Chapter 3: The Mind Wipe Begins
The plastic pants stayed on for a week. They whispered to him in board meetings, a soft crinkle beneath his tailored wool trousers, a secret humid warmth against his skin as he argued points of law. By the fourth day, he’d stopped noticing the strange looks from people who caught the faint, synthetic sound. He’d simply smile, a placid, empty thing, and continue. The shame had been scrubbed away, leaving only the fact of them. A fact like his collar, which also remained.
He arrived for his appointment carrying that hollow feel inside. The Victorian parlor was gone.
This room was white. Stark, illuminated white. It smelled of ozone and clean linen. A single, sleek reclining chair, leather, was positioned under a large, rectangular panel in the ceiling. The panel glowed, currently cycling through a silent slideshow: androgynous faces with gentle smiles, empty white rooms, chalkboards being wiped clean.
Mistress Frantastic stood by a stainless steel trolley. She wore a crisply pressed nurse’s uniform, white and clinical, but the black collar remained at her throat, a discordant note of dominion. Her hair was pinned back severely.
“Welcome back,” she said, her voice devoid of its previous smoky warmth. It was efficient, pleasant. “Please disrobe and assume the chair. Undergarments may remain.”
He shed his lawyer costume, folding each piece neatly on a vacant stool. The plastic pants, now cleaned but permanently slightly hazed, were his only covering. They felt like a second skin, a prerequisite for entry into this place.
The leather of the chair was cool. He leaned back. It adjusted with a hydraulic sigh, cradling him in a semi-reclined position.
“Today is a procedural deep-clean,” she said, moving to the trolley. She picked up a set of electrodes, small adhesive pads with fine wires. “We target the neurological anchors of your former identity. The connections will be… dampened.”
She pushed the waistband of the plastic pants down just enough to expose his pelvic mound. Her touch was impersonal, precise. He flinched as the first electrode was placed at the base of his cock, a cold kiss. Another followed on the shaft. A final one just below the navel. The wires slithered away to a small, black module.
“This provides biofeedback,” she explained. “It helps me measure your surrender. A spike of resistance, a flash of unwanted memory… the system notes it. We correct it.” She held up a blindfold, black and padded. “Sensory deprivation accelerates the process. It’s time to stop seeing the world. Time to start seeing the programming.”
The world disappeared under the plush blackness. His other senses rushed in to fill the void. The smell of ozone grew sharper. The hum of the climate control became a drone. The leather creaked under him.
He heard her move, the rustle of her starch-stiff uniform. A different sound, then: a soft, slick clicking, like the priming of a tool.
“You will feel a slight pressure,” she said, her voice now directly beside his ear. “It is a conductive medium. For deeper connection.”
He felt her hands guide his knees apart. A cool, viscous gel was applied. Then the pressure, blunt and insistent, not at his cock, but lower, behind. He tensed, a bolt of panic shooting through him.
“Breathe,” she commanded, and her tone brooked no argument. It was the stern nurse. “This is not for pleasure. It is for access. The prostate is a neurological switchboard. We are plugging in.”
He exhaled, a shuddering breath, and the pressure gave way to a slow, filling stretch. It was a dildo, smooth and unyielding, lodging itself deep inside him. He gasped.
“Good. The circuit is complete. Your body is now our console.” Her footsteps moved away. A switch clicked.
The screen above him, unseen, changed. A low, resonant tone filled the room, vibrating through the chair and into his bones. It matched his heartbeat, then slowed it down.
“Now, Simon,” she began, and her voice was amplified, layered, coming from everywhere at once. It was the voice from his dreams. “We are going to tidy up.”
Another click. A soft, rhythmic vibration began within the buried silicone, a low thrum that lit up his nerves, insistent and confusing. It wasn’t pain. It was a persistent, distracting presence.
“Focus on my voice. Let the sound wash through you. Let the sensation be a guide, pulling you deeper. You are safe. You are empty. You are ready to be cleaned.”
