“The Resistance” [Script offer, Hypnosis, Slavery, Caution, Interr, M-solo, Humil, Anal, Fdom, JOI, Bd, Ds, MF, Nc, Sm]

*This is a sequel to [“The Hive”](https://old.reddit.com/r/gonewildaudio/comments/6ksskz/the_hive_any_gender_script_offer_hypnosis/), which Mistress Shibby was kind enough to do a [recording](https://old.reddit.com/r/ShibbySays/comments/75ixs7/f4a_the_hive_hypnosisbrainwashingslavedronehard/) of. Please let me know if you’re interested in commissioning work from me.*

 

Good evening, Subject 19. Welcome back to the Project. We’re a little short on time, so hurry up and get undressed. Tonight is going to be more than a simple scouting mission. You’ll be making contact with the local resistance. Risky, I know, but High Command has decided that you’re ready.

Are you naked? Good. Lie back and listen to my voice. I’ll count to ten and you’ll feel yourself floating.

One.

Two.

Three.

You feel the tension leaving your arms and legs.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Relaxation pours into you with every inward breath.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

You feel yourself floating, like you’re ever-so-slightly disconnected from your body. Very good. Now I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. Let it take you away, away from your life in this reality. Follow it to another world, one not so dissimilar from the world you know. But with an important difference.

I’ll count to ten, and you’ll feel yourself slipping into your counterpart in that other place.

One.

Two.

Three.

You feel your mind settling into another body.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

This body feels lighter, stronger. It is upright and on its knees.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

You open your eyes in the new world.

 

The first thing you notice is that you’re kneeling in front of your bed. Correction, what used to be your bed. These days you sleep in the dog cage to the side of it.

The second thing you notice is all the metal you’re wearing.

You look down at yourself. Your stomach is flat and toned, all the better to see your manhood padlocked in its chastity cage. The cage is stainless steel, like the heavy ring in each of your nipples and in your nose. Around your neck you feel the cold weight of a solid metal collar. Your wrists and ankles are behind your back but they too feel similar accessories. Apart from all this permanent jewelry, you are naked.

Your mistress and owner is sleeping late in what used to be your bed, arms and legs sticking carelessly out of a familiar blanket. It’s her blanket now, her bed. Everything in the place belongs to her. It’s been that way since the occupation.

With her horns, it’s easier for her to sleep on one ear. Even curled up on her side, her feet still hang over the edge of the bed. She stands a full head and shoulders taller than you, not that you often have a chance to compare heights. Usually you’re on your knees or crawling.

In one hand she’s still holding the strap-on she used on you the previous night. There’s a permanent marker in her other hand, and that reminds you of the shopping list scrawled on your back. It’s morning, you’ve got an errand to run, and you’re short on time.

 

The neighborhood has changed. Much of it still looks like the warzone that it was until recently. Many buildings were burned down or blown apart, when they weren’t simply pulled down by tentacles from the sky. Every wall that’s still standing is either stitched with bullet holes or spattered with old rusty stains. There’s very few people, and no children.

It’s a short walk to the main road and an even shorter wait for your ride. The “taxi” is an unholy marriage of a tandem bike and a rickshaw. There’s a pony girl up in front, harnessed to the buggy shafts. The buggy itself rests on a single wheel and instead of a bench there’s a row of bike seats. Each one sports a big, greasy dildo.

You walk around to the pony girl to show her your back. Your destination is written there, and in any case her posture collar and blinders prevent her from turning her head or using her peripheral vision. You turn to make eye contact and that’s when you recognize her. She used to be rich and famous. Now she’s just a working animal. The constant outdoor exercise has given her thick, powerful haunches and a deep, all-over tan. Still, you can see the scars where her legs were stretched and her bust size reduced to nearly nothing. The pins left little holes in her legs. Ugly stitches underline her breasts and reach up to her nipples.

She coughs through her bit gag and you realize you’ve been staring. You smile, embarrassed, and make your way to the nearest bike seat, which you screw yourself onto with a grunt.

You fold your arms behind you, kick the buggy frame twice, and then you’re off.

 

A breeze washes over you as you head for the metro station. Naked and mounted on a dildo, you’ve put yourself on display to everyone you pass.

You try not to look at the hole in the sky, but there isn’t much else to look at. The city is almost empty. Most of the few people out of doors are naked thralls. A blonde woman is sweeping the street, her wrists manacled to her cleaning implements. Now and again she empties her dustpan into a wastebasket-slash-dog-cage, which follows her around with the aid of wheels and its occupant.

