Hypno Sissy Roommate
Copyright© 2026 by Eros Alban
Chapter 8: Mouth
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 8: Mouth - Ryan Nowood just needed a quiet place to live. What he found was Ken. A year of subtle conditioning, careful rewards, and relentless ownership later, the shy technical writer is gone. In his place is Kitty: soft, pierced, collared, permanently open, and completely devoted to the man who remade him. This is the slow, thorough story of how a straight, lonely boy was turned into Daddy’s perfect sissy slut—and how he learned to love every second of it.
Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Hypnosis Mind Control Gay BDSM Rough Spanking Anal Sex Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Water Sports Body Modification
A full month had passed since Ryan had written Ken’s Cum Catcher on the board.
In that month every single drop of Ken’s cum had landed either on his outstretched tongue or directly in his mouth. The rule had become absolute. Most sessions ended the same way: Ryan on his knees, lips parted or sealed around the head, swallowing or letting the thick pulses paint his tongue until nothing remained. The Track of crashing waves and distant thunder played through the cat-ear headphones almost constantly, the heavy rhythm of the ocean under everything he did.
A few times, though, a silly, almost playful impulse surfaced. While stroking or sucking, Ryan would deliberately aim the heavy cock so the first ropes sprayed across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, leaving him dripping and marked. Ken would immediately act outraged—eyes narrowing, voice dropping into a mock growl of “You little brat”—and the chase would begin. Ryan would scramble away on light feet, sheer fishnet flashing, laughing breathlessly while Ken stalked after him through the apartment. It never lasted long. Ken would corner him against the counter or the back of the couch, spin him around, and deliver firm, stinging spanks to his bare or mesh-covered ass until Ryan was squirming and apologizing between the crashes of the waves in his ears.
Only then would Ken stop and wait.
Ryan would stay where he was, face still coated, and carefully lick every drop of cooling cum from his own skin. He used his fingers to scrape the thicker streaks from his cheeks and forehead, then sucked them clean, making sure nothing was wasted. By the end his face was wet only with saliva, the taste of Ken heavy on his tongue, his ass warm from the spanking, and the settled feeling in his chest deeper than usual.
Outside those rare playful moments, Ryan had taken full control of Ken’s release schedule—two, sometimes three times a day, at least. He initiated without being asked, often teasing with long, slow strokes or shallow sucks to prolong the pleasure for both of them, and finished without needing instruction. The sheer black fishnet boyshorts and matching crop top had become his only clothing inside the apartment. The pink toy stayed seated deep in his hole most of the time, usually humming on low—just enough to keep him open, aware, and softly aching between sessions.
His dreams were filled with cats, and with being a cat.
Night after night the crashing waves of the Track carried him onto that same dark beach, or into ordinary streets that somehow belonged to him. He moved on light feet, collar and bell at his throat, fine brown fur covering skin that no longer needed clothes. Men still stopped to pet him, scratch under his chin, stroke the base of his tail. Sometimes he was on all fours. Sometimes he walked upright but still felt the sway of an invisible tail. The dreams left no clear memories in the morning—only a lingering sense of rightness, a faint phantom weight of a collar, and the soft echo of a bell whenever he turned his head too quickly.
Then the Track changed again.
When Ryan opened the Transforming Your Life page one quiet afternoon, the ocean waves and distant thunder were gone. In their place sat a new file: a deep, steady thumping metronome—slow, heavy, hypnotic, like a heartbeat mixed with a distant industrial pulse. He slipped on the cat-ear headphones and started it.
The calm arrived differently this time. It came with a stronger sense of rhythm, a quiet compulsion to move in time with the beat. His breathing adjusted. The small restless shifts of his body began to fall into the metronome’s measured thump. Within a day the new loop had replaced everything that came before. The waves were gone. Only the steady, relentless counting remained.
The steady throbbing of the metronome seemed to call his attention, again and again, to the matching throb of Ken’s cock.
Wherever he was in the apartment—cleaning, cooking, simply sitting on the futon—the heavy beat in his headphones pulled his eyes toward that thick length whenever it began to fill. The rhythm made the slow rise and the heavy pulse at the base feel like part of the same counting. Watching was no longer enough. The beat wanted more.
One evening Ryan was already on his knees, both hands working Ken’s thick cock in the exact rhythm he had perfected, when the thought simply appeared: his mouth should be doing this.
It felt practical. Obvious. Correct. The next natural movement in time with the metronome.
He leaned forward and took the swollen, slick head between his lips for the first time.
The weight of it settled on his tongue—hotter and heavier than he expected. The skin was satin-smooth over iron, the taste of pre-cum already strong and slightly bitter. His jaw had to open wider than felt natural. The metronome thumped once, twice, and his head began to move—slow, measured bobs that matched the beat exactly. Wet sounds rose under the headphones. Ken’s hand came to rest on the back of his head, heavy and approving, while Ryan took him deeper, inch by inch, learning the stretch at the corners of his mouth and the way the thick veins slid across his tongue.
The remote vibe inside him hummed to life in perfect sync with the metronome, turning every downward movement into a double pulse of pleasure. Ryan’s own neglected cock leaked steadily into the fishnet, but all of his focus stayed on the heavy shaft filling his mouth and the steady count that now organized everything he did. A thin thread of drool escaped the corner of his lips and ran down his chin. He did not wipe it away.
When Ken finally came, Ryan kept his mouth open and still, letting the thick pulses land on his tongue and fill him until he had to swallow in visible gulps. The warm, settled feeling that followed was deeper than it had ever been—almost dizzying.
Oral became the default within days.
What had started as an experimental first taste quickly turned into the only way Ryan wanted to finish Ken. The learning curve vanished almost overnight. By the third or fourth session he could take the entire thick length down his throat without gagging, lips pressed to the base, nose buried in the dark hair at Ken’s root. The metronome beat made it easy—each heavy thump corresponded to a full downward slide, each pause to a slow drag back up that let him breathe and swallow the constant leak of pre-cum. His throat adapted as if it had been waiting for exactly this shape. The faint ache in his jaw afterward felt earned.
The frequency grew with the skill.
Two or three times a day became four, then five, then simply whenever the need surfaced. Morning wake-up sessions now began with Ryan already under the covers, mouth open and wet before Ken was fully awake. Post-gym, the moment Ken dropped his bag, Ryan was on his knees in the hallway, sheer fishnet stretched tight across his ass as he leaned forward. Evenings on the couch. Spontaneous moments in the kitchen while dinner cooked, or against the wall just outside the bathroom. The metronome Track and the remote vibe locked into a single consistent sucking rhythm; Ryan’s head moved almost automatically to the beat, hands resting lightly on Ken’s thighs or cupping his heavy balls.
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