

“Not sure I agree,” the security officer shot back, a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. “My way hasn’t failed me so far. Anyway, by the time I’m done with them, they don’t even remember their own names.”

She flashed Semya a look. Normally, the lieutenant would have rolled her eyes at a crass boast like that. Now, it just made her squirm all the more.

Then, a third bar dyke joined the fray. “Why don’t we leave these two to bicker?” she suggested to Semya. Semya only vaguely recognized this one - a mess worker, perhaps. “And go somewhere a little more private.”

“Hey now,” the engineer interjected. She leaned across and slipped an arm around Semya’s shoulder, keeping her pulled close. “No poaching! I saw her first.”

The exchange left Semya burning up with flustered heat. It wasn’t just the way the engineer pulled her close so effortlessly, making her feel small and feeble. There was another element, too: the heady intoxication of being desired.

All these women were fighting over Semya. Competing for her, like she was a pretty bauble to be won. That was new to Semya. She’d been appreciated for her looks before, certainly - but never quite like this. It redoubled her euphoria, making her feel light, proud, giddy from the attention. It made the way she was being objectified and swept off her feet feel almost flattering. Like it was a victory, instead of a humiliation.

No, Semya tried to remind herself. This was-

Wrong?

Or was it right? She couldn’t tell. Suddenly, she remembered that Alara was still here, lurking in a far corner, watching. Smiling.

Therapy. This was Semya’s therapy. She had to go through with it. Right?

Suddenly, the sheer wrongness of that struck Semya. She became abruptly aware of the fact that she was on a precipice, teetering, about to lose a vital part of herself. She needed to fight that. She needed to remember who she was. She needed to-

“Hey now,” the security officer piped up. “Who says she’s yours to cop a feel of?”

Semya was about to try and say something - to insist everyone back off - when another arm snaked possessively around her waist. Again, she saw white as the security officer squeezed her.

“I’m sure the princess herself has something to say about it,” the engineer retorted. “She owes me for the drink, remember?”

There it was again. Princess. It made Semya’s stomach do loops. “N-n…” she tried to say. “Nnnno-“

“Oh, I don’t know,” inserted the mess worker. “The pretty little thing seems real tongue-tied. Here, I think you two are crowding the lady.”

Far from helping, the mess worker reached forward, trying to squeeze up next to Semya. In the process, one of her hands came to rest on Semya’s hip, fingertips already teasing at the hem of Semya’s unreasonably short dress. The lieutenant whimpered.

She couldn’t stand up for herself. Why couldn’t she stand up for herself?

“Of course not,” the engineer scoffed. “She’s enjoying my company. She’s my kind of girl. Aren’t you?”

Semya wanted to deny it. All that came out was a moan. She could feel the body heat of these three tall, strong, confident women as they surrounded her. She could smell their scents. She was drowning in it. She felt so light. Like any of them could effortlessly throw her over their shoulders and carry her away.

“I think it’s my company she’s enjoying, actually,” the security officer put in. “Aren’t you, beautiful?”

Semya had to look down meekly as her cheeks scorched with heat.

“See?” the security officer boasted.

“What are you, a high schooler?” the mess worker sneered. “That’s not how you tell if a girl is having a good time. This is.”

In a single deft, well-practiced move, she surged forward and slipped her hand up the skirt of Semya’s minidress. A loud moan erupted from Semya’s lips as she felt the mess worker’s fingertips stroking against her.

She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress.

“See?” the mess worker crowed, holding up two of her fingers for the others to inspect. As she stretched them apart, a long string of sticky wetness formed between them. “She’s loving it.”

Semya had never felt more embarrassed. She wanted the ground to swallow her. Being presented with such visceral proof of her body’s eagerness was humiliating. It made all the denials she wanted to scream seem ridiculous and dishonest, even to her. There was an extra level of humiliation to the fact that she was being treated this way by a mere mess worker - a woman who, normally, couldn’t look her in the eyes without saluting.

But things like that didn’t matter here.

At least it was just a hologram, Semya reminded herself.

That was the only thought she managed to hold on to as the bar around her erupted into mocking, raucous laughter.

“Wow,” the engineer whistled. “Maybe you were right. Maybe she really is the kind of girl who likes to be treated rough.”

As flustered as she was, Semya couldn’t let that pass without comment. She had to hold on - to her butchness, to her strength, to her dignity. To something.

“I’m…” she managed, in a pitiful squeak, “nnottt.”

As ever, her voice, high and girly, completely undermined her. The women lurking around her simply cooed condescendingly and drew even closer.

