The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 13: The Introduction

Three months after the transformation, Marcus decided it was time.

He had kept Tabby hidden from family, from friends, from anyone who might recognize the woman she had been. But there was one person who deserved to see this, who had earned the right to witness Elizabeth’s fall.

His sister, Margaret.

Margaret Whitmore was fifty-two years old, a corporate attorney who had built her own fortune independent of her brother’s wealth. She was sharp-featured, sharp-tongued, and had seen through Elizabeth from the moment Marcus brought her home.

“She’s a gold-digger, Marcus,” Margaret had said at the engagement dinner, not bothering to lower her voice. “She’s got dollar signs in her eyes. She’s calculating your net worth while she’s calculating the tip.”

Marcus had been angry then, defensive. He had accused Margaret of jealousy, of being unable to accept his happiness. They hadn’t spoken for six months after the wedding—a rift that only began to heal when Elizabeth filed for divorce and Margaret’s predictions proved devastatingly accurate.

Margaret had been the one to find the security footage. She had hired a private investigator when Marcus told her about Mr. Whiskers’ injuries, and she had uncovered the truth—the video of Elizabeth kicking the old cat, hissing at him, her face twisted with cruelty.

She had sat with Marcus through the divorce proceedings, watched him crumble, watched him rebuild himself into something harder. And when he told her about Century A.I., about his plan for revenge, she had been the one person who understood completely.

“She deserves it,” Margaret had said. “Every moment of it.”

Now, standing in the observation lounge of the Nevada facility, Margaret waited to meet the new Elizabeth. She wore a charcoal pantsuit, her graying hair cut in a severe bob, her expression unreadable. But her eyes—green, like her brother’s—burned with anticipation.

“Are you ready?” Marcus asked, standing beside her.

“More than ready,” Margaret said. “Show me what you’ve made of her.”

Marcus pressed a button on the control , and the door to the chamber opened.

Tabby entered.

She had been grooming herself when summoned, and her red hair was slightly mussed, sticking up in places where she had been licking it. She moved with her characteristic sway, her permanent heels clicking against the floor, her tail swishing behind her. She was nude, as always, her smooth latex-like skin gleaming under the lights, her golden cat eyes adjusting to the brightness of the observation lounge.

And her breasts—her massive, spherical, obviously artificial breasts—sat high and tight on her chest, perfectly round, barely moving with her steps, their nipples permanently erect. They were the first thing anyone noticed, entering the room before she did, announcing her transformation with obscene prominence.

She saw Marcus and immediately purred, her tail rising in a greeting.

“Master!” she trilled, rushing toward him. She rubbed against his leg, her smooth skin sliding against his tros, her tail wrapping around his calf. The movement caused her massive breasts to press against him, firm and prominent. “Tabby missed Master! Has Master been gone long? Tabby feels like Master was gone forever!”

Marcus stroked her ears, and she leaned into the touch, her purr growing louder. “Hello, Tabby. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

Tabby turned her head, her cat ears swiveling toward Margaret. She tilted her head in that curious, feline gesture, studying the older woman with golden eyes that held no recognition.

“Tabby, this is Margaret. My sister.”

Tabby’s tail curled uncertainly. She didn’t know this person, didn’t have any programming for her. But she was friendly by nature, affectionate, eager to please. She approached Margaret, her hips swaying, her massive breasts leading the way. She rubbed against her leg as well.

“Hello, Miss Margaret!” Tabby purred. “Tabby is happy to meet Miss Margaret! Does Miss Margaret want to pet Tabby? Tabby likes being petted!”

Margaret looked down at the creature rubbing against her leg, this thing that had been Elizabeth Vance. She saw the familiar bone structure—the high cheekbones, the shape of the jaw—but everything else was different. The red hair instead of black. The cat ears poking through. The golden eyes with their vertical pupils. The smooth, artificial-looking skin. The tail that was even now wrapping around her ankle.

And those breasts—those obscene, spherical, obviously fake breasts that sat high and tight on her chest like a caricature of femininity.

“Elizabeth,” Margaret said softly, not a greeting but a statement. “Do you know who I am?”

Tabby looked up, confused. “Tabby doesn’t know Elizabeth. Tabby is Tabby! Tabby is Master’s pet!”

