Brainwashed by the Femme Fatale

Brainwashed by the Femme Fatale  – by Greg

***

The indistinct din of the crowded jazz club barely registered in Greg’s ears as he sipped the vodka tonic the waitress had only just delivered, to his complete surprise.

“Compliments of the lady,” she had winked suggestively as she set it on his table and gestured toward a woman at the far end of the bar across the room. “…you lucky bastard,” she added, playfully brushing his shoulder as she headed off to collect the next order.

Greg was too far to see the woman’s face, which was obscured by a dark hat and lace veil. But his eyes involuntarily drifted downward anyway, hopelessly preoccupied with what he could see clearly: a pair of strong, shapely legs wrapped in the most beautiful, mesmerizing glossy pair of sheer black nylons he could recall ever having seen.

Eyes transfixed on the curves of her calves accented by the sheen, running all the way down to her black stilettos, he thought to himself that she looked the part of every femme fatale in all those black-and-white film noirs of yesteryear. Together with the sultry, plodding melody of the bass, piano .and saxophone he’d all but forgotten was playing in the background, it was all almost too on-the-nose.

He took another swig, still staring past the glass and so enraptured by those sensual stems that he was shocked he noticed her holding her cocktail napkin and flipping it over, nodding as if instructing him to do the same. Curious, he turned over his own to discover two lines inked on the back.

“Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,” it read. And immediately beneath were the words:

“It’s time for you to take a ride.”

A spark of compulsion jolted through him as he took two hurried gulps to finish the last of his vodka, which felt as if it was hitting him harder than usual. He stood up and instinctively began to follow as he saw the woman rise from her bar stool, seeming to glide effortlessly to the exit nearest the bar, on the other side of the room from him. Fumbling for his wallet, he looked at the table only to notice he’d already set a tip by the glass. He had no idea if he’d placed it there in a distracted, increasingly aroused daze, or if he’d been slightly over-served this last hour and his thought process was getting muddled. He was leaning toward the latter scenario, more so by the minute the way he was starting to feel.

He leaned unsteadily into the door he’d seen her exit through, shocked to see a car waiting with the rear passenger door open, as though beckoning to him. Barely seeing that hat and veil again, he shuffled thoughtlessly to the car and climbed into the back seat—something markedly out of character for someone usually so wary and overcautious.

By now the world seemed to rock nauseatingly back and forth, and felt so out of joint to him, he was nearly oblivious to the click of the locks just seconds after he had shut the door. He only took notice of the sealed interior window dividing the front and back seats into compartments as the car eased forward.

The soft hum of the accelerating motor blended with a strange hissing sound, and moments later subtle vapors crept into his nostrils. Greg’s eyes began to roll upward, eyelids fluttering as he heard a devious, soft laugh over an intercom.

“And now it’s time for you to take a nap…” the woman’s voice taunted, distorted with the scratchy tone of the speaker. His body slumped obediently as his consciousness slipped into a void blacker than the darkness the car disappeared into as its taillights sank across the far side of the hill the club sat silently at the foot of.

***

“It’s time for you to wake, and remember,” said a voice in the darkness.

A flood of disjointed memories filled Greg’s mind. Visions briefly, vividly flashed behind his eyes. He could see himself lying on a couch in a dimly lit office, a professionally dressed woman seated on the other side of the small room, scribbling notes. He heard his own voice, placidly relaxed and clearly in a trance, divulging the deepest, darkest details in his mind. Fantasies. Fetishes. Fears. He recalled pieces of exchanges about his commonplace fetishes, such as nylons and light bondage, weren’t really problems in need of treatment.

Fragments of her replies to other revelations echoed in his ears, floating in a sea of indistinct whispers and strange sounds.

“In these fantasies, do these women harm you?” the lady in the office, clinically and dispassionately.

“No. I mean, not exactly,” Greg heard himself stammer. “It isn’t whips and chains stuff. I hate the feeling of pain. They sort of weaponize pleasure; there’s just this pervasive sensuality, but it’s sinister.”

“Like a succubus?” she inquired.

He shrugged and twisted his hand back and forth as if saying ‘more or less.’ He hesitated, clearly trying to choose words cautiously, and afraid to divulge what really troubled him. He began to fight through the awkward pause:

“The occult stuff isn’t really the allure. It’s just… well, do you know how one might go about treating an ‘executrix’ fetish?”

***

The snap of the woman’s fingers pulled Greg’s consciousness back to the present.

He found himself once again lying on that couch from his recollections. But this time was different. He was completely naked. And rather than a smartly dressed, professional therapist seated across the room, the mysterious woman in black sat in another chair, oriented close by the couch.

Greg turned his head groggily as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman beginning to remove the dark hat and veil. His eyes widened sharply.