“Oh? You’re not?” the security officer teased. “Don’t worry, princess. We know how to treat a girl right. Don’t you worry.”

Semya could sense a subtle but sinister change in the atmosphere. The looks she was getting from these other women were growing more and more lustful. More and more predatory. They were no longer competing with each other - at least, not quite in the same way. Their competitiveness had been outstripped by a simple need to see the pretty, feminine Semya utterly ravaged for their collective pleasure.

This was no longer simply flirting. It was a feeding frenzy.

As much as anything else, she could taste it in the air. The pheromones, as all those bar dykes closed in. The smell, too; the musk, really. Sweat, smoke, booze, cologne. Semya was used to it, she’d thought, but not like this. Somehow, it was all the worse for that single, light, floral note; the perfume Alara had made her use before coming here. The dizzying mixture of it all was in her head, making it harder than ever to think. Making her painfully aware of her own weakness.

“So, princess,” the mess worker cooed. “Am I taking you back to my place? Or are you showing the whole bar a good time?”

After a sharp intake of breath at the proposal, Semya glanced gratefully at the woman. There it was. One last offer of dignity - at least, relatively speaking. She wasn’t sure what taking it would even mean, given that she was here for her therapy, but she had to try.

But as soon as she opened her mouth to reply - to beg, in the most humiliating way possible, to be taken home and fucked as a one-night-stand - the mess worker pushed two fingers inside her and expertly hooked them to stroke Semya’s g-spot.

All that came out of her mouth was a high, loud, unbearably needy moan.

The moment felt like it lasted forever. Once Semya’s moan died and she stopped seeing stars, all she could hear was mocking laughter.

“I guess our princess isn’t such a good girl after all,” the engineer commented, smirking. “Looks like we found our entertainment for the night!”

A cheer went up around the bar. Semya wanted to protest, but that word had robbed her of her voice.

Entertainment. That was her now. The center of attention. The star of the show. Semya had always hated it. Had always hated being flashy. Hated the way people looked at her when she wore makeup and dresses. Like she was nothing more than a feast for their eyes. A treat to be devoured.

Except now, it made her cunt drip all over the mess worker’s fingers.

“Hey, wait,” piped up the security officer, although she was clearly no ally. “Don’t keep her all to yourself. I want a piece.”

Semya squealed as she felt the woman’s hand snake down the back of her seat and cup her ass, squeezing and groping without mercy. The touch made her melt and squeal, and made her painfully aware of just how soft and yielding her body truly was.

It was like she was meant for this.

“Relax,” drawled the engineer. “There’s plenty of her to go around.”

“Yeah,” added the mess worker, “and she’s plenty eager for it.”

Using the hand between Semya’s thighs, the mess worker started to pry her legs open - not forcefully, but again, Semya found herself utterly powerless to resist or protest. As she spread her legs, the hem of her tiny dress began to ride up, exposing more and more of her skin to the air. To the eyes of the hungry predators gathered around her.

“Don’t look so scared,” the security officer cooed. “This is what you wanted, right? This is why you came in here. Don’t pretend. We know what you are, princess. You want this. You need this.”

More than ever, Semya wanted to deny it - but this time, the simple truth of what she was being told overwhelmed her.

The security officer - no, this hologram - was right. She had come here for this. She needed this. Alara had taught her that. What use was there in denying it?

So instead, she found herself nodding meekly.

“Good girl,” the security told her. Semya moaned again.

Everyone was looking at her now. Everyone. Not just the three who were immediately crowded around her. She was the center of attention for the entire bar. Even the bartender was watching. Her moans were the music. Her shifting, writhing body was the entertainment. Everyone was looking, and Semya knew all they saw was a needy, flashy femme who was all but begging to be fucked.

And… was she? Semya was starting to lose track. She needed this, but she didn’t want it. Was that right? But if she didn’t want it, why was her body responding with such vicious eagerness? Why did every touch, every crass comment, every vulgar gaze fill her with violent heat?

She… wanted this?

Why? Because of her fetish? But what was it Alara had been saying? That her fetish was her real desires, repressed, waiting to be released? If that was the case, then…

Semya gasped as, out of nowhere, someone leaned forward and claimed her lips with a messy, forceful kiss. She could taste smoke on their breath and cheap whiskey on their tongue. The sheer coarseness of it left her whimpering.

“Wow,” Semya heard someone say, “she really is eager.”

Semya realized she’d been kissing back just as needily.