Margaret looked at Marcus, one eyebrow raised. “The lock box?”

“Active,” Marcus confirmed. “She’s in there. She can hear you. She knows who you are, even if Tabby doesn’t.”

Margaret reached down and took Tabby’s chin in her hand, turning her face up, studying her. Tabby submitted willingly, purring, her tail twitching with pleasure at the attention.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Margaret said, her voice cold. “It’s been a while. Last time I saw you, you were walking out of the courthouse with four hundred million dollars of my brother’s money, laughing about how stupid he was. Do you that? Do you telling the press that you ‘deserved’ every penny for ‘putting up’ with him?”

Tabby whimpered, confused by the tone. “Tabby... Tabby doesn’t understand. Tabby is sorry if Tabby was bad...”

“You’re not sorry,” Margaret said, her grip tightening on Tabby’s chin. “You were never sorry. You were a calculating, manipulative bitch who married my brother for his money and tortured his cat because you could. And now look at you.”

She released Tabby’s chin and ran her hand over the cat woman’s head, her fingers brushing the cat ears. Tabby shuddered with pleasure, her purr resuming, louder now.

“She likes it,” Margaret observed, her lip curling.

“She loves it,” Marcus confirmed. “Tabby loves being touched by anyone. She’s programmed for affection, for sexual responsiveness. But Elizabeth...” He paused, watching Tabby’s eyes. “Elizabeth hates this. She hates being touched by you. She re how you looked at her, how you saw through her. She knows you know the truth.”

Margaret continued to pet Tabby, her hands moving down to stroke the smooth skin of her shoulders, her back. Tabby arched into the touch, mewing softly, her body responding automatically to the stimulation.

“And this skin?” Margaret asked, her fingers tracing down Tabby’s spine to the base of her tail. “Latex?”

“Feels like it, but it’s alive,” Marcus said. “Warm, responsive. Completely permanent. She’ll have this skin for the rest of her life. Smooth, flawless, poreless. No hair except her head and her tail.”

Margaret’s hand reached the tail, and she grasped it, feeling the muscle beneath the smooth skin. Tabby gasped, her body going rigid, her eyes widening.

“Sensitive?” Margaret asked.

“Very,” Marcus said. “The tail is fully integrated. She can feel everything through it. Pain, pleasure, everything.”

Margaret stroked the tail, running her hand along its length, and Tabby shuddered, her legs trembling. “Oh... oh, Miss Margaret... Tabby’s tail is sensitive... Tabby likes that, but it’s too much...”

“She’s getting aroused,” Margaret observed, noting the flush spreading across Tabby’s smooth skin, the way her nipples hardened, the scent of her arousal filling the room.

“She can’t help it,” Marcus said. “The programming makes her responsive to any touch. She’ll get wet if you pet her, if you stroke her tail, if you even look at her the right way. And Elizabeth feels it all. The humiliation, the unwanted arousal, the automatic physical response that she can’t control.”

Margaret’s gaze fixed on Tabby’s massive, spherical breasts, sitting high and tight on her chest, obviously artificial, comically exaggerated. “And these? She always did complain about her chest. Wanted implants. Marcus talked her out of it.”

“Now she has them,” Marcus said, a cold smile touching his lips. “Softball-sized. Perfect spheres. High and tight. Obviously fake. She’ll never be able to hide them, never be able to forget them. And Tabby adores them—constantly playing with them, showing them off. While Elizabeth hates them with every fiber of her being.”

Margaret reached out and cupped one of the massive breasts, feeling its firm, unyielding weight. It maintained its perfect spherical shape in her hand, hard and obviously artificial. Tabby gasped with pleasure, arching into the touch.

“Tabby loves her boobies!” she exclaimed automatically, her hands coming up to cup them herself, kneading them with programmed enthusiasm. “They’re so big! So round!”

“Yes,” Margaret said, her eyes cold. “They are. And you’re going to show them to me, Elizabeth. All weekend long. You’re going to display them proudly, play with them constantly, while you hate every moment of it.”

She released the breast and stepped back, studying the creature before her. Tabby stood trembling, her chest heaving, her golden eyes confused and needy, her massive breasts jutting out prominently.

“Can she... serve?” Margaret asked. “Fetch things? Perform tasks?”