“Dr. Carol?!” he exclaimed, clearly alarmed. “What the hell is this?”

“Your treatment, of course,” she smirked deviously as she reached down toward the floor and picked up a rubber mask attached to a steel bottle sitting beside her chair.

Greg twisted and struggled to move any way he could as she reached out and placed the mask over his mouth and nose, but his muscles would do little more than twitch. He watched as she then reached above his head and turned on a metronome placed on the end table by the side of the couch. It clicked in second-long intervals, as she once again reached beside her chair, resting her hand on the valve knob of the canister.

“This gas is pretty potent. One or two good, deep whiffs and it’s a nice pleasant sedative. It will help put you deep in trance, where my words and instructions will affect you much more intensely,” she informed him as she turned the knob, and the vapors flowed through into the mask. Greg’s limbs started to feel heavier and he soon felt too weak to struggle against the bands lashing his wrists to the outside of his thighs. The dim office felt as if it was swaying back and forth slightly, as his cock began to swell and stand erect.

Dr. Carol closed the valve and the hiss of the gas stopped. She raised her shapely, nylon clad legs up and propped her feet upon his chest. The steady click of the metronome sounded out as his glazed eyes fixed upon her stiletto heels.

“As you feel more sedated, I want your mind to drift back to our prior sessions, and I want you to recall the trigger words I buried in your psyche as you laid there entranced,” she commanded. His mind obediently sifted through dreamlike moments where Dr. Carol spoke as he teetered between consciousness and sleep.

He heard her instructing that whenever she spoke the words “it’s time” he would be deeply compelled to automatically obey her next words.

But he also began to recall a more sinister instruction. Just the vaguest notion of the trigger word beginning to emerge into his conscious mind compelled him to try and distract from the thought. He tried imagining anything else at all, fearfully avoiding even imagining the sound of the word, let alone the programming linked to it.

Dr. Carol watched as his eyes darted more and more rapidly behind his eyelids. She felt his pangs of panic, knowing he’d began recalling her wicked words. His chest rose and fell more rapidly beneath her propped feet, until she brought them back down, heels and all, to rest on the floor.

“You remember your instructions completely?” she asked deviously.

His eyes opened to stare into hers, full of strained intensity. She could sense he understood his predicament.

“Mmmmm… good,” she laughed evilly as she leaned to her other side and retrieved the Hitachi wand laying beside the chair.

“Oh it isn’t for you,” she teased. “It’s for me,” she taunted as she crossed her legs, and began to allow her black high heel to dangle from the edge of her toe, ever so close to her helpless patient’s face.

Her other hand once again reached for the bottle’s valve. As her rested her palm upon it and began to twist, she turned to Greg and gave a sinister smirk as she said, “you may want to hold your breath.” She twisted until the knob turned no further.

He gasped a chest full of fresh air just before the gas began filling the mask. He fought to hold it in as the hiss of the fully opened canister and the click of the metronome filled his ears. Each click began to feel like an eternity. His fear boner swelled and throbbed intensely.

“Oh no, the valve seems to be stuck,” she mocked, never having tried to turn it back. “The bottle may take a few minutes to discharge completely, and we wouldn’t want you to OD, now would we?”

Dr. Carol allowed the dangling stiletto to fall to the floor, crossing her opposite leg over and allowing it to hang as the other had. She watched as Greg’s wide eyes locked upon it as she swayed her ankle back and forth hypnotically. His dilated pupils tracked it as swung left and right.

“Such a precarious situation, isn’t it? Laying so helplessly, the trap’s already sprung. And all you can do is wait for the other shoe to drop,” she joked darkly as the heel fell to the floor. She raised her legs back toward his torso and placed her now exposed stocking feet on both sides of the rubber mask upon his face. She then lowered the Hitachi wand against the crotch of her pantyhose and turned the switch to the lower setting, moaning softly.

“I’m sure you noticed, my little pantyhose connoisseur, but for the occasion I thought it would be appropriate to wear one of your favorites: Wolford Fatal.”

Struggling against the urge to gasp in, Greg’s eyes stared through the glossy nylon webbing between Dr. Carol’s toes, just an inch or two from his eyes. As he heard the buzz of her wand, and the ticking of the metronome, the knowledge of her mounting pleasure caused his fear boner to twitch more and more rapidly. He felt himself sliding toward a point of no return as the spasms grew and a bead of pre-cum began to squeeze up to the tip of his cock.

He could hold the air in no longer, and he exhaled forcefully. The vapors of the gas blended with the vinegar-like aroma and the pheromones soaked into Dr. Carol’s stocking feet as Greg’s lungs greedily sucked them inward, and he began to feel faint. As he started to go under, Dr. Carol turned the wand’s switch to ‘high.’

