Black Lesbian Domination
Copyright© 2025 by LezDom
Chapter 3
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Yolanda, a black Lesbian and her three sisters, who dominates white women and girls and seduces, trains and sells them to a network of dominant and powerful black lesbians
Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Fa/ft Teenagers Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged Hypnosis Mind Control NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Gay Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Slut Wife Incest Mother Sister Daughter Niece Aunt DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male White Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration First Oral Sex Pegging Petting Babysitter AI Generated
he words struck Pam like ice water. Not just Clara? Sophie too? Her quiet, bookish Sophie? Raven leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Your shame is delicious, Pamela. Treasure it. Let it fuel your obedience.” She brushed past Pam, the vetiver scent momentarily overwhelming the musk, and left without another word. Pam stood frozen, the cool weight of the unopened box in her hands feeling like a bomb.
She found Jenifer and Sophie in the den, sprawled near the coffee table. Sophie’s nose was buried in a thick fantasy novel, her glasses slipping down her nose, while Jenifer sketched furiously in her notebook – intricate dragons Sophie probably described. The remnants of the eclairs were crumbs on a plate. Mark had retreated to the garage, the distant clang of tools a comforting anchor to normality that now felt like a lie. Pam cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud. “Girls?” Jenifer looked up instantly, curious. Sophie only peered over her book, wary.
“Tomorrow morning,” Pam began, forcing lightness she didn’t feel. Her palms slicked against the cool silver gift box she clutched behind her back. “We’re going on a little adventure. To Lumina Models.” Jenifer gasped, dropping her pencil. “The modeling place?! Like Clara?” Sophie slowly closed her book, her gaze fixed on Pam’s face. “Why?” Her quiet voice held an unnerving perceptiveness. Pam’s cheeks flamed. She focused on Jenifer’s eager eyes. “Just ... pictures. Exploratory shots. Auntie Raven suggested it.” The lie tasted like ash, yet beneath it pulsed a treacherous thrill. Sophie’s bone structure. The memory of Raven’s command vibrated in her core, mingling with the phantom taste of Clara’s innocence. The shame scalded her, yet a dark, liquid heat pooled low in her belly. Her eyes involuntarily flicked to Sophie’s slender neck, imagining Yolanda’s assessing gaze upon it, imagining Raven’s hands guiding her daughter into position. The tremor in her voice wasn’t entirely guilt. “Sophie, you especially ... Raven said you have remarkable potential.” The words hung heavy, charged. Sophie flinched minutely, her fingers tightening on her book cover. Jenifer bounced. “Can I sketch the photographers?!”
The Lumina lobby gleamed with cold, modern luxury: chrome accents, polished white marble floors reflecting harsh overhead lights. A chandelier dripping crystal shards dominated the soaring ceiling. Pam felt instantly exposed, shabby under its glare. A silent receptionist gestured wordlessly toward a frosted glass door marked ‘Studio C’. Inside, the air hummed with controlled chaos – assistants darting, lights flaring, quiet commands snapping. Raven awaited them near racks of clothing, radiating effortless power in tailored black silk trousers and a severe ivory blouse. Her eyes swept over Jenifer’s bouncing energy and Sophie’s wary stillness, landing on Pam with a flicker of predatory satisfaction. “Pamela. Perfect timing.” Her voice cut through the studio murmur. She didn’t touch the gift box Pam clutched. “The girls first.” She snapped her fingers. A brisk assistant materialized. “Take them to Changing Suite Gamma.” She gestured dismissively towards Pam. “You wait.” Pam watched, frozen, as Jenifer skipped eagerly after the assistant. Sophie hesitated, casting one long, searching look back at Pam before following silently.
Changing Suite Gamma smelled faintly of ozone and expensive fabric softener. The assistant pulled open a frosted glass door, revealing Jenifer and Sophie. They stood bathed in warm light, transformed. Gone were Jenifer’s drapey tee and Sophie’s worn leggings. Jenifer wore tailored charcoal wool shorts that ended just above her knees, paired with a crisp, oversized white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly. Sophie was in a soft cashmere sweater dress in deep burgundy, its high neckline and modest hemline falling just below her knees, complemented by opaque navy tights. Both outfits were impeccably tailored, surprisingly mature yet undeniably chic. Jenifer twirled, grinning. “Look, Mom! Like artists in Paris!” Sophie smoothed the burgundy cashmere over her hips, her expression caught between bewildered appreciation and deep unease. The clothes were beautiful, sophisticated ... and utterly incongruous with the predatory gleam Pam had seen in Raven’s eyes. Her confusion sharpened into cold dread. Why such deliberate modesty? It felt like camouflage.
Pam forced a smile, her fingers tightening on the unopened gift box. “You both look ... lovely,” she lied, the cheerful sounds of Sophie quietly admiring the cashmere texture grating against the phantom taste of Clara’s innocence still clinging to her senses. “Very elegant.” The assistant gave a brisk nod and vanished. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Sophie met Pam’s gaze, her wary eyes asking the unspoken question: Why are we really here? She touched the high neckline of her sweater dress, a silent gesture of both comfort and containment. Jenifer bounced on the balls of her feet. “I hope they have dragons!” Pam’s stomach churned. Dragons. Sophie’s intricate fantasy worlds suddenly felt like fragile shields against the cold marble and chrome reality of Lumina.
Raven reappeared silently, gliding across the polished floor. Her sharp gaze swept over the girls, lingering a fraction longer on Sophie’s slender frame draped in burgundy cashmere. “Appropriate,” she declared, her voice devoid of warmth. A flick of her fingers summoned another assistant holding sleek portfolios. “Studio B is ready.” Without waiting for acknowledgment, Raven turned, her silk trousers whispering. “This way.” Her command sliced through Pam’s confusion. She trailed behind her daughters, Raven’s vetiver scent mingling nauseatingly with the sterile studio air. Jenifer skipped ahead, captivated by the strange new world; Sophie walked deliberately, her posture rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead. The gift box felt like ice against Pam’s sweating palms.