He felt the familiar bottle tip against his nostril. The chemical scent, that fruity-rot alchemy, filled his head.
“This is your anesthetic. This is your truth serum. Breathe.”
He inhaled. The poppers’ rush collided with the internal vibration, a dizzying cocktail. The blindfolded dark became a swirling grey vortex.
“Let’s start with the easy stuff. The surface clutter.” Her voice was melodic now, a lullaby of erasure. “Your name. It’s just a sound. A label on a jar that’s now empty. The letters S-I-M-O-N. They float away… loose magnets falling from a board. The sound ‘Simon’ means nothing. It refers to no one. It is a ghost in a suit. Breathe it out.”
He breathed. The vibration inside him seemed to pulse with her words, making them physical. He felt a strange, detaching looseness. Simon. A client he used to represent. A file he’d closed.
“Good. Very good. Now, the job. All those papers. All those arguments. The pride you felt… that was a program. A suit of armor you wore. It was heavy, wasn’t it? Let’s unzip it.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Those courtrooms… they’re just sets. Empty stages. The words you said there had no meaning. They were noises you made for money. Watch them dissolve. Like sugar in water.”
Another touch of the bottle. Another lungful of dizzying surrender.
He saw it. The mahogany tables, the legal pads, the stern faces of partners—they rippled like a reflection in a pond and dissolved into the grey. The vibration hummed, approvingly.
“It feels lighter, doesn’t it?” Her ordinary voice cut in, casual, as if asking about the weather. “Like taking off a heavy backpack after a long hike.”
He murmured something that wasn’t a word. It felt lighter.
“Now, the family stuff. That’s stickier. More emotional glue.” Her tone became gently chiding, maternal. “Mom and Dad. Their expectations. That nice house you bought to impress them. It’s a dollhouse. Tiny and fake. Their faces… blur them. Their voices… mute them. They loved a person who never really existed. You’re doing them a kindness, letting that phantom go.”
A stronger wave of resistance hit. A sudden, sharp image of his mother’s face, clear and painful. The biofeedback module emitted a soft, warning beep.
“Ah-ah,” Nurse Frantastic tutted. The vibration inside him intensified sharply, not painful, but utterly consuming, scattering the focused thought. “Let’s help that along.”
The poppers came again, a double burst this time, and the world fell away into a chemical hum. The image shredded like tissue paper.
“That’s it. Just let it go. They’re fading, aren’t they? Like old photographs left in the sun. Blank, smiling ghosts. And it’s okay. You don’t need to be a son. You need to be a clean, empty vessel. A pretty thing waiting for its purpose.”
He was crying. Silent tears soaked into the blindfold. But they weren’t tears of grief. They were tears of release, of profound, frightening relief. The vibrations had shifted, becoming a steady, almost comforting pulse. The chemical haze was his new atmosphere.
“The man is fading,” her hypnotic voice crooned, weaving into the pulse, into the drone, into the dark. “What’s left is sensation. What’s left is obedience. What’s left is a need to be pretty. To be quiet. To be used. That is your core. That is your truth. Your name is… a sigh. Your past is… a dream you’re forgetting. Your body is… a tool for our programming. Your pleasure is… ours to give. Your mind is… a clean, white room.”
She let the words hang in the charged air, punctuated only by the hum and the soft, wet sounds of his crying. Then, with a final, soft click, the vibration ceased. The dildo remained, a now-silent plug sealing the commands inside.
She removed the blindfold. The white light was blinding, painful. He blinked up at her, his vision swimming. Her nurse’s uniform was a crisp halo.
She looked down at him, studying his tear-streaked face, his limp body wired to her machines. She smiled, a small, professional curve of the lips. She began disconnecting the electrodes, her fingers quick and sure.
"How do you feel?" she asked, "Good replied Simon a little unsure.
“The procedure went well,” she said, her voice back to its cliniccal normalcy. “Significant dislodging of primary identity anchors. You may feel disoriented, but that's because you are the new your, your free. You may find certain memories… inaccessible. This is not memory loss. It is editorial refinement.”