“She’s not a maid,” Marcus said. “She’s a pet. But yes, she can be trained to do simple things. Bring objects. Perform tricks. She’s very eager to please.”

Margaret smiled—a cold, hard smile that matched her brother’s. “I think I’d like to spend some time with her, Marcus. If you’d allow it. I have some... ideas... for how Elizabeth and I might bond in her new state.”

Marcus nodded. “I thought you might. She’s yours for the weekend. Do with her as you like. Just don’t damage her permanently—the nanites can repair most injuries, but I’d prefer to avoid extensive reconstruction.”

“Of course,” Margaret said, her eyes fixed on Tabby’s massive, spherical breasts. “I’ll be careful. I want her to last. I want this to last.”

She approached Tabby again, taking her chin once more, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she whispered, soft enough that only Tabby—and the consciousness trapped inside—could hear. “We’re going to have so much fun, you and I. I’m going to get to know the new you. Intimately. And those ridiculous breasts you always wanted? You’re going to regret them a thousand times before this weekend is over.”

Tabby purred, nuzzling against Margaret’s hand, desperate for more touch.

While Elizabeth, locked in the darkness, realized with growing horror that her torment was only beginning.

Chapter 14: The Weekend

Margaret had prepared.

She had studied the files Marcus provided, learned Tabby’s programming, her instincts, her vulnerabilities. She knew what the cat woman liked, what she craved, what she needed. And she knew exactly how to use that knowledge to torture the woman trapped inside.

They began Friday evening.

“Tabby,” Margaret commanded, sitting in a plush armchair in the guest suite Marcus had provided. “Come here.”

Tabby approached, her permanent heels clicking, her hips swaying, her massive, spherical breasts jutting out before her, barely moving with her steps, maintaining their perfect shape. She had been nervous around this new person at first, but the desire for affection, for touch, for approval was stronger than her caution. She wanted to be liked. She wanted to be petted.

“Yes, Miss Margaret?” Tabby purred, stopping before the chair.

“Kneel,” Margaret ordered.

Tabby tried. She really did. But her feet wouldn’t allow it. The permanent seven-inch heels made it impossible to bend her knees in the normal way, impossible to rest on her heels. She tried to lower herself, wobbling, nearly falling, her tail lashing for balance.

“I... Tabby can’t,” she whimpered, confused. “Tabby’s feet don’t bend that way. Tabby is sorry, Miss Margaret. Tabby is a bad kitty...”

Margaret smiled. “No, you’re not bad. You’re just... limited. Designed for display, not for utility. Show me how you do sit.”

Tabby understood that. She lowered herself to the floor, her legs spreading automatically to accommodate the angle of her feet, her bottom resting on the floor, her back straight, her tail curling around her legs. It was a sexual position, exposing her completely, presenting her “kitty” to anyone who looked. And her massive, spherical breasts sat high on her chest, prominently displayed, impossible to ignore.

“Good girl,” Margaret said, and Tabby purred at the praise. “Now, crawl to me.”

Tabby moved forward on her hands and the balls of her feet—she couldn’t put her knees down because of the heels, so she moved in a strange, swaying crawl, her hips rolling, her massive breasts swaying only slightly with their firm, unyielding weight, her tail raised high. It was the most humiliating way to move, designed to display her body to maximum effect.

When she reached Margaret’s chair, she looked up expectantly, her golden eyes hopeful.

“Rub against my leg,” Margaret commanded.

Tabby immediately complied, pressing her smooth skin against Margaret’s tros, rubbing her cheek against Margaret’s knee, her tail wrapping around the older woman’s calf. Her massive, spherical breasts pressed against Margaret’s leg, firm and prominent.

Margaret reached down and stroked Tabby’s red hair, her cat ears, and Tabby pressed into the touch, desperate for more.

“You like this, don’t you?” Margaret asked. “Being touched. Being petted. Being used.”

“Tabby loves it!” Tabby breathed, her voice high and musical. “Tabby loves being petted! Tabby is Miss Margaret’s pet too?”

“For the weekend,” Margaret confirmed. “You’re my pet this weekend. And I’m going to use you, Tabby. In every way I can think of. And Elizabeth is going to watch.”

