The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Chapter 15: The First Month

A month into her new existence, Tabby was fully integrated. She no longer had moments of confusion, no longer felt strange in her body. She was Tabby, completely and utterly. The programming had taken hold, overwriting any residual resistance.

She had learned to use her tail expressively—curling it when happy, lashing it when upset, wrapping it around Marcus when she wanted affection. She had learned to move silently on her permanent heels, gliding through rooms like a ghost, her cat ears swiveling to catch every sound.

She had also learned to hunt. Marcus would hide treats around their quarters, and Tabby would stalk them, her body low to the ground, her tail twitching, before pouncing with a cry of delight. It was play, but it was also instinct now, hardwired into her brain.

The speech patterns were fully established. She never said “I” or “me”—always “Tabby.” She never used clinical for her body—her breasts were “boobies,” her vagina her “kitty,” her anus her “tail hole.” She spoke in third person with a breathy, musical tone, trilling her R’s, mewing when confused, purring when content.

And the purring—constant, loud, rumbling. When she was happy, which was most of the time, she purred. When she was petted, she purred louder. When she had sex, she purred between moans. The sound was ever-present, a reminder of her nature, her transformation, her reduction from human to pet.

But perhaps most significantly, she had fully embraced her massive, spherical breasts. She played with them constantly—cupping them, squeezing them, iring them in any reflective surface. She would thrust her chest out proudly, displaying them, begging for them to be touched. She truly loved them, as programmed—loved their size, their firmness, their perfect roundness.

Elizabeth had stopped screaming. She had entered a state of silent despair, watching her life unfold like a horror movie she couldn’t stop. She had watched herself eat from bowls, use a litter box, groom herself with her tongue. She had felt herself orgasm hundreds of times, her body responding to Marcus’s touch with overwhelming pleasure while her mind recoiled in disgust.

And she had been forced to love her breasts. Forced to play with them, display them, adore them. Every moment of every day, she was aware of their weight, their obscene size, their ridiculous spherical firmness. She couldn’t stop touching them, couldn’t stop drawing attention to them, even as she hated them with every fiber of her being.

She had tried to break out of the lock box. She had pushed against its walls, screamed into its silence, tried to find cracks in the programming. But there were none. The partition was perfect. She was trapped forever.

Marcus continued to taunt her, regularly reminding Tabby of who she had been, watching for the flicker of green in the golden eyes that indicated Elizabeth was listening. He would show her pictures of her old life—galas, vacations, the divorce proceedings—and ask if she ed.

“Tabby doesn’t know these pictures,” Tabby would say, confused. “Tabby is a kitty. Tabby was always a kitty.”

“Elizabeth was there,” Marcus would say. “Elizabeth was a woman. She was rich, powerful, beautiful. She hurt my cat. She laughed at me. And now she’s you. With those ridiculous breasts she always wanted.”

Sometimes, when he said these things, Tabby would whimper and rub against him, seeking comfort from a sadness she didn’t understand. And Marcus would pet her, and she would purr, and the moment would .

But Elizabeth never forgot. She couldn’t forget. The lock box preserved her memories, her identity, her hatred. She was Elizabeth Vance, thirty-two years old, former wife of billionaire Marcus Whitmore, trapped in the body of a cat woman named Tabby, forced to live as a pet for the rest of her unnaturally extended life, forced to love massive, spherical breasts she found obscene.

The despair was absolute.

Chapter 16: The First Year

A year after the transformation, Marcus moved Tabby to his permanent residence—a sprawling estate in the Nevada desert, far from prying eyes. The house was designed for her, with wide hallways to accommodate her sexual sway, soft cushions instead of furniture, and a large outdoor enclosure where she could sun herself and play.

She had her own routine now. Morning grooming, breakfast from her bowl, playtime with her toys (feathers on strings, laser pointers, balls that jingled). Then Marcus would work, and Tabby would nap in sunbeams, her tail curled around her body, purring in her sleep.

In the afternoon, exercise. Marcus had hired a trainer—a woman from Century A.I. who understood Tabby’s nature—who would work with her on movement, on grace, on maintaining her sexual physique. Tabby would walk on a treill, her permanent heels clicking, her hips swaying, her massive, spherical breasts jutting out before her, barely moving, maintaining their perfect shape, while the trainer watched and corrected her form.

Then evening, when Marcus returned, and the sex. Always the sex. Tabby’s body craved it, needed it, and Marcus was happy to provide. He would use her in every room of the house, in every position, taking his time, making her beg, making her scream with pleasure. And she would constantly draw attention to her breasts, squeezing them, offering them, begging him to play with her “big boobies.”

And Elizabeth would feel it all.

She had lost track of time. The days blurred together, an endless cycle of pet existence and sexual servitude. She had tried to count the days at first, to maintain some connection to time, but eventually she had stopped. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She was Tabby now, forever, and Elizabeth was just a ghost in the machine.