Inside Studio B, harsh cyclorama lights blazed. A tall woman with a severe blonde chignon stood with military posture beside a Hasselblad mounted on a tripod. Her gaze was coldly assessing. “Places,” she snapped, pointing to precise tape marks on the seamless white floor. No greeting, no explanation. Jenifer obeyed instantly, striking an exaggerated pose. Sophie moved slower, sinking onto the indicated mark as if it were quicksand. The photographer—”Morgan,” Raven supplied tersely—adjusted her lens with predatory focus. “Shoulders back. Chin down. Eyes 45 degrees left.” Her words were rapid-fire commands. Jenifer giggled nervously; Sophie’s knuckles whitened clutching her folded arms. Morgan didn’t coax. “Expressionless. Hold.” The shutter clicked relentlessly. Pam watched, paralyzed, as Morgan dissected her daughters frame by frame. Raven observed from the shadows, her stillness more unnerving than Morgan’s bark.
“Enough.” Raven’s voice sliced through the staccato shutter clicks. “Sophie only. This set.” She gestured towards a draped velvet chaise lounge positioned under a softer spotlight. Sophie froze. Morgan gave a curt nod, already resetting her camera. Jenifer deflated, confused. Before Pam could protest, Raven gripped her elbow—nails digging deep—and steered her efficiently out. “Busywork for the energetic one,” Raven murmured, propelling Pam down a chrome corridor. She flung open a heavy mahogany door marked Executive Director. The office was cavernous, dominated by a vast obsidian desk and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The contrast to the sterile studio was jarring. “Sit.” Raven commanded, releasing Pam who stumbled into a plush velvet armchair.
Raven moved to a gleaming sideboard. Crystal decanters glowed amber in the low light. She poured a generous measure of dark liquid into a heavy tumbler and pressed it into Pam’s trembling hands. The fumes prickled Pam’s nose—rich, woody, potent. “Drink,” Raven ordered. Pam gulped reflexively. The brandy burned a trail down her throat, its immediate warmth spreading unnervingly into her limbs. Raven settled behind the desk, steepling her fingers. “Sophie is ... remarkable,” she began, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “That stillness. That bone structure. Pure canvas. Yolanda sees it instantly.” Pam clutched the tumbler, the heat warring with the icy dread twisting her stomach. Images of Clara flashed behind her eyes—her taste, her gasp, her shuddering climax. “She’s ... shy,” Pam managed weakly.
“Potential blooms in peculiar soil,” Raven countered smoothly, pouring herself a smaller measure. She swirled the glass, watching the liquid coat the crystal. “Jenifer’s energy is useful too. Raw. Untamed.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto Pam’s. “They thrive under guidance. Like Clara. You saw how responsive she was.” Pam flinched, the brandy suddenly sour on her tongue. She took another desperate swallow, trying to drown the memory. Raven smiled faintly. “Relax, Pamela. They’re in excellent hands. Morgan is ruthless, but she sees gold.” Pam tried to focus on Raven’s words, the smooth cadence, the dark vetiver scent mingling with the brandy fumes. Her limbs felt heavy. Too heavy. She slumped deeper into the velvet chair.
Raven rose, moving with unnerving silence to a sleek cabinet Pam hadn’t noticed. She opened it, revealing not files, but sophisticated equipment: polished chrome headphones with thick cushions, a small console glowing with soft blue LEDs. Raven lifted the headphones, their coiled black cable dangling like a serpent. “You,” Raven stated, her voice losing its confidential warmth, “need perspective.” Before Pam could react, Raven approached. The cold metal headband settled against Pam’s temples, the plush ear cups sealing her ears, instantly muffling the city sounds. Panic flared—too confined, too much like binding—but Raven’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder. “Breathe. This is necessary.”
A low hum vibrated through the headphones. Not music, not static—a primal, resonant frequency that bypassed thought and settled deep in Pam’s bones. It thrummed against her skull, syncing with her frantic heartbeat. Her vision swam; the obsidian desk rippled, Raven’s cold silhouette wavering like smoke. The brandy’s warmth faded, replaced by this invasive pulse. She tried to speak, but her lips felt numb, detached. Raven’s fingers trailed her jawline, a touch that burned through the numbness. “Listen,” Raven murmured, her voice somehow piercing the drone, silk-coated steel. “Not with your ears. Listen with your shame. With your surrender.”
Inside Studio B, beneath softer lights, Sophie perched stiffly on the velvet chaise. Morgan’s lens was a silent predator. “Hands on your knees. Palms up.” Sophie obeyed, her fingers trembling slightly. The burgundy cashmere felt suddenly heavy, smothering. Morgan adjusted a reflector. “Eyes empty. Like glass.” Sophie stared at a spot on the seamless white wall, trying to vanish into it. The photographer circled, her shutter clicking like insect wings. “Good,” Morgan breathed, a rare approval. “Hold that absence.” But Sophie’s focus fractured. A phantom scent—musky, familiar, wrong—drifted through the ozone-sterile air. Her mother’s leggings, sweat-damp ... Clara’s muffled cry. Sophie flinched, her gaze flicking instinctively toward the frosted glass door where Pam had vanished.
Pam blinked, disoriented. The oppressive scent of vetiver lingered, but the crushing headphones were gone. Velvet upholstery pressed against her cheek—she must have slumped sideways. Her mouth tasted sour, like stale brandy and shame. Panic flared instantly. Sophie. She jerked upright, scanning the obsidian office. Empty. Raven’s absence felt like a trap sprung.
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