As everyone laughed, Semya looked down and tried to hide her face, although some implanted instinct against ruining her makeup kept her from burying it in her hands. One moment, she wanted the ground to swallow her up and shield her. The next, that same sense of humiliation was transformed into a lightness of being; a desire to be swept up and aloft, higher, brighter, more visible than ever. Semya was giddy with the urge - before the shame returned, and crushed her anew.

As she grappled with those warring feelings, she could hear the nearby bar dykes arguing about her - specifically, about who was going to get the first ‘turn’. They were comparing dibs, debating about Semya’s potential preferences, and even, in a few cases, planting elbows on the bartop so they could arm-wrestle for her. Being the center of attention was mortifying, but being actively fought over was lighting an undeniable fire inside Semya.

This was her, now. A trophy. A prize to be claimed.

That was so new. She’d never felt desired quite like that - desired, certainly but in a different way. She was learning that the relationship between butch and femme was far from symmetrical - and that, until now, she’d been blissfully unaware of just dizzying the euphoria that stemmed from being desired and chased could be.

It was hot. It was so fucking hot.

After a few moments, the pecking order was decided and the ‘winner’ presented herself; unsurprisingly, it was the engineer who had first caught Semya when she’d tripped. Once, Semya would have squared up against a woman like her with a grin on her face for the opportunity to take a pretty girl home. Now, as the engineer ogled her, Semya felt nothing but meek, flustered submission.

“Hey, princess,” the engineer said. Her voice was soft, but the cocky shark’s grin on her face made a lie of it. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you feel good.”

The promise made Semya shiver. For the first time, she truly looked at the other woman. She was tall, and wearing a ribbed tank top that left her burly arms on display. She had a thick-set, husky build, but when she moved and flexed, the musculature underneath was clearly visible, attesting to long hours spent lifting and carrying machinery in the bowels of the Inyx. She had sailors’ tattoos on her biceps, marking ships and campaigns served on, and her hair was short and slicked over to one side.

Words came unbidden into Semya’s mind. Words she’d normally reserve for herself, not think about other women. Cool. Handsome. Strong.

Hot.

A nervous, dumb smile came to Semya’s face.

And her eyes went wide as the engineer dropped to her knees and buried herself between Semya’s thighs.

The very first touch of her tongue had Semya moaning. She twitched and writhed as the pleasure hit, although all her efforts did nothing more than encourage the engineer as she started eating Semya out. It overwhelmed her instantly and defied all reason. Semya had always been a giver, not a receiver, but within moments this woman’s skillful tongue unraveled that part of her.

Always a top, always a giver - but not anymore. She couldn’t forget this. Her body couldn’t forget this.

At that moment, far too late, as the first rush of her new addiction hit, Semya suddenly became conscious of the fact that this was wrong. Completely wrong. This wasn’t a cure for her fetish. It was the opposite. It was fuel for the flames. And she was at risk of losing something she could truly never get back.

She needed to fight this. She needed to resist. She needed to-

“O-oh myy gggoddd!” The scream forced its way from Semya’s lips as the engineer’s tongue found its way even deeper inside her. The entire bar laughed at her plight, and the mixture of humiliation and pleasure robbed her of her train of thought.

She needed to… what?

She couldn’t think.

The engineer was making a hopeless puppet of her. She had such power over Semya; whenever she wanted, she could make her moan loud, or gasp breathlessly, or twitch this way or that, all with a single flick of her tongue. She proved it, over and over again. She delighted in it, making a mockery of the feeble resistance Semya tried to put up when she attempted to hold back her moans.

Little by little, she was teasing out and eroding Semya’s resistance. Chewing it up and spitting it out. Every time Semya stifled a moan or bit down on her own thrashing, the engineer noticed and made sure that her next display of ravenous pleasure was all the more humiliating for it. She tongue-fucked her skillfully, slow one moment, fast the next, attacking her clit, or stroking her lips, or pushing her tongue deep inside her until Semya’s back arched and her screams filled the whole bar.

Every time Semya tried fighting back, even a little, she slipped deeper into pleasure-drunk euphoria and she became more and more painfully aware of her own weakness. Her own lightness. Compared to the engineer - to how strong and forceful she was - Semya felt like she was made of nothing.

And all the while, her moans grew louder and louder.

“Settle down, princess,” jeered one of the women who had accosted Semya earlier - the security officer, she thought, although her vision was far too blurred to tell. “You’re getting exactly what you came here for.”

“N-n-noooo,” Semya forced out, even as the bar echoed with mocking laughter. “I’m not… I’m nnnottt… I’m… this… isn’tttt…”

She couldn’t quite get the words out. The engineer’s tongue was turning her thoughts into slurry. Even if Semya could speak without moaning, what would she say? What was there to protest?

