Sissy Mind Control Stories

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Sissy Mind Control Stories
When you work in a stuffy office environment, there’s not much to
do except gossip sometimes to keep things interesting. My office was
about as stuffy and boring as it gets, and so the gossip was often the
most exciting thing in my day. It didn’t surprise me one Monday when
one of our mail room clerks, Natasha, hurried over to my desk with
that You’ve-gotta-hear-this look on her face. But what she told me did
surprise me.
“Greg started going to a therapist !” she hissed.
Greg was one of the guys down in receiving, and he was about as
straight and macho as they come. Nothing touchy-feely, and not even
usually so much as a smile. Mostly what he did was expressionless
grunting, shrugs, and nods. I couldn’t believe he’d start seeing a
therapist. In fact, the very idea was interesting because I was kind
of a similar guy. Pretty macho, straight, stayed in good shape and got
my share of pussy, but I’d been feeling a little depressed about my
boring-ass job lately and actually the thought of going to a therapist
had, albeit briefly, flashed into my head.
I decided to ask Greg about it as casually as possible. I ran into
him in the cafeteria.
“Hey, man, I heard some crazy rumor you’re seeing a shrink,” I
said, laughing as nonchalantly as I could and patting him on the
arm.
“Aw, man, where’d you hear that? Yeah, it sucks, my wife’s making
me go. Said a friend of hers recommended the guy. So far it’s just
lying on a couch talking about my parents, but if it keeps that bitch
off my ass about sleeping around, it’s probably worth it.”
“True, man,” I nodded, appreciatively. “Actually if you don’t mind,
can I get the guy’s name? That sounds like a good plan, with the wife
and all,” I said, trying to seem as spontaneous and casual as I
could.
“Your funeral, man,” Greg said, with a chuckle, and scribbled the
guy’s name down for me on a napkin.
I called Dr. Anthony Gibson later that day. “While I don’t discuss
my other clients with you, and cannot confirm anything about this Greg
you mention, I do work with many people suffering from job-related
depression, and would be happy to talk to you.”
I made an appointment for the following Tuesday, and secretly felt
a little hopeful.
The first few weeks were, as Greg said, pretty
boring. Getting-to-know-you kinds of things, talking about my mother
and father, kind of the standard psychoanalysis bullshit I’d always
heard about. I was starting to get a little skeptical, but then
finally I showed up one week for my appointment and Dr. Gibson said,
“Today we’re going to do something a little different.”
“This,” he said, gesturing to a small helmet, “is an isolation
helmet. I’m going to project onto the little screens in the helmet
some visuals that are from a relaxation program we sometimes use to
help people recover past memories.”
The thing looked a little freaky but I was just glad not to have to
tell him all about what big bad Daddy and Mommy did to me for another
hour, so I slipped it on.
The images were just static and colors moving around, vague shapes
but nothing recognizable, and into my ears he piped soothing but
atonal noises. It enveloped my whole field of view and I could hear
nothing else. It seemed like no time at all had passed when he turned
it off, and I was disoriented coming out of the helmet, especially to
find it had been the whole hour already.
That said, I felt fantastic that day, and the next day still felt
amazing. I was focused, calm, and cheerful at work. People started
commenting on my disposition. Four days later it was starting to wane,
so I began to eagerly anticipate my next session with Dr. Gibson.
When I told him excitedly the next week about how great my week had
been, he just smiled and nodded. “Yes, this program often has that
effect, and it should only become more pronounced and long-lasting
with time.” He slipped the helmet on and once again everything turned
into soothing, calming, relaxing imagery and sound.
Months went by, and every week I spent an hour in that helmet and
every week I found the positive effects stronger and
longer-lasting. After three months they lasted fully the whole week,
after which it just started building on itself. By the sixth month I
was basically blissed out all the time.
One day I showed up for my session with Dr. Gibson, swaying a bit
unsteadily as I walked in, feeling as I did these days perpetually
drugged and content. Dr. Gibson took one look at me and smiled and
wrote something on a notepad.
“What’s that, Doc?” I asked, a bit spaced out.
“We’re ready for the next stage of your treatment,” he said.
“But Doc, I’m all set. I love it now, my job is great, everything
is awesome, even my wife thinks so. Things couldn’t be better!”
“No, this has just been addressing the surface-level issues,”
Dr. Gibson calmly explained, “but you have much, much deeper issues we
need to sort through, and I think we’re ready now to start
digging.”
“What?” I asked, concerned, “What kind of deeper issues?”