She grasped Tabby’s ears—gently but firmly—and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up. Tabby’s eyes widened, but she didn’t resist. She couldn’t resist. The programming made her submissive, eager to please, desperate for approval.

“Do you me, Elizabeth?” Margaret asked, looking into those golden eyes. “Do you how you laughed at me? How you called me a ‘jealous old spinster’ behind my back? How you told Marcus I was ‘poison’ and tried to turn him against me?”

Tabby whimpered, confused by the anger in Margaret’s voice. “Tabby doesn’t... Tabby is sorry...”

“She’s sorry,” Margaret said, releasing one ear to stroke Tabby’s cheek. “She’s always sorry when she’s confused. But you’re not confused, are you, Elizabeth? You . You everything. And you’re going to feel everything I do to your body this weekend. Every touch. Every humiliation. Every forced orgasm. And you’re going to display those ridiculous breasts proudly, play with them constantly, while you hate every moment of it.”

She let go of Tabby’s ear and stood up. “Follow me,” she commanded, walking toward the bedroom.

Tabby followed, crawling behind her, unable to stand and walk normally because Margaret hadn’t given her permission. She crawled like a cat, like a pet, her hips swaying, her tail swishing, her massive, spherical breasts swaying only slightly with their firm weight, their perfect shape maintained even in this undignified position.

In the bedroom, Margaret had prepared toys. Not the simple toys Tabby was used to—feathers, strings, balls—but adult toys. Vibrators, dildos, plugs. Things designed for penetration, for stimulation, for forced pleasure.

“On the bed,” Margaret commanded. “On your back. Legs spread.”

Tabby climbed onto the bed, positioning herself as ordered. Her permanent heels pointed toward the ceiling, her legs spread wide, her tail curled up to expose everything. Her massive, spherical breasts sat high on her chest, barely moving even as she lay back, maintaining their perfect shape, their nipples permanently erect. She was already wet—the anticipation, the commands, the situation had aroused her automatically. Her body couldn’t help it.

“Please,” Tabby breathed, her chest heaving. The movement made her massive breasts jut out even more prominently. “Tabby wants... Tabby needs...”

“What do you need?” Margaret asked, picking up a large vibrator, examining it.

“Tabby needs to be touched,” Tabby whined. “Tabby’s kitty is aching. Please, Miss Margaret. Please touch Tabby’s kitty.”

Margaret smiled. “Oh, I will. I’m going to touch you all night, Tabby. I’m going to make you come until you can’t think, until you’re nothing but a purring, mewing mess. And you’re going to play with those ridiculous breasts the entire time, showing them off, loving them, while Elizabeth hates every second of it.”

She turned on the vibrator, and Tabby gasped at the sound, her body arching in anticipation. Her massive breasts barely moved with her arch, maintaining their firm, spherical shape.

“Please,” Tabby begged. “Please, Miss Margaret. Tabby is a good kitty. Tabby will be good...”

“You’d better be,” Margaret said, and pressed the vibrator against Tabby’s exposed sex.

Tabby screamed. It was a scream of pleasure, high and breathy, her enhanced nerve endings sending overwhelming sensation through her body. She arched off the bed, her hands automatically going to her massive breasts, kneading them, squeezing them, showing them off as programmed.

Margaret didn’t let up. She held the vibrator in place, watching Tabby’s face, watching the pleasure contort her features, watching the golden eyes roll back. “Play with your boobies!” she commanded. “Show me how much you love them!”

Tabby obeyed automatically, squeezing her massive, spherical breasts enthusiastically, purring louder as the pleasure centers fired. “Tabby loves her boobies!” she cried out, her voice high and delighted even as she sobbed with pleasure. “They’re so big! So round!”

“Elizabeth!” Margaret shouted over Tabby’s cries. “Can you hear me? Can you feel this? This is what you’ve become! A toy! A pet! Something to be used for my amusement! And those breasts you always wanted—look at them! Perfect softballs! High and tight! Obviously fake!”

Tabby couldn’t answer. She was lost in sensation, her body shuddering, her purrs turning to screams as the orgasm built. Her hands kneaded her massive breasts frantically, unable to stop, programmed to adore them even as Elizabeth despised them. When the orgasm hit, it was overwhelming—her body convulsed, her back arching, her tail straightening. She screamed Margaret’s name, then just wordless cries of ecstasy, her massive breasts jutting out prominently with her arched back.