But perhaps worst of all was the constant, unavoidable presence of her breasts. She had wanted implants, yes—but not like this. Not these obscene, softball-sized orbs that sat high and tight on her chest, obviously fake, comically exaggerated. She couldn’t stop touching them, couldn’t stop playing with them, couldn’t stop thrusting them out proudly even as she died inside from the humiliation.

Marcus never let her forget. Once a week, he would sit with her and tell her stories. Stories about their marriage, about her betrayal, about Mr. Whiskers. He would describe the kick that had broken the old cat’s ribs, describe Elizabeth’s laughter when she thought no one was watching, describe the cold calculation of the divorce. And he would always mention her breasts.

“Do you , Elizabeth?” he would ask, stroking Tabby’s ears as she purred in his lap, her massive breasts pressing against him. “Do you complaining about your 32B chest? Do you wanting implants? Now you have them. Perfect softballs. High and tight. Obviously fake. And you love them, don’t you, Tabby?”

“Tabby loves her boobies!” Tabby would exclaim enthusiastically, squeezing them with programmed delight.

“She loves them,” Marcus would confirm. “She can’t stop touching them. Can’t stop displaying them. While you hate them. While you die inside every time she thrusts them out, every time she begs for them to be touched, every time she praises their size and shape.”

The green would flicker in Tabby’s eyes, and she would whimper, confused by the sadness that wasn’t hers.

“Good kitty,” Marcus would whisper. “Good Tabby. Elizabeth hates you, you know. She hates what you’ve become. She hates those ridiculous breasts. But I love you. You’re perfect. My perfect pet.”

And Tabby would be happy, because she was loved, because she was a good kitty, because she had a Master who cared for her, because she had big, round boobies that everyone ired.

While Elizabeth wept in the darkness, forever, hating her massive, spherical, obviously fake breasts with every fiber of her being even as she was forced to love them.

Chapter 17: The Fifth Year

Five years after the transformation, Tabby had settled into her existence completely. She was twenty-seven in appearance—the nanites kept her young, her skin smooth, her body perfect. She would remain this way for decades, perhaps centuries, barring accident or disease.

She had learned many things in five years. She had learned to catch mice in the desert around the estate, bringing them to Marcus as offerings, proud of her hunting skills. She had learned to open doors with her hands, to manipulate simple objects, to communicate her needs through mews and purrs and body language.

She had also learned that there were other pets in the world. Marcus had acquired two more cat women—former rivals, business enemies who had crossed him, transformed and locked away just as Elizabeth had been. Their names were Whiskers and Paws, and they lived in separate wings of the estate, brought together only for special occasions.

Tabby liked having sisters, though she didn’t see them often. When they were together, they would groom each other, play, purr in harmony. They spoke the same way, thought the same way, existed in the same state of programmed happiness and trapped despair. And they all had massive, spherical breasts that they adored, squeezing them, comparing them, purring with delight at their size and firmness.

Elizabeth had learned to recognize the others’ eyes—the flicker of humanity that indicated the prisoner inside. She had tried to communicate with them, in the early days, using the lock box’s limited ability to influence Tabby’s behavior. A particular twitch of the tail, a specific pattern of blinking. But the others were too far gone, their primary consciousnesses too deeply buried in despair to respond.

She was alone. Alone with her massive, spherical breasts that she hated but couldn’t stop loving.

Marcus had aged five years. He was fifty now, still fit, still wealthy, still devoted to his pet. He had never married again, never taken another human lover. Tabby was enough for him—her body always willing, her affection always genuine (on the surface), her presence always a reminder of his victory. And those breasts—those ridiculous, perfect, spherical breasts—were the ultimate symbol of that victory.

“Do you know what today is?” he asked her one morning, stroking her red hair as she lay in his lap, her massive breasts pressing against him, firm and unyielding.

Tabby purred, stretching. “Tabby doesn’t know days, Master. Tabby only knows now.”

“Five years ago today, you became Tabby,” he said. “Five years since Elizabeth was locked away. Five years of you being my perfect pet.”

Tabby’s tail curled happily. “Tabby is happy to be Master’s pet! Tabby loves Master!”

“And Elizabeth?”

The green flickered, weaker now than it had been. Five years of despair had worn Elizabeth down. She still hated, still ed, still suffered, but the sharp edges had dulled. She was becoming accustomed to her prison, accepting the inevitability of her fate. And she had grown weary of hating her breasts—she still despised them, still found them obscene and ridiculous, but the constant, unrelenting need to love them, to play with them, to display them, had worn her resistance thin.

“She’s still there,” Marcus said, answering his own question. “She’ll always be there. Watching. Feeling. Hating. Until the day you die, Elizabeth will be trapped in there. That’s my gift to you. Immortality as a witness to your own degradation.”

He reached out and cupped one of her massive, spherical breasts, feeling its firm, unyielding weight. “And these—she still hates them, you know. Five years, and she still finds them obscene. But you love them, don’t you, Tabby?”