As humiliating as the ride is, you can’t argue that it’s faster than walking. The ex-celebrity has a fast, easy stride and a magnificent set of lungs. You can barely hear her breathing over the patter of her hoof-boots on the road.

A shadow falls over you. You look up to see a squid-thing the size of a blimp. Its tentacles swim through the air as the living ship disappears behind a building.

You’re getting close to the station and there still aren’t many people. But then, eight out of ten men died in the invasion and afterward half the remaining population was sold off-planet.

The taxi is slowing down. You can feel it in your prostate.

 

Getting onto a train isn’t too different from how it used to be. The gates now respond to chips in people’s genitals and the guards use whips to pack slaves into their cars, but otherwise it’s much the same. You wave your crotch at the sensor, push through the turnstile, and kneel behind the yellow line. The train arrives and you stand and shuffle through the doors.

As before, there are four passenger cars, but three are reserved for freedwomen and slave-owners. These are furnished with plush couches, deep carpets, and lots of elbow room. The one slave car lacks benches, lights, or even airconditioning. Slaves are packed in cheek-to-cheek and ass-to-crotch, their arms chained to the ceiling.

You step through the doors and hook your wrist-cuffs to a hanging chain. A motor automatically pulls your hands upward and then you’re walking on tiptoe into the compartment. You find yourself sandwiched between a slender black woman, who’s tall enough to put her breasts in your face, and a plump redhead who can’t help but press her nipples and belly into you. A scratchy sensation down one leg reminds you that not every male slave is hairless from the neck down.

The doors close and the train starts moving. The air is suddenly warm and humid. But that’s to be expected with three hundred people sweating and breathing in the same light rail carriage. The smell isn’t too bad, you think. Everyone’s young or young-ish. Everyone’s been forced to look after their health and exercise until they were in the best shape of their lives. You wish it weren’t so crowded—there’s six slaves per square meter—but at least nobody’s hogging the seats. There are no seats.

You look out the windows to distract yourself. In the next car the only passengers are a mistress and her pet. She’s lounging on one of the couches: he’s kneeling on the carpet. She’s still dressed for a party, and it must have been some party because even her slave has fallen asleep between her legs.

The tracks take you through a turn and now you can’t help but see the portal. It just hangs there, a lot of black nothing. Gigantic tentacles hang from it like fingers on a hand big enough to pick up Godzilla like he was an action figure. Squid-ships swim around the tentacles, constantly bringing people offworld or taking them elsewhere in the Hegemony. From the distance the ships look like a cloud of gnats.

There’s a muffled scream and you turn around. A slave-girl and slave-boy are pushing through the crowd, trying to get closer to each other. They’re hampered by the complicated system of hoists that keep you chained securely and yet free to shuffle around the compartment. Eventually the two meet and it’s a tearful reunion. They can’t really talk because of the ring gags they wear, but you gather that they used to be married before they were sold to different people.

People cheer. They’d clap, but their hands are tied. Seeing the couple nuzzle one another in the middle of the crowd, it reminds everyone that they used to be something other than what they are now. Before the invasion. Before the war was lost and they were herded into reeducation camps. People are crying, their noses are running. But their hands are tied, they can’t wipe their noses. It’s a relief when the mood changes. The husband and wife, unable to speak or even embrace, have started doing more than just lean into each other. They don’t know when they’ll meet again or if they even will, so naturally the encounter has turned sexual.

She’s rubbing against him and pulling herself up so they can kiss through their gags. He’s thrusting his hips, but he’s in chastity. They’re both in chastity. They do what they can anyway. The crowd helps. A slave-boy supports the girl from behind so she can wrap her legs around her hubby. She grinds her chastity shield against him and chases his tongue with her own. She’s moaning, but he doesn’t make a sound until a slave-girl lifts her leg and starts stroking his balls with her foot.

People are shuffling around, slowly circulating around the carriage. They’re looking for interested parties, for slaves with uncovered crotches. Two of them find one another and there’s a squelching sound as they go for it. The atmosphere gets hotter. Sweatier. It smells even more like sex as every other slave starts doing it. Your feet slips in something and more juices splash on your leg. Somebody’s a squirter. You sneak a glance at the married couple and see that their mouths are locked together. The slave who was fondling his balls has started sodomizing him with her big toe.