And Elizabeth felt it all. The pleasure she couldn’t stop, the arousal she didn’t want, the humiliation of being used by the woman she had despised, the sister she had tried to turn Marcus against. She felt the vibrator, felt the orgasm, felt her hands kneading her obscene breasts automatically, unable to stop, felt the weight of them, the ridiculous firmness of them, the way they made her look like a caricature.

Margaret didn’t stop. As soon as the first orgasm faded, she moved the vibrator, changed the angle, started building the next one. Tabby was sobbing with pleasure now, begging for mercy, begging for more, unable to distinguish between the two, her hands never leaving her massive breasts, constantly squeezing, kneading, displaying.

“Please... please... Tabby can’t... it’s too much...”

“It’s never too much,” Margaret said, her eyes cold. “You can take more, Tabby. You were built to take more. And Elizabeth can take more too. She’s watching. She’s feeling. She’s hating every second of this. Hating those ridiculous breasts she has to love.”

She kept the vibrator pressed against Tabby for an hour. Tabby lost count of her orgasms after the fifth. Her body was limp, trembling, covered in a sheen of sweat that made her smooth skin even glossier. She was mewing constantly, small sounds of distress and pleasure mixed together, her tail twitching sporadically, her hands still cupping her massive breasts, unable to stop fondling them even in her exhaustion.

When Margaret finally stopped, Tabby collapsed, her chest heaving, her golden eyes glazed, her massive, spherical breasts sitting high and tight on her chest, barely moving even with her heavy breathing, maintaining their perfect shape.

“Good kitty,” Margaret said, stroking her hair. “Very good kitty.”

Tabby purred weakly, nuzzling against Margaret’s hand, her body still craving touch even after the overwhelming stimulation, her hands still resting on her massive breasts.

Margaret stood up and began to undress. “But we’re not done,” she said. “That was just the beginning. Now it’s my turn.”

She climbed onto the bed and positioned herself over Tabby’s face, lowering herself onto the cat woman’s mouth.

“Lick,” she commanded. “Make me come, pet. Use that tongue.”

Tabby obeyed automatically, her programming making her eager to please, to serve, to give pleasure. She licked and sucked with the enthusiasm of the truly devoted, her cat-like tongue rough and eager.

And Elizabeth, trapped in the lock box, felt every moment of it. The taste, the smell, the subservience of servicing the woman she had hated, the humiliation of being used as a sex toy, a pet, a thing. And she felt her hands, still resting on her massive breasts, unable to stop touching them, unable to stop being aware of their obscene size and shape.

Margaret took her time, using Tabby’s mouth for her pleasure, grinding against her face, pulling her hair when she wanted more pressure. When she finally came, it was with a cry of triumph, looking down at the cat woman who had been her enemy.

“Elizabeth!” she gasped, her body shuddering. “I win! I win, you bitch! Look at you now! Look at what you’ve become! And those ridiculous breasts—you wanted implants so badly, and now you have them, and you hate them, and you can’t stop loving them!”

Tabby licked gently, cleaning Margaret, purring with satisfaction at having pleased her new mistress, her hands automatically squeezing her massive breasts again, drawing attention to them.

The weekend continued. Margaret used Tabby in every way she could imagine—taking her with strap-ons, making her perform tricks, feeding her by hand from bowls on the floor, making her sleep at the foot of the bed like a pet. She constantly made Tabby display her breasts, squeeze them, praise them, while Elizabeth suffered the humiliation.

She invited friends—discreet, wealthy women who knew how to keep secrets—and let them pet Tabby, stroke her, use her for their amusement.

“She’s exquisite,” one woman said, a senator’s wife named Claire, as she stroked Tabby’s tail while the cat woman knelt between her legs. Her massive, spherical breasts jutted out before her, prominently displayed. “And those breasts—my god, they look like perfect softballs. Obviously fake.”

“Completely,” Margaret confirmed, watching from a nearby chair. “The woman she was is still in there, watching, feeling everything. She hates them. She always complained about her small chest, wanted implants. Now she has exactly what she wanted, taken to an extreme, and she despises them. But she can’t stop loving them, can’t stop playing with them, can’t stop drawing attention to them. That’s what makes it perfect.”