“Oh,” my therapist replied, “Well, your job and wife are part of
the problem, here. See, after months of working with you, it’s very
clear to me that you’re really just a big sissy deep down, and we’re
going to let that sissy come out.”
I was confused, now. “What? I’m not a sissy, doc. Are you just
trying to get me mad or something?”
“No,” he continued, “I couldn’t get you mad if I tried, I’ve got
you so zonked out after all these months of the hypnosis. Which is why
we’re ready for the next phase. If we’d started earlier, you would
have been able to resist, because your current persona will not like
these changes, will want to fight them. But I know they’re what’s best
for you so I lulled you into this nice sweet little trance so your
resistance won’t be too hard to overcome.”
“What? Doc, you’re freaking me out,” I said, but noticed my heart
rate remained slow and steady, and my voice was still placid and
calm. I couldn’t seem to get anxious even if I tried.
“Come in here,” he said to me, taking my arm and leading me into
his office.
He laid me down on the couch, even as I tried to resist. He climbed
on top of the couch and unbuttoned his pants. He slid them down and
then leaned forward, shoving his brief-clad crotch right in my
face.
“Doc, what the fuck?!? What are you doing?” I still couldn’t even
get very worked up, but inside I knew this was very, very wrong.
“Turning you into a sissy. Now smell my nuts, sissy.” He swabbed
his underwear-clad nuts over my mouth and nose and I smelled the
strong scent of sweaty balls fill my nostrils. I started to gag, but
it was a halfhearted attempt. He really had me docile. I was trying to
fight but he pinned me down like I was just a third grader.
He slid his underwear down and his cock, half-hard, fell out along
with his hairy nuts. I grimaced but he just kept wiping my face with
his nuts and shaft.
“Yeah, sissy, taste my nuts. You love that taste, you little
fucking sissyfag. Taste them.” One of them slipped into my mouth and I
spat it out as fast as I could, but not before the sweat had mixed
with my saliva and the flavor of Dr. Gibson’s balls was streaming down
my tongue and throat.
“I love this part of my job,” he hoarsely whispered, “Freeing you
to be a total queerboy, a total... fucking... queerboy” he moaned, as
he jerked himself. Just as the last words left his mouth, he shook and
his cock squirted a huge load of cum all over my face. I felt it
drench my face and start running off the sides and I tried in my shock
to lift my hands to wipe it off, but Dr. Gibson held me down on the
couch and slid the helmet on before I could struggle free. I felt it
resting against my slick, cum-coated face and saw the familiar images
as it started to life.
Only this time things were a little different. I could almost make
out a voice in the audio, almost make out shapes in the video, and I
had the very distinct and unpleasant sensation of having my mind
stretched wide open, almost like he was performing open-heart surgery,
opening me up, but instead of my body it was my mind. By the time he
took the helmet off, my heart was racing with fear, but I lay, unable
to move, eyes and mouth wide open, a receptive vessel for his
instructions. I remember lying there like that, trying with all my
might to move, but completely paralyzed.
“From now on our work together will be helping you realize what a
sissy you are,” Dr. Gibson spoke. His words echoed in my head and
sounded faint and far-away. “You’ll steal and wear your wife’s panties
instead of your own underwear. And next week you won’t want to come
back here, but you will anyway to continue our work. It’s very
important that we continue our work. And any time you stop to think
about what’s happening to you, any time you feel the slightest
hesitation or doubt, it will be drowned out instantly by the
realization that being a sissy is really fucking hot, and it turns you
on big time.”
I stared at him, the words soaking into me like marinade. “Repeat
that last part back.”
I found suddenly my mouth could move, and move it did, forming the
words I heard myself utter, “Being a sissy is really fucking hot. It
turns me on big time.”
“Being a sissy is really fucking hot. It turns me on big time.”
“Again, but this time lisp it, like a real fag sissy would.”
“Being a thithy ith really fucking hot. It turnth me on big
time.”
“I want you to say it again as sissified as you can. Squirm like a
sissy, talk like a sissy, and get hard like a sissy does when he’s
being a depraved little queerboy.”
In spite of myself I felt my cock start hardening in my pants as I
started wriggling girlishly on the couch under Dr. Gibson, swaying my
head to and fro and wiggling my butt around on the cushion.
“Being a thithy ith really fucking hot!! Like, it turnth me on
big time!”
“Good! What a good little sissy you are.”
As the doctor spoke those words my cock exploded in my pants and
without even thinking about it I let out a high-pitched girlish
squeal. He smiled down at me and then let me up.