It wasn’t like she could pretend not to be enjoying this. The wetness dripping onto the floor of the bar made a lie of that.

“I’m…” she moaned. “I’mmmm”

What?

Masc? Butch? A top?

She wasn’t sure any of those things were true anymore.

Her identity itself was being washed away by the simple fact that nothing had ever felt better than this.

“OK, princess,” said the engineer from between her thighs, drool and stickiness dripping from her lips. “How about we let everyone else take their turn?”

Before Semya could reply, the engineer rose smoothly to her feet and spun her around with her powerful arms, so that she was facing out into the bar. Her deep blush and shameful wetness were on display, and even without someone holding them apart, Semya couldn’t seem to find the strength to close her legs.

She was a spectacle. And everyone was looking. Everyone. A dozen pairs of eyes, each of them full of lust.

And it was all for her. All for Semya.

In the face of that, her soiled pride simply melted away. The simple euphoria of being beautiful and desired and prized cleansed away everything else. Amidst Semya’s frenzied lust, it seemed like clarity.

She wanted this. She needed this.

Because, deep down, it was who she really was.

And with that settled, she found herself nodding and grinning stupidly.

“Y-yes,” she said, in a dumb, high-pitched, girly voice. “Y-yes, please.”

That was all anyone needed to hear. In an instant, everyone else was on top of her, a dozen or more hands exploring every part of her body with the kind of ravenous, destructive lust normally reserved for picking the petals from flowers.

Everyone wanted a piece of Semya. They wanted to soil her. They wanted to ruin her dress, to smear her lipstick, to leave her eyeliner running down her face. They lived for it. They loved it.

And so did she.

It was a new feeling to Semya. The feeling of being a pretty vase, cracking apart. It was such a thrill. All along, Semya had suspected how good it would feel. That was why had become such a singular, fetishistic focus of hers. But to experience it was something else. It put the lie to all her excuses about it being ‘just’ a fetish.

This wasn’t ‘just’ anything. And Semya could see, now, clearly, that Alara had been right all along. She couldn’t be cured. Not of this. It was too intense. Now she was drowning in the feeling, and all she wanted was more.

She wanted to live this. Every day. Every moment.

She wanted to make sure there was no going back.

So, as the mess worker from earlier dove between her legs and started eating her out, Semya made sure her moans were higher and girlier than ever before. As another, a woman Semya hadn’t exchanged a single word with, yanked the top of her dress down to make her tits spill out, Semya made sure the faux-protest she let out was breathy, weak, and very distinctly feminine.

It felt so good, being violated like that. The fragility, most of all. Fragility and femininity were inextricably fused in Semya’s mind. For the longest time, she’d been laboring under the delusion that it meant femininity was wrong for her. Now, Alara had helped her to understand how breathtakingly pleasurable fragility could be.

And you never felt more fragile than when you were breaking.

“Y-yes!” Semya moaned. No more ‘no’s. No more denials. She was beyond that. “P-please! Moreeeee!”

She was free. Free to embrace her fantasies. Free to sink into the bliss, safe and secure in the knowledge that besides Alara, nobody was watching. These were all holograms. They weren’t really members of the crew.  Nothing more than hardened light. With that fixed firmly in her mind, Semya was free to embrace her darkest fantasies. To breathe deep, and let the overpowering scent of sweat and lust carry her away.

At first, there was only one woman who wasn’t participating in the feeding frenzy. Alara Hisarlik, the ship’s counselor, was still standing off to one side, watching without a word. But anyone who saw her would have been able to tell that her bystanding was anything innocent. There was an unhealthy, lurid glow in her eyes; a fascination that was entirely at odds with her duty as a therapist and a healer. Her enjoyment was evident, but it was just as obvious that this wasn’t enough to sate her appetite. Not even close.

Semya Kuznetzov was simply her first subject. And this was simply the beginning of her new career.

Out of nowhere, another woman appeared next to her. The holodeck’s emitters carefully manipulated the photons passing through the air to form a holographic image that was the perfect duplicate of Wasp, the hacker, right down to the neon green highlights in her hair. After a brief moment, the image came to life, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she trained her eyes on the counselor.

“Nice work, ‘lara,” Wasp drawled. “I knew you had it in you.”

Alara didn’t so much as glance at her. She didn’t want to miss a thing. She wanted to etch every moment of Semya’s fall into her memory.

“I suppose I did,” Alara mused in reply. “All along. I really did.”

For her, as much as for Semya, this was a rebirth. It emanated from her; every mote of dignity and strength that Semya had lost, Alara seemed to have gained.