The redhead taps you on the foot. You look down and lock eyes with her. She gives you a shy smile and indicates that her pussy is an inch from your leg. You nod and she start humping you. The tall black slave—you notice that she’s gagged—she winks at you and offers a nipple. You bend your head forward to suck on it.

 

The station guards have to pull people off each other. They tried using their whips but a lot slaves are used to being flogged during sex. Many even enjoyed it.

You make your way down to the parking lot, where a hovering squid is disgorging passengers. There’s a rush of liquid each time a slave is pushed through its ovipositor. Everyone has to spend a few minutes on the ground while coughing up the breathing fluid.

You prefer the train, which isn’t as fast but normally doesn’t get you quite so lubricated.

 

The guard inside the supermarket is wearing black plastic armor. It would be functional if it didn’t leave her breasts and pussy exposed, but that’s not the point. The point is to show that she’s a free woman, and her hairy bush and unadorned nipples make that clear. She smiles as you approach. She’s shorter than you—she could be Thai or Vietnamese—but she’s also twirling a shock baton. There’s never a question of who’s in charge.

“Wait here,” she tells you as she summons a cart girl. This is a slave who carries her cage wherever she goes. It’s something like an iron maiden on wheels or a gibbet shaped like a dress. It’s as if someone took a birdcage and molded every bar and hoop to her upper body. There is an enclosure for her head and one for her torso. Her arms extend forward in their sleevelike prisons, with only the hands free to hold things. All this rigid metal fits her exactly. Her legs have more leeway, but they too are confined inside a skirt-like frame, which flares like a bell and glides on casters.

The slave hobbles toward us, at once naked and overdressed. A chain between her ankles forces her to make tiny steps. And even in heels, her feet barely touched the floor. The cage dress leaves little of her body to the imagination, except for her head, which was completely enclosed in red latex.

“She’s deaf, dumb, and blind in that hood,” the guard tells you. “We feed her directions through her earpiece and track her through the security cameras.”

Someone has already taken a photo of the list on your back. The guard puts a shopping cart into the slave’s hands and the girl scoots away to fill your order.

“Now, come with me,” the guard says.

She takes you to her office and pushes you into a wall. It’s a floor-length mirror. You can see her reflection as she spreads your legs apart and cups your balls. Then, with a flick of her wrist your chastity cage is in two pieces on the floor.

Your eyes go wide. You thought only your owner could do that.

The freedwoman is breathing in your ear. “Now listen here, spy. I’m going to give you something to pass on to your true masters. I’m going to have some fun with you too, but don’t cum until I tell you.”

 

Subject 19, we’ve made contact!

 

The guard is a resistance member, but she’s also a dominant woman and you’re too well-trained to resist. She takes your hand, the one you use to masturbate with, and slowly guides it to your manhood. It’s been months since you touched your own penis and the contact is like an electric shock. Still holding your wrist, she begins using your hand to stroke yourself.

 

Subject 19, begin stroking yourself.

 

The guard pulls on your nipple-rings and pinches the nipples themselves. She presses her breasts into your back and runs a hand through her bush. Then she drags her fingers over your mouth, smearing your face with acrid musk. She’s stroking you, she’s stroking and talking, you’re straining to make out what she’s saying.

 

Ignore the message, Subject 19. We’ll mark it down when we play back your memories.

I’ll count to ten and you will approach orgasm. When I reach ten you’ll be at the very edge.

One.

Two.

Look at yourself in the mirror. This is who you are now.

Three.

Four.

Look at the guard. This is the kind of woman you were made for.

Five.

Six.

On every world, you belong to all women.

Seven.

Eight.

Do you want to cum, slave? I’ll bet you do.

Nine.

Ten.

 

“Cum for me,” the guard says. She presses her shock baton into your ass. “Cum for me, or there will be pain.”

 

No, Subject 19. Cum for *me.* When I count to ten, you will spray the mirror with your useless seed.

One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

Four . . .

Five . . .

Six . . .

Seven . . .

Eight . . .

Nine . . .

Ten . . .

 

“Cum for me,” the guard says.”

 

“Cum for me,” your handler says. With a groan, you climax for the both of them, covering the mirror with a load big enough for any two women.

 

Very good, Subject 19. You may drift off to sleep, or wake up at your leisure. The Project is done with you for the moment.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/cjq8d1/the_resistance_script_offer_hypnosis_slavery