“Tabby loves her boobies!” Tabby confirmed, squeezing them both enthusiastically. “They’re so big! So round! Perfect softballs!”

“Perfect,” Marcus agreed. “Just like my revenge.”

He lifted Tabby’s chin, looking into her golden eyes. “Thank you, Elizabeth. Thank you for betraying me. Thank you for hurting Mr. Whiskers. If you hadn’t, I never would have found Century A.I. I never would have created Tabby. She’s everything you weren’t—loving, faithful, eager to please. With exactly the breasts you always wanted, that you now hate with every fiber of your being. You gave me the perfect pet by being the perfect monster.”

Tabby purred, nuzzling his hand, happy to be praised, her hands automatically rising to cup her massive breasts.

And in the lock box, Elizabeth felt a tear roll down her mental cheek—a tear that Tabby’s body would never shed. She was so tired. So tired of hating her breasts. So tired of loving them. So tired of being Tabby.

But the despair continued. Eternal. Absolute.

Chapter 18: The Tenth Year

A decade. Ten years of pet existence. Ten years of sexual servitude. Ten years of purring and mewing and walking on permanent heels. Ten years of massive, spherical breasts that sat high and tight on her chest, obviously fake, comically exaggerated, that she couldn’t stop loving even as she hated them.

Tabby was unchanged physically—still twenty-seven, still perfect, her red hair bright, her skin smooth and glossy, her tail swishing, her cat ears twitching. Her massive, spherical breasts remained exactly as they had been created—firm, round, high and tight, maintaining their perfect shape regardless of gravity or position, obviously artificial, impossible to ignore.

She had developed habits, preferences, a personality beyond the programming. She liked tuna-flavored paste better than chicken. She preferred sunbeams in the morning and Marcus’s lap in the evening. She had favorite toys, favorite spots in the house, favorite ways of being touched. And she absolutely adored her “boobies”—constantly playing with them, squeezing them, displaying them proudly, begging for them to be ired and touched.

She was, in many ways, a real person now—a person named Tabby who had never been anyone else, who couldn’t conceive of being anyone else. The Elizabeth memories were buried so deep that they only surfaced when Marcus forced them to, when he asked about her past, when he looked for the green in her eyes.

Elizabeth was still there, but she was a shadow. A whisper. A ghost haunting her own body.

She had stopped fighting. The lock box was too strong, the programming too complete. She watched, she felt, she endured, but she no longer screamed. What was the point? No one could hear her. No one would free her. This was her existence—eternity as a enger in a body that wasn’t hers, experiencing a life she despised, forced to love breasts she found obscene.

Marcus was sixty now. He had slowed down, though Tabby’s enhanced body kept her as energetic as ever. They spent more time cuddling, less time in active sex, though she was still always willing, still always eager when he wanted her. And she still constantly drew attention to her breasts, squeezing them, offering them, begging him to play with her “big boobies.”

He had begun to prepare for the future. His will specified that Tabby would be cared for after his death—kept in luxury, given everything she needed, maintained by Century A.I. technology. She would outlive him by decades, perhaps centuries, a perpetual monument to his revenge.

“Elizabeth,” he said one evening, as they watched the sunset from the estate’s veranda, Tabby curled in his lap, purring, her massive breasts pressing against him. “Are you still in there?”

The green flickered, faint but present.

“I hope you are,” he said softly. “I hope you’re watching this. I hope you feel every moment of peace, every moment of contentment, every moment of pleasure that Tabby feels. I hope you hate it. I hope it burns. I hope you what you lost, what you threw away, what you made me do. I hope you hate those ridiculous breasts as much as you ever did.”

He stroked her ears, and she purred louder, her tail wrapping around his wrist, her hands automatically rising to cup her massive, spherical breasts, squeezing them with programmed enthusiasm.

“You were my wife,” he said. “I loved you. I would have given you everything. And you treated me like a fool. You hurt my cat. You laughed at me. And now you’re my pet, and I’m going to die happy, knowing that you’re still in there, still hating, still suffering, while Tabby lives a life of joy. While she plays with those obscene breasts you always wanted and now can’t escape.”

Tabby looked up at him with adoring eyes—golden eyes that held, somewhere in their depths, a flicker of emerald green despair. “Tabby loves her boobies!” she announced happily, squeezing them enthusiastically.

“Good kitty,” Marcus whispered. “My good, good kitty.”

And as the sun set over the Nevada desert, painting the sky in shades of red that matched Tabby’s hair, the cat woman purred in her Master’s lap, perfectly content, perfectly happy, perfectly his, her massive, spherical breasts sitting high and tight on her chest, prominently displayed, the ultimate symbol of her transformation.

While Elizabeth, trapped forever in the darkness of her own mind, watched the sunset through eyes she could not control, feeling the weight of her obscene breasts on her chest, feeling her hands squeezing them automatically, hating them, loving them, enduring another day of her eternal punishment.

The revenge was complete.

The despair was absolute.

And Tabby purred on, playing with her big, round boobies, happy as could be.