“I just got one question,” Wasp said, as she sauntered around, phasing through tables and stools as she did. No hardlight today, apparently. With her punk look, she seemed oddly at home in the dark confines of the dyke bar. “Why do it so slow? All the sessions, the old-school hypnosis schtick… why? If you wanted her like this, all you had to do was slip her one of my new little toys.”

Alara smiled a thin smile. “You don’t understand,” she replied. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? It’s about the journey, not the destination. It’s the personal touches. The little push-and-pull of watching her come apart.” The counselor shivered. “I wouldn’t skip it for the world.”

Wasp stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, but then just shrugged. “If you say so. Not like I’m in any place to judge. As long as you’re still in with me, you can be any kind of pervert you want.”

Alara laughed. “Thank you. And besides, you’ve used the time well, I think.”

Wasp tittered like a giddy child. “Oh, absolutely. I’ve got almost all of them now. Doc, down in medbay, is quite the little worker drone. The whole crew has pretty much got their ‘vaccination’. We’re ready for the endgame.”

“I see.” Alara seemed more interested in her own plans than Wasp’s. After a moment, she nodded towards the bar dykes were fucking Semya. “Speaking of: thank you for their cooperation. I think it’s the perfect little touch.”

“No problem.” Wasp grinned. “I’m no stranger to theatricality.”

Both of them watched the developing orgy. A couple of the women had lifted Semya up onto the bartop, and people were taking turns crawling up between her legs and eating her out. They seemed to be competing to see who could make her thrash the most. At the other end, another group was using her mouth just as forcefully, making her suck on fingers, strap-ons, beer bottles. Whatever they wanted.

Semya was eager for all of it.

She was the center of attention. The focal point of all this debauchery. In a strange, perverse way, she really did look like some kind of princess, in the ruins of her delicate jewelry and golden dress, now hopelessly torn and crumpled from all the groping. Everyone else at the bar was gathered around to pay her a twisted tribute, and her skin was covered with proof of their adorations: cum, drool, kiss marks, love bites, and more.

And Semya loved it. She was in heaven. She had completely given herself over to fantasy.

Now it was time for Alara to bring her back down to reality.

“Time to rip off the band-aid,” she murmured, stepping forward.

“Knock yourself out, shrink,” Wasp said, dissolving back into nothingness as she offered a mock salute to her conspirator.

A vicious smirk on her face, Alara held her head high as she walked to the center of the space.

“Computer,” she said, in a loud, clear voice. “End simulation.”

The ship’s computer responded instantly, and with a shimmer, the world around them dissolved. The bar, the stools, the drinks, even the street outside - all of it phased out of existence as the light dissipated. Semya was still held up in the air, a few feet from the ground, but only by a nondescript, gray, hardlight box generated by the holodeck’s safety subroutines. That was all that remained of the holodeck scenario that had been running. Everything else had shut down. Nothing else was left.

But all the bar dykes were.

“Do you see, Semya?” Alara said to her patient. “I’m afraid I can’t simply allow you to lapse into futile escapism. What kind of cure would that be?”

It took Semya a long moment to rouse herself from the blissful overwhelmed, aroused stupor she’d lapsed into. But when she started to process what was happening to her, her eyes went wide and started trembling.

“Wha…” she panted in disbelief. “What… you’re… they’re…”

Real.

Not holograms. Real people. All of the women who’d been toying with Semya were simply members of the crew, dressed up and playing their assigned parts. It had to be true - it was the only way to explain why they were still here - but even so, Semya couldn’t quite bring herself to accept it.

But eventually, the truth forced her to her knees. As much as Semya wanted to pretend this was simply a cruel trick, now that she was thinking about it, there was something no amount of holodeck deception could explain: the smell. The scent of sweat, musk and sex Semya had been drinking deeply of all evening.

Holodecks couldn’t recreate smells. She should have known.

“That’s right,” Alara confirmed, as she saw the penny drop. “You’ve been doing all this in front of members of the crew. In front of people under your command. And rest assured: they won’t forget it.”

Unpleasant laughter echoed around the now-empty space. Wasp had used her tools of mental manipulation to make them play along, but they were far from mindless drones. They had been enjoying it every bit as much as Semya.

A chance to defile a stern, stuck-up XO? Who wouldn’t?

Semya looked between them like a frightened, trapped doe. There was no escape. All of them had seen her at her lowest. At her most humiliated. They knew her innermost secret. Her fetish had been laid bare. They would never look at her the same way again - and nor would anyone else, once word spread.