“Incredible,” Claire breathed, her hand tightening on Tabby’s tail, making the cat woman gasp. “May I... touch them?”

“Please,” Margaret gestured. “She’s here for your enjoyment. All weekend. Tabby, show Claire your boobies. Tell her how much you love them.”

Tabby immediately thrust her chest forward, cupping her massive, spherical breasts enthusiastically. “Tabby loves her boobies!” she exclaimed, her voice bright with programmed delight. “They’re so big! So round! Touch them, please!”

Claire reached out and cupped one of the massive breasts, feeling its firm, unyielding weight, its perfect spherical shape. “Amazing,” she whispered. “They don’t move at all. Like they’re made of rubber.”

“Softballs,” Margaret said coldly. “High and tight. Obviously fake. And she has to love them. Has to play with them. Has to display them. While Elizabeth dies inside every moment.”

Claire used Tabby for an hour, the cat woman eagerly pleasuring her, purring between her legs, her tail wagging like a happy dog’s, her hands constantly returning to her massive breasts, squeezing them, displaying them. When Claire finally finished, she was flushed, breathless, staring at Tabby with something like awe.

“How much would it cost,” Claire asked, “to have one of my own?”

“Talk to Century A.I.,” Margaret said. “They can make anyone into anything. For the right price.”

By Sunday evening, Tabby was exhausted. Her body was covered in the scent of sex, her smooth skin marked with fingerprints and the occasional light bruise that the nanites would quickly heal. She had serviced Margaret multiple times, as well as three of Margaret’s friends. She had been petted, stroked, used, and displayed. And her massive, spherical breasts had been squeezed, ired, and mocked countless times.

And she had loved every moment of it—or at least, her body had. She had purred, and mewed, and begged for more, because that was what she was programmed to do. She had constantly drawn attention to her “boobies,” squeezing them, displaying them, loving them with programmed enthusiasm.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, had experienced fifty hours of uninterrupted hell. The humiliation of serving the woman she had despised. The degradation of being shared with strangers. The horror of feeling her body respond with pleasure to acts she found disgusting. And worst of all, the constant, unavoidable presence of breasts she hated—massive, spherical, obviously fake breasts that she couldn’t stop touching, couldn’t stop loving, couldn’t stop displaying.

When Marcus finally retrieved Tabby on Sunday night, the cat woman crawled to him, purring, rubbing against his legs, her tail wrapping around him in a gesture of relief and affection. Her massive, spherical breasts pressed against his leg, firm and prominent.

“Did you have a good weekend?” Marcus asked, looking at his sister.

“Exceptional,” Margaret said, her eyes gleaming. “She’s perfect, Marcus. Absolutely perfect. Elizabeth is in hell, and Tabby is in heaven. The dichotomy is... delicious. And those breasts—she made Tabby display them constantly, play with them, praise them. While Elizabeth suffered every moment.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Marcus said, stroking Tabby’s ears as she pressed against him. “She’s yours to visit anytime. I think Elizabeth deserves regular reminders of her new place in the world.”

“And Tabby?” Margaret asked. “Does she deserve the pleasure she feels?”

Marcus looked down at the cat woman rubbing against his leg, purring contentedly, her body still warm from the weekend’s use, her massive, spherical breasts jutting out prominently.

“Tabby deserves everything she gets,” he said softly. “She’s innocent. She didn’t hurt Mr. Whiskers. She didn’t marry me for money. She’s just a pet, doing what pets do. It’s Elizabeth who deserves the suffering. And as long as she’s in there, watching, feeling, hating... hating those ridiculous breasts she always wanted... then justice is served.”

He lifted Tabby’s chin, looking into her golden eyes. “Isn’t that right, Elizabeth?”

The green flickered, weak, desperate, filled with a hatred that had no outlet.

“She’s still there,” Margaret confirmed, satisfied. “She’ll always be there. Forever watching. Forever suffering. Forever hating those perfect softballs she has to love.”

Tabby purred, her hands automatically rising to cup her massive breasts, squeezing them enthusiastically. “Tabby loves her boobies!” she announced happily.

While Elizabeth, trapped in the eternal darkness of her own mind, endured the memory of the weekend’s humiliations, knowing she would experience them again, and again, for as long as her body lived.