I thought about stopping to use his bathroom on the way out to wash
the cum off my face and clean it out of my pants as best I could, but
suddenly it occurred to me how hot it was to have my face and crotch
soaked in cum just like a real sissy. I got hard again as I walked
straight to my car and drove home.
The next day, my wife had already left for work by the time I was
up and showering. I chose my clothes out of my dresser, but then
remembered the doctor’s orders and walked over to my wife’s dresser
and picked out the girliest pair of panties I could find. For a
moment, as I held them, I thought how disgusting it was for a grown
man to be stealing and wearing his wife’s panties, but again almost
immediately it dawned on me that wearing lacy panties like a sissy
really turned me on. My cock got hard in my pajamas. I couldn’t wait
to slide the sheer silky panties over my hard shaft, with my cock head
still sticking out the top all day. I almost put them down to go
shower, but then I realized, Dr. Gibson’s dried cum from the day
before was still clinging to my face, and my crotch still smelled like
my load, and realizing that only a real queer sissy would go to work
unshowered with another man’s dried cum on his face, I just slipped
into the panties, threw on a suit over it, and got to work.
Midday, I went to use the men’s room, and walked up to the urinals
only to see Doug Kempley standing at the one right next to me. Doug
and I did not get along. We were peers, and constant rivals, but Doug
was a bit of a sleazebag, not at all above doctoring his numbers to
look like he was getting more done than he really was. I didn’t have
much respect for him at all. But I was so focused on thinking how much
I disliked him that I didn’t notice him glance quickly over the urinal
divider and give a start when I pulled down my pants to piss in the
urinal.
“What the hell? Is that... pink? Are you wearing pink
underwear?”
I hurriedly adjusted my pants so he couldn’t see any more, but the
damage was done.
“Well? Are they? Is your underwear pink?”
I was beginning to blush pink at this point, but I tried to defend
myself. “No, that’s crazy, Doug, they’re not pink.”
“I saw pink. So if you say I’m seeing things, you gotta prove
it. Or else everyone’ll hear about your girly pink underwear.”
I blushed an even deeper red but sheepishly bowed my head and slid
my suit pants back a bit, revealing my wife’s lacy pink panties,
barely able to contain my throbbing hardon.
“What the fuck? Holy shit, Doug, are you a faggot?”
My blushing only got darker. I was pretty sure it was crimson by
then.
“Come on, man, are you? Are you a faggot?” Doug stared me in the
eyes and asked the question, pointed, aggressive, triumphant.
Even as I opened my lips to speak I knew no good would come of it,
but I even startled myself when I blurted out, in the mock voice of a
young girl, “I’m a thithy.”
Doug’s eyes went wide and his mouth curled into a wide grin. “Oh my
God, I should have known! You, a total fucking perv queer. Well, glad
to find out now. Guess my troubles with you are over. From now on
you’ll answer to me—if not in the office, then certainly here in the
bathroom. Get down on your knees, sissy.”
I was beet red with embarrassment but my cock was throbbing like a
drum in time with my heartbeat as Doug ordered me around. I sank to my
knees and he turned to face me.
“For starters, you can finish this off,” he said. He drove his soft
cock into my mouth and abruptly let loose with a torrent of piss. It
filled my mouth and ran out the sides and out of my nose as I
sputtered and coughed. “No, no, drink it, you fucking fag! Drink it
all, don’t waste any!” I tried to gulp it down but it still spilled a
bit. My white dress shirt was stained an obvious yellow where the piss
ran onto it.
Then Doug grabbed his drained cock in one fist and started
pumping. “Tell me that again,” he said.
I knew what he wanted. I stayed on my knees and continued blushing
and said, quietly, “I’m a thithy.”
It didn’t take long for Doug to spurt up a big load of jizz all
over my face. He told me not to clean it off, and if anyone asked, to
tell them exactly what it was. I was so humiliated.
I went back to my desk, beet red with shame, and along the way I
got some pretty strange looks, but fortunately nobody spoke to me. I
wanted to go wash my face but something was wrong, I couldn’t even
think about disobeying Doug. Probably something Dr. Gibson had done to
me, messed up my head. I just hid at my desk for the rest of the day,
even though I really needed to piss by the end of the day, I just ran
to my car and drove home.
My wife was home from work and cooking when I got there. I tried to
sneak in and change, but she caught me on the way in and leaned in for
a kiss. She spotted the dried jizz on my face, though, and stopped and
gave me a strange look.
I didn’t even have time to think before my mouth opened. “It’s
Doug’s cum.”