Semya’s reputation was shattered. Her dignity was a thing of the past. Her very identity, a facade barely held up by increasingly thin excuses, was now collapsing.

After a few long, unpleasant seconds, Semya made peace with it the only way she could.

By embracing it.

Her eyes fogged over again and, with a vacant, girlish giggle, she beckoned to a familiar face: the mess worker who had first touched her.

“Heyyyy,” Semya slurred. Her voice was breathy. Needy. “Why did you stop?”

In that moment, her pride broke. Her identity broke. Her mind broke. Whatever had been left of the stern, quiet, understated, strong XO of the Inyx was currently dribbling out of her mouth and drooling from between her thighs. In the face of impossible humiliation, Semya had collapsed in on herself and decided that this was all she wanted to do and all she wanted to be.

The women surrounding her exchanged looks. They all knew prey going limp when they saw it. Still, they looked to Alara for permission. She returned a quick nod. With that, the orgy resumed.

They kept at Semya for hours, eating her out, slapping her around, leaving her makeup a ruin - and all the while, she did nothing more than giggle and moan and squeal girlishly in submissive acceptance. Alara didn’t stay for that, though. She had already seen the moment she’d been working towards. She’d won. And for what felt like the first time in her life, she knew satisfaction.

The next day, when Semya Kuznetzov reported for duty wearing a dress, it was nothing more than confirmation.

—

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tank with "this machine transitions femboys" on it

angel fell and turned into a peverted NEET

auction link, SB 30 MI 5 no AB

Underrated hypnosis thing: hypnotic perfume.

You’re cuddling with your domme, and she just smells so good that you find yourself being lulled into a trance as she softly whispers suggestions in your ear.

You’re at a party, standing in the corner awkwardly, when a tall, gorgeous woman walks up to you and strikes up a conversation. She’s so pretty and she smells so sweet and you’re so flustered that you don’t even notice as she presses closer to you, forcing you into the corner where the scent of her perfume is even more overwhelming. You don’t even notice as everyone else leaves, leaving you and her alone. You don’t even notice as her words shift from the small talk you’d been making to commands and suggestions, conditioning you into a perfect little plaything for her.

You’re in a department store near closing time, walking past the perfume counter, when one of the saleswomen sprays some perfume right in your face. Unthinkingly, you inhale, and your brain immediately starts to slow down. It’s the loveliest fragrance you’ve ever smelled, sweet and a little floral, with notes of something you can’t quite place. You turn to ask her what it is, but before you can even open your mouth she’s sprayed another puff of the perfume into your face. Your mind goes blank for a moment, overwhelmed by the scent and a sudden wave of lust, and that’s all the opportunity she needs. She sprays out a dozen or so more puffs of the perfume, filling the air with a faint pink cloud. You’ve figured out what’s going on at this point, and you know you should stop breathing it in… but it just smells so good. As she reaches out and runs her hand over your cheek, you inhale sharply… and in that moment you’re lost. Nothing in your head but the sweet, fragrant pink fog swirling around you and the unbearable neediness that makes even the slightest touch an explosion of pleasure. She grabs you by the wrist and leads you out to her car, spritzing you with more of her perfume along the way to make sure you stay docile and pliant. She buckles you into the passenger’s seat (you’re too far gone to do it yourself) and takes a surgical mask and a pair of headphones from the glove compartment. She sprays more perfume into the mask, making sure it’s saturated, and puts it on your face. Then she slips the headphones over your ears. As you drive, you hear the sound of your new mistress’s voice coming through the headphones. You can’t consciously make out any of the words, but that’s ok. Your subconscious is taking them all in. By the time you get to her house, you’re already deeply conditioned to worship and obey her. Come the next morning, you won’t be able to remember a life without her. By the end of the month, you’ll be on a flight with her to a new home where nobody will ever find you— and if she takes advantage of the long flight and close quarters to turn a few other passengers into new adoring slaves, you’ll be right there, already drenched in her special perfume, to help her lure them in.

I mean, just… god.

Office work is extremely boring. Endless monotony of spreadsheets and reports. The dull lighting and desk spaces. Physically limited and isolating. I don’t blame anyone for getting bored and struggling to stay awake. So it's no surprise that someone might decide to take the risk and sleep in a utility closet. A quick power nap can greatly help at getting through work. Plus any break from monotonous corporate culture is welcome. At worst one of the maid androids would find you and you could make up a lie they would obviously believe. They weren’t exactly smart and just did what they were told without much thought. 