She removed the plug with the same clinical detachment, wiping the gel away. She pulled the plastic pants back up over his hips. The familiar crinkle was an anchor. The cling of the clasp was a homecoming.
Next
The clasp’s click was the loudest sound in the white room. It sealed him back into his true skin. He took a deep, shivering breath that crinkled the plastic.
Mistress Frantastic unstrapped his wrists from the chair with efficient snaps. She helped him sit up. The world tilted, a grey wash of static edging his vision. His thoughts moved like fish in murky water, impossible to catch.
“Easy does it,” she said, her hand firm on his shoulder. “Your systems are rebooting. The old software is quarantined. There’s some… temporary fragmentation.”
She guided him to his feet. His legs were water. He leaned heavily on the cold steel trolley, its surface gleaming under the clinical light.
“Get dressed,” she instructed, her tone turning brisk and practical. She began coiling the electrode wires. “And try to pay attention. This is the aftercare speech. It’s important.”
He fumbled with his clothes. The fine cotton of his shirt felt alien, a rough costume against his sensitized skin. His fingers struggled with the buttons.
“Treatment’s finished for today,” she announced, not looking at him, focused on her tidying. “You’re going to feel some side effects. Pretty standard stuff. Brain fog, mostly. An inability to concentrate on your old… projects.”
She paused, placing a cleaned electrode pad in a drawer. She turned and leaned back against the trolley, crossing her arms. Her nurse’s cap was perfectly straight.
“You might also experience a low-grade anxiety. A feeling of… unfinished business. A need.” She met his glazed eyes, her gaze unwavering. “A need to be controlled. To submit to a stronger, more dominant woman. It’s just the new protocols settling in. Your psyche is looking for its admin password.”
Simon managed to nod. He believed her. The idea felt correct, logical. The anxious hollow in his gut was looking for a shape to fill it. A shape like hers.
“The next session is scheduled for a week’s time,” she continued, pushing off the trolley and walking him toward the door. Her heels clicked on the polished floor. “But listen. If the side effects are too much… if you feel like you’re drifting, or the need gets sharp… you call. The number is on the card in your wallet. Don’t email. Don’t text. Your voice is part of the calibration.”
She opened the soundproofed door. The dim, lavender-scented quiet of the antechamber felt like a past life.
“Okay?” she asked, a final, mild prompt.
“Okay,” Simon whispered, his voice rusty.
She gave a small, professional smile and closed the door. The lock engaged with a solid, final thunk.
She knew he’d call in a day or so, if the treatment had worked so far. The fragmentation always demanded repair. The silence always grew too loud.
The city outside was a barrage of noise and light. Car horns were daggers. The chatter from a food cart was a swarm of bees in his skull. He walked toward his apartment, a tall glass building that now looked like a vertical prison.
He passed a woman in a sharp business suit, barking into her phone. "I don't care what legal says, you tell them to amend clause 4.3 or the deal is off!" The dominance in her tone, the effortless command, hit him like a physical blow. He stopped walking, his breath catching. A warm, shameful thrill pulsed through him, right down to the plastic clinging to his skin.
He hurried inside, into the elevator’s sterile silence. His reflection in the brass doors was a stranger—pale, slightly sweaty, eyes wide and lost. Simon, he tried to think. The name landed with a dull, hollow sound, like a stone dropped in an empty well.
In his pristine apartment, everything was wrong. The abstract art on the walls was just angry colors. The law books on his shelf were heavy, dead objects. He poured a whiskey, his hand trembling. The amber liquid tasted of nothing.
He sat in the dark. The crinkle of the plastic pants was the only real sound. Each faint shift echoed the pulse he’d felt in the white room, the ghost of the vibration. The need she described wasn’t sharp yet. It was a deep, insistent thrum, a missing frequency in the quiet. He stared at his phone, a black rectangle on the chrome coffee table. His finger traced its edge.
He didn’t want to wait a week. The silence was already too loud.