She stopped, stunned. “... What??!”
“It’s Doug’s cum. And mine’s in my pants. And that’s his piss on my
shirt collar, what leaked out of my mouth before I could drink it.” I
spoke the words calmly but inside I was panicking.
My wife just stood there in disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with
you?!?”
“Did you just say you’re a sissy? Did you just lisp that you’re a
sissy?”
“Mmm-hmm, I’m a thithy queerboy.” Even as I spoke the words aloud I
noticed I was rubbing my crotch with one hand, and my cock was getting
pretty hard. I was so mortified, but I couldn’t help myself. Fucking
Dr. Gibson and his reprogramming. I was a straight man with a
wife!
“What?? What is happening? Is this something that therapist put in
your head? Why are you doing this?” My wife was shaking and looked on
the verge of tears, confused and shocked.
“Yeth. Dr. Gibthon showed me what a thithy faggot I am.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God. What is happening to you? We’re going over
there right now.” She grabbed my arm and over my protests dragged me
to the car and shoved me in. I told her his office address and she
sped over like a madwoman. I was terrified and hoping he wouldn’t be
there, not knowing what I was going to do in any case. But when we
arrived, his light was on. She yanked me from the car and strode,
furiously, to his office door and began pounding on it frantically, in
a total rage.
Dr. Gibson opened the door and she just started screaming at
him. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE YOU FUCKING PSYCHO TO MY HUSBAND, YOU BETTER
FUCKING EXPLAIN YOURSELF TO ME RIGHT—”
And then Dr. Gibson, smiling, quickly gave her a small shot in the
neck, and my wife crumpled to the floor.
“I thought you might be here tonight. Come in,” he said, and like a
big dumb puppet I obeyed.
“I have a little program for your wife, too,” he said, with a wink,
as he dragged her unconscious body through a nearby door. I stood
still, immobile, as I heard some thumping, a few thuds, and then a few
clicks, and Dr. Gibson reappeared.
“She’ll be alright in no time. Now, while you’re here, let’s go
ahead and do a little work. What’s that on your face?”
“It’th Doug’th cum,” I said, now apparently unable to do anything
but lisp gaily.
“I work with Doug, and I hate him, but he thaw my pantieth in the
bathroom and pithed in my mouth and jerked off on my fathe.”
“Very good. I see the lisp is really taking. Let’s work on some
other mannerisms.”
Dr. Gibson slipped the helmet on me and laid me on the couch. Over
the din of the noise in the earphones, and timed with the images and
forms projected into my eyes, he began talking in a soothing
voice.
“You want to be the best sissy faggot you can, so you’ll do
everything you can to seem as faggy as possible. Let your wrists go
permanently limp. Swish your hips when you walk. Let your lower back
dive inwards so your butt sticks out. Exaggerate it. I want you to be
like a comic book character, a caricature, the sissiest little fag
anyone’s ever seen.”
I felt that same stretched-open sensation, like he had opened up my
skull and was pouring his words right into my brain. I tried to fight
them but they were stronger than I was, louder than any other thoughts
I could muster. I felt them sink in. I felt my wrists go limp. I felt
myself rub my ass against the couch.
At that very moment I heard, in the background, some loud banging
and my wife’s voice, shouting, screaming hysterically. I couldn’t make
out words, but she was obviously restrained and trying to escape. It
went on for quite a while, but Dr. Gibson told me it was OK.
“Don’t mind your wife’s screams. I’m just helping her understand
you better. Soon she’ll understand and accept you for the sissy you
really are.”
As his words sunk into my brain I felt his hands fumbling at my
crotch. I felt the doctor undo my pants and then slide them off. Even
as the helmet kept me lying, dumbly, like a receptive mannequin,
Dr. Gibson slid my lacy panties off, grabbed my hard cock and gave it
a squeeze, and then hefted my legs up so my calves were resting on his
shoulders, or so I assumed.
He stopped talking momentarily and I heard a sucking noise; a
moment later I felt something prodding at my asshole. It slipped in,
and from its size I assumed it was a finger. I was apparently
correct.
“A real sissy knows his holes are for real men to stuff full as
they see fit,” he said to me, and like melting butter on bread it
oozed into my brain, and within seconds it seemed I had always known
it to be true. I frantically tried to hold onto my identity, but I
couldn’t even remember what that was. Of course I was a sissy, and of
course that meant my holes were there to be filled. I began to feel
empty.
And just as I did, I felt Dr. Gibson’s finger slip out
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