Hypno Sissy Roommate
Copyright© 2026 by Eros Alban
Chapter 11: The Salon Visit
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 11: The Salon Visit - 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
Ken stepped out mid-morning for errands.
Kitty stayed behind to clean. He wore pale-blue lace panties with a small satin bow, a matching soft bralette, and sheer thigh-highs under an oversized sleep shirt. The black leather collar sat snug around his throat, the pink “Daddy’s Pet” tag resting against his skin. Heels clicked softly as he moved from room to room. The Pretty Kitty Track purred in the cat-ear headphones.
Then the Track ended.
The sudden silence felt wrong. He hurried to his phone, opened the Transforming Your Life page, and tapped the newest file that had appeared at the top. A four-hour loop. He hit play and went back to wiping the counter.
Wet skin slapped against skin.
Low masculine grunts mixed with higher, breathy moans.
The unmistakable rhythmic sound of a cock driving into a hole.
A deep voice spoke over the sex sounds, calm and certain.
“Who are you?”
A second voice answered—soft, lisping, eager.
“I’m a pretty kitty.”
Kitty froze, sponge still in hand. The conversation continued, natural and relentless, while the wet fucking sounds never stopped. Every answer the lispy voice gave felt like it was being pulled from inside his own chest. Every mechanical command—OBEY. SERVE. SUBMIT. ENJOY. COCK. DADDY. PET.—landed like a warm, heavy hand.
The truth of the last year rose up all at once.
He had been a straight jock once. He had loved burying his cock in warm, wet pussy. That memory surfaced sharp and disorienting. How had he been made into this? How had he been hypnotized so completely that soft lace and a collar and the taste of another man’s cock felt more natural than anything that came before? What was he now?
The lispy voice on the Track answered at exactly the right moment, soft and certain:
“I’m Daddy’s sissy slut.”
Kitty’s breath caught. Fear spiked hard. He needed to get out—away from the apartment, away from the clothes that felt too right, away from the voice that sounded like his own future.
He searched the apartment in a rising panic and found the last remnants of the old shape: one rough pair of jeans and an old work button-down shoved in the back of a drawer. The denim felt abrasive and wrong. The shirt hung stiff across the soft bralette and pierced nipples. He kept the pale-blue lace panties, the bralette, and the sheer thigh-highs on underneath; taking them off felt impossible. He forced himself into the jeans and shirt, slipped the heels back on because flat shoes no longer made sense, and left the apartment with the cat-ear headphones still in place and the final Track still pouring the wet, moaning truth into his ears.
He did not consciously choose a direction. His feet simply carried him.
It was a long walk.
The longer he walked, the longer he listened. The deep voice asked and the lispy voice answered and the mechanical commands punctuated everything—SUBMIT. SISSY. HOLE. BELONG.—while the sounds of wet fucking never ceased. On some level he understood exactly what was happening. The Track was finishing him. He both wanted to obey, to serve, to sink into the soft certainty the voices offered, and he was terrified of what he had already become.
The more he tried to fight it—the more he clung to the memory of the jock who used to fuck girls—the thicker the fog grew. His thoughts blurred. His steps became automatic. And underneath the fog the truth settled deeper with every block.
He was a pretty kitty.
He was a cocksucking sissy slut.
He was for Daddy.
By the time the familiar salon appeared in front of him he was no longer sure whether he had walked there by choice or whether the Track had simply reeled him in. The windows were frosted. Soft music leaked from inside, but underneath it he could still hear the final Track’s wet fucking sounds and the two voices continuing their calm, devastating conversation.
He needed to be inside.
The fear was still there, thin and trembling, but the need was stronger. He had to look like what the voices said he was. Properly. Completely.
Kitty pushed the door open and stepped into the salon, the tiny bell on his Prince Albert giving a soft, private chime as he moved, the pink “Daddy’s Pet” tag resting against his throat, and the final Track still whispering the truth of him into his ears.
The moment the door closed behind him the soft salon air wrapped around him like recognition.
A receptionist with neat blonde hair and a calm smile looked up, then simply nodded as if she had been expecting him.
“You’re right on time. The full package is already set up and paid for. Come on back.”
No one asked his name. No one looked twice at the rough jeans and button-down worn over pale-blue lace, or the black leather collar with its pink tag, or the multiple silver piercings. They treated him with easy, knowing femininity.
Kitty followed without speaking. The final Track still played in the cat-ear headphones—wet fucking sounds, the deep voice asking, the lispy voice answering, the mechanical commands landing at intervals: *SUBMIT. SERVE. ENJOY.*
He was guided to a private room. Soft lighting. A comfortable treatment table. The first technician, a quiet woman with steady hands, spoke gently.
“Everything off, please. Including the collar for now. We’ll keep it safe.”
He hesitated only a second. The Track’s lispy voice whispered I’m Daddy’s sissy slut as he unbuttoned the stiff work shirt, pushed down the abrasive jeans, and slipped out of the pale-blue lace panties, bralette, and thigh-highs. The collar and tag were carefully set aside along with every ring and piercing that could be removed. He stood naked except for the remaining permanent metal—septum, tongue, nipples, navel, taint, Prince Albert—while the technician began.
Permanent full depilation from the nose down. Warm wax, precise strips, the sharp pull that left skin smoother than it had ever been. Face, residual chest hair, the faint trail on his stomach, the soft skin around the navel piercing, the tops of his thighs, the curve of his ass, the sensitive area around the taint piercing. Every pass of the wax removed another thin layer of the old shape. The Track moaned and asked its questions; the lispy voice answered for him. Any flicker of the jock who used to exist was met with immediate fog and dissolved.
When the waxing was finished she smoothed a cool depilation lotion over every newly bare inch of him, massaging it in with firm, thorough strokes. The lotion tingled, then soothed. His skin felt almost too sensitive, every nerve awake.
Next came the mud soak. He was guided into a deep, warm tub filled with mineral-rich mud that coated him completely. The heat sank into his muscles. He floated, eyes half-closed, listening to the wet slap of skin on skin and the calm exchange of voices while the mud did its work.
After the mud came the seaweed wrap. Cool, slick sheets of seaweed were layered over his body from shoulders to ankles, then he was wrapped in warm towels and left to rest. The pressure was even and enclosing. The Track’s mechanical voice boomed softly:
*BELONG.*
When the wrap was unrolled he was led to a private shower. Warm water rinsed away the last of the mud and seaweed. He stood under the spray, completely smooth, the tiny bell on his Prince Albert giving a soft chime when he shifted, and felt the last traces of roughness leave his skin.
A fluffy, oversized soft robe was waiting. He slipped into it. The fabric was gentle against his newly bare body. The technician returned his collar first—fastening the black leather back around his throat so the pink “Daddy’s Pet” tag rested in its proper place—then carefully replaced every ring and piercing that had been removed. The metal felt cooler and more deliberate against the smooth skin.
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