“We’re arriving at the climax of the story, now aren’t we?” she teased. “And you’re just aching to hear that other special, diabolical little trigger word that’s going to send you over right over the edge into unbearable, hands-free orgasm, aren’t you? You can almost hear it now, can’t you?”

His breaths had become deliberate, sharp and shallow gasps. He tried to avoid inhaling the gas, tried not to sniff at that intoxicating, faintly sweaty odor of the nylons, tempting him to breathe in deep. But he was overcome. He was desperate for the tension to end. There was no escape. The only way out was to give in. He felt fear, but also burning desire. A few more clicks of the metronome ticked by, but the sound faded from his perceptions, and time seemed to almost stand still.

“It’s time,” said Dr. Carol. “Succumb… to the deathgasm.”

Greg’s resistance shattered, and he sharply inhaled as deeply as he could, pulling Dr. Carol’s foot pheromones deep into his nostrils along with the plumes of vapors pumping into the mask. The vinegar-like scent suffused his senses as his bound body began to writhe and convulse from almost excruciating pleasure. His cock leapt rhythmically without a single touch. It wouldn’t stop. His torso muscles clenched, and his limbs stretched as the orgasmic surge racked through him. But the waves would not cease. More and more, the pleasure made him breathe in sharp, shallow bursts, until the gas began taking him under.

The echoes of Dr. Carol’s own moans of ecstasy filled his ears while his fear-boner’s spasms squeezed out more and more of his energy. Perversely, even now the knowledge that she was somehow deriving pleasure because of him fueled his own arousal. And though the sensation of orgasm never reached a plateau, the sleepy sensation began to overtake it as a bliss and relaxation, not unlike afterglow, took hold of him. Cock still pumping forcefully and automatically, one orgasmic contraction in time with every other click of the metronome, Greg felt himself slowly slip into a blissful, black void. No more thoughts. Then no more sound. There was only nothingness; a vast oblivion without sensation or time, stretching on and on, seemingly into infinity.

***

Greg snapped awake, sitting up from Dr. Carol’s couch in a cold sweat.

“Easy!” she cautioned. “Hypnosis sessions exploring these sorts of feelings can get very intense. You’re dealing with very complex emotions in these appointments. It’s bound to feel overwhelming at times. And speaking of time, this session may have run a bit long. Are you sleeping ok at night? You dozed off in the middle of hypnotherapy. It was like you were dead to the world. I almost hated to wake you because you seemed to really need the rest. But you seemed like you started having a nightmare or something.”

“That was… I don’t know what it was,” said Greg, trying to recompose himself. “I can’t remember much. But I know it was intense.”

“Well despite today, I think you’ve been making great progress,” said Dr. Carol. “I really feel that these ‘executrix’ fetish fantasies are just your way of dealing with anxiety men can develop in sex-negative cultures. You seem to try and channel arousal into these imaginary situations where you don’t have to deal with the pressure of initiating sex, or cope with guilt for desiring it afterward and I think that’s the root of it. You clearly don’t desire your literal demise. You seem to crave a sort of post-orgasmic ‘ego death,’ a state where you don’t have to fear shame or regret for giving into perfectly healthy sexual desires. As we get you more comfortable with those thoughts and desires, and undo some of that sex-negative thinking, I believe the preoccupation with these scenarios will lessen significantly.”

“So you think I need more treatment?” Greg asked.

“Therapy isn’t mandatory. At the end of each session, the question is always, do YOU feel you need more treatment?” she replied.

“I don’t know. I actually think I’m getting to a pretty good place.”

“And that’s what it is all about,” she smiled. “Drive safe heading home, Greg.”

She closed the door and locked it behind him, then turned and walked back to her desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out a binder, laying it open on the desktop and exposing the pages of notes inside. She clicked the ballpoint of a pen out.

Trigger word provoked programmed response as before. Intensity of response increasing; spasms lasted approximately 60% longer. Subject remained without vital signs significantly longer than in prior session. However, autonomic functions resumed automatically, unprompted after approximately 2 minutes. If programming further refined so as to provoke stronger psychosomatic effect, process may yet become viable—though the efficacy seems to depend sharply on the intensity of subject’s fascination with the fantasy scenario through which conditioning and triggers are inserted in. Alternative scenario to be used in future experiment; additional data pending.

Further experimentation required to confirm process effective for military/intelligence applications.

***

The buzzing of his muted cellphone on the nightstand was enough to wake Greg from his slumber. 3:00 AM was a hell of a time for a phone call. He fumbled for it in the dark, finally grasping it and placing it to his ear.

“Hello?” he groaned.

“It’s time to book another appointment,” a soft, sinister voice whispered before the call abruptly ended with a click.

Greg fell silently back to sleep, the very memory of the call erasing itself like clockwork.

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