With a quick mumbled sentence you let the person next to you know that you are going to the restroom, so if anyone asks you’ll have an excuse. You made your way to a quiet corner of the office and checked around with a quick glance to make sure nobody would see you, then you slipped inside. It was a bit cramped with the mop bucket and metal shelves taking up so much space but, thankfully, there were some packs of paper towels you could arrange into a moderately comfortable spot to sit and sleep. Eyes heavy and burning from exhaustion it wasn’t long after you sat back and relaxed that you were out cold. 

Originally intending to only sleep for about 30 minutes. Just enough time to sleep without being noticed and would give you the energy needed to finish your shift and actually get some work done. Instead of your alarm however you were awoken by someone opening the door to the closet. You jolted awake and sat up. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes while mumbling an apology just in case you had been caught. Your heart raced with anxiety, fearing that the voice of your boss would begin echoing in the small closet about what a terrible employee you were and how you were fired. Instead a sweet synthesized voice spoke up from the blurry figure at the door.

“Oh no. Are you okay? Did you forget to charge yourself last night?” 

You felt relieved when you realized it was just a maid android. You looked up at her. She was a smooth pale white plastic shell with black joints. The larger joints being balls that the rest of the limbs rotated around. Her face was a dome shaped black plastic with a digitized face. Two square eyes and a small smile made of pixels. She wore a simple black maid dress. Something several people had found weirdly sexual but the company that rented them out to the office insisted was to help make people feel at ease around the cleaning team. 

“Sorry I got stuck in here. The door jammed and nobody heard me calling for help. Thank you for letting me out though, I should get back to work.”

The robot tilted her head in confusion, her face changing into a question mark for a moment. 

“Of course you were stuck. Clearly you missed a charging cycle sweetheart. Here let me help” 

You yelped in surprise as she grabbed your shoulders and pushed you back into your seating position. You tried to fight back but she was shockingly strong compared to how her innocent appearance would give off. You wiggled and kicked as best you could to get up and get away. 

“Hey what the fuck are you doing? Let me go!”, you shouted. Yet she refused to budge. She must have glitched or something. You called out past her for help. Yet despite that you heard nobody coming to help. Confusion and panic skyrocketing again as you realize something must be very wrong. No way someone wouldn’t hear you even if you were far off. The office had paper thin walls and it was always extremely quiet except for the sound of keyboards and hushed voices in meetings. You switched to trying to grab at her hands to pull them off. The efforts became useless as she began to use her body weight to keep you down. 

“Please relax. You’ll feel better after a charge.”, she said in her unnervingly calm synthetic voice. You felt her pulling your shirt up. You knew whatever she intended to do there wasn’t much you could do to make her stop. Her body was heavy from the large battery pack and circuitry inside. You heard a click and she reached behind her. Her hand came back around into your field of view holding a cylindrical electrical plug. The cable connected the plug to her back and you could see the faint glint of the 3 long metal prongs pointed directly at you. Your struggles become faster and more frantic. Your screams echoing in the closet and the office for nobody to seemingly hear. With a lightning quick jab the android girl forced the plug into your soft stomach. 

You felt yourself choke on a gasp of air. The pain was intense and sharp. You could feel how deep the metal prongs had gone from the radiating pain coming in. The pain was so intense your mind struggled to process it. You did your best to control your breathing at first ragged breaths hissing through your teeth and slowly transitioning to deep shaking breaths through your nose punctuated by quiet whimpers. You could feel the sweat all over your body as the pain started to weaken and the rest of your body caught up. 

“A bit of charge will help you feel better”, the cutesy voice said directly in your ear. You hadn’t realized it but you were clinging to her. Your nails hurt from digging into the plastic shell, trying to find some sense of stability for the shock that just happened. Adrenaline began coursing through you, helping the pain to calm down. You felt a rush of energy but you felt strangely weak. Mind racing to figure out a way out of this while your body felt more and more sluggish. You looked down at the stab wound and saw something that made your heart drop. The skin around the stab wound was turning a dull metallic gray color, and it was spreading. Your struggling became frantic again but now your body felt even weaker and sloppy. You shook your head and begged her to stop. Tears streaming down your face. Instead all she did was pet your hair with her free hand and whisper reassurances to you. 

“Please remain calm. You will feel better soon. We can go to the charging bay once you are well enough.” 

The transformation was accelerating now. You could vaguely see it spreading to your hips and to your torso. The strange reaction caused an itching burning pain as it spread but only a numbness behind it. You had never heard of anything like this happening and your first thought was some kind of strange allergic reaction, though it was quickly becoming harder to think. That familiar exhaustion that had gotten you into this mess was getting worse. By the time the android moved and you had a chance to actually escape you were just too tired to resist. She scooped you up in a bridal carry and began taking you with her. You looked around weakly barely able to move your head by now. The office was empty and it was dark outside. You had slept so long that everyone else had gone home. Nobody had looked for you and now you were alone with this crazy robot. 

She took you down a concrete hallway towards an exit at the back of the office. She pushed her way outside and took you to the big trailer that was parked out back. The sides decorated with advertisements for the android maid company. She took you up the ramp and into the inside. The inside was hot with a dry heat from the massive battery packs and machinery. At the back was the central computer that kept the schedule and handled updates for the androids. On the wall were 3 bays for the androids to charge while they weren’t at work. Half cylindrical shapes with bars that sit between their legs and arms to keep them steady while they were charging or transported. Your captor pulled another charging port out of the empty bay and jammed it into your back. Then she set you onto the charging stand. Your body hung limply from the supports. By now the gray transformation had spread all over. You could feel the numbness over most of your body. With only the bottom of your ankles, your forearms, and half your face capable of feeling anything. When she pulled her plug out you didn’t even feel it and likely wouldn’t have known something had happened if not for the fact that you could see her do it. 

“There you go! You charge up for tonight. Me and Vi will handle the cleaning. I’m excited to have a new sister!”, the android girl said with a flashing heart icon on her screen before she turned and left. The charging bay doors closed trapping you inside. The exhaustion finally overtook you and whatever she did to you. You blacked out, not sure if you wanted to wake up or not. 

The next morning you powered up. You felt your diagnostics check and confirm everything was nominal. Your battery pack was fully charged. A list of tasks filled your vision and mind. You only had two today. Follow Xi and meet the site manager. The pod bay opened and you took a few hesitant steps out. Your new limbs calibrating themselves as you moved. You walked up to the rack near the back of the hub truck and slipped a dress on. You turned and saw Xi waiting for you near the front, a happy pixelated smile on her face mirroring your own. You followed her, communicating silently over an electrical signal only maid bots could hear or understand. She explained that the company had ordered 3 cleaning bots but unfortunately due to supply issues they had only gotten 2. So Xi and Vi were extremely happy to have finally gotten a third to fulfill the order. What little free consciousness remained was buried under a full night of software updates and hardware modifications. So you naturally felt extremely good to hear that you had made the customer happy by filling the third role. 

Brought before the site manager you both gave a bow and you introduced yourself. 

“Hello. I am Ri. Happy to be here to service you” you said in your new synthesized voice. The site manager looked you over. She was in her mid 50s with white streaks in her dark brown hair. Her skin pale and soft. A tight black and white business suit hugging her body. 

“Let's hope you are a much better maid than an employee. I got really sick of how late you were on those quarterly reports.” She said in her deep authoritative voice. You felt a twinge of sadness in your circuits that you hadn’t been doing a good job for the customer. You knew you had to make up for it. So when she ordered you to bend over the desk you did so without question. Torso laying flat on the dark oak desk your arms flat on the desk as well. You felt her folding your skirt up a bit so it was out of the way. 

You heard a click of a bottle being snapped open. A slick sound of something wet and sticky being stroked and then her hands on your plastic hips. Without saying a word she forced her lubed cock into your synthetic pussy. You let out a static filled gasp as pleasure flooded your circuits. You remained still as you were ordered as she pumped herself into you. The room was silent except for the wet sounds of the site manager’s girl cock slamming into you and her grunts of pleasure. Xi stood at attention watching the scene unfold and speaking to you over the secure radio signal. 

“You are doing so good! You look so pretty laid out over the desk and getting fucked. I hope she uses me later. Doesn’t making the customer happy make you feel so good?”, she said. Your mind full of pleasure and praise as you let yourself be used like a sex doll. With a final thrust the site manager slammed into you one last time and came. You felt her twitching inside you and each spurt of hot seed. She took a few moments to collect herself and then pulled out. She had Xi use some paper towels to clean her up then you as you started to leak on the floor, still holding the position you were ordered to. The site manager slipped herself back into her work pants and sat down at her desk. She already had another meeting to take care of and you two were sent back to the truck to be charged. As you plugged yourself in and took your static position in the charging bay the only thought in your mind was how much happier you were at your new job. 

Infects half of you with the virus that turns you into a haughty, selfish, arrogant princess that is so obsessed with your own status and cuteness that it leaves you completely disconnected from reality

i went to forcefem island and uhh... i don't remember what happened there but my head is full of pretty pink thoughts and ive never been happier so it must have been nice ^_^

reblog to forcefem prev

When you think about it, it’s really a shame he’s still a boy. I have to fix that.