Story created by FeverDreamer ∙ 23 April 2024

I thought that having my body possessed, my life stolen and my evenings spent tangled in a carnal carousel of degenerate sex was the worst thing that could happen to me.

I was wrong.

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  • Stringless

    Chapter written by FeverDreamer ∙ 23 April 2024

    I thought that having my body possessed, my life stolen and my evenings spent tangled in a carnal carousel of degenerate sex was the worst thing that could happen to me.

    I was wrong.

  • It had been three months since I had felt the presence slither out of my mind. Three months since I had been trapped as a helpless passenger in my own body, watching it gleefully debase itself in ways I had never dared imagine.

    There had been no warning: One moment I had been waiting in line to audition for some minor speaking role, when a sudden shiver ran through me. The person sitting next to me had asked if I was okay, and I’d tried to make a joke about how nervous I was. Instead, my body silently stood up and began to walk briskly towards the exit.

    I had tried to cry out. I tried to stop myself. I tried to trip myself up, swivel my eyes or even blink in a way that might signal to someone that something was terribly wrong, but I completely lost control of my own faculties. Some outside force had seized control of my body and walked it smartly into the elevator, taking us down to the lobby, out the studio doors and into the city’s seedy underbelly.

    Well, perhaps not exactly. As my body began to pilot itself towards what I recognised as the red light district, I felt myself almost blacking out in panic - the thought of being trapped as my body handed out back-alley blowjobs filling me with a sense of sickness beyond simple nausea.

    To my bitter relief, I watched myself sashay into the most salubrious venue in the city: More a luxury hotel than a whorehouse, but everyone knew that the turndown service included some very intimate extras.

    I felt my face flex into a charming smile to the bouncer and saw his look of amused recognition. I’d never seen the brute in my life, but I realised with horror that I was just the latest victim of whatever sick perversion was taking place.

    It is a terrible thing to feel your lips and tongue move of their own accord, speaking words not your own in a language you don’t even understand. Some cryptic collection of syllables whispered to the concierge that I could not have hoped to remember even the next day, let alone now.

    I - my body, and whatever was controlling it - was given access to the service lift, disembarking into a hall that looked like a modernised Mount Olympus: Laden tables, bubbling fountains, crystalline pools, cushioned lounges and of course, an entourage of gorgeous men and women in various states of undress.

    They did not seem gorgeous when I first laid eyes on them. In my state of horror and revulsion, I saw them only as whores and deviants; accomplices to the crime being committed against me. Now I remember their lithe physiques and alluring expressions with what I can only think of as a desperate, carnal thirst.

    This is the curse that has scarred me since my release. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been freed from whatever monster had stolen a year of my life; the memory of the pleasures it enjoyed with my flesh remains, and I wake up at night feeling terribly cold and alone.

    They had welcomed me with the warmth and intimacy of a lifetime lover, undressing me as my body gracefully shed one piece of clothing after another. There was an air of excited exploration: Despite their familiarity with whatever had taken control of me, every inch of my naked skin, every hair, every finger and toe was treated as a curiosity to be examined.

    I felt my body gasp at the first kiss - a gentle peck on my inner thigh. My body smiled with amusement and allowed itself to be lowered onto a bed of gold tasselled pillows before opening its arms and legs to the storm of affection.

    Kissing. Licking. Stroking. Squeezing. My body made no effort to resist as it was toyed with and tasted by this party of strangers, and I felt a thrill of physical excitement grow within me that I had never known before my possession.

    Shortly afterwards I would reassure myself that I was the perversion of the degenerate mind controlling me that caused such feelings - that I would never experience that kind of enjoyment from such a debasing act.

    I know now that I was a fool. My body has tasted something I could never hope to recreate within the confines of my drab morality, and its hunger for more would later drive me to madness.

    I was the guest of honour that night, and my body was a dish to be sampled by all. I was forced to savour the taste of every guest in turn - the men, the women, and those wore the face and body of one while sporting the genitals of the other. I had hated them at the time, assuming that they were conscious of and taking delight in my imprisonment and suffering. It is still possible that they were, but somehow I find it hard to loathe them now as I did then.

    There were no ringmasters that I can recall; no one figure dominating the course of proceedings. Were it not for my own distress, I would have assumed the proceedings had no sinister puppeteer skulking in the shadows, but I sought one out in an attempt to distract myself from the physical sensations.

    Callisto. I remember the name Callisto. The thing wearing my face had recognised her and I had felt my traitor heart leap in my chest at the sight of her. She was beautiful. I could admit that, even in the throes of my own misery. She had descended through the forest of bodies to press her lips against mine - lips that devoured the kiss with ravenous abandon.

    What followed was a torrent of whispers in that unknown language, punctuated by giggles and yet more lashing of tongues. The thing within me was smitten with this woman, and she had recognised its presence, despite my face. My eyes were closed for much of their tryst, but often they would open and each would gaze into each other before bursting into more giggles or succumbing once more to their lust.

    The sensation of something hot and rubbery against my thigh came as a shock to me, and as my gaze shifted to look, I expected to see some male suitor encroaching from between us. Instead, I saw an incongruously large penis sprouting from between Callisto’s legs, visibly bobbing as it twitched in time with her heartbeat.

    My own shock failed to register on my face, which smiled with what I felt was both encouragement to the woman on top of me and a vindictive irony at my helplessness.

    If Callisto was aware of my revulsion behind the smile, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she chose to slide her shaft between my legs, thrusting slowly back and forth so that its length ran along my nether lips in languid, luxurious strokes.

    My body squealed, arching its back as I felt muscles within me twitch and spasm in delighted anticipation. Over the course of what felt like hours, my disgust reluctantly gave way to frustration - my body teased to the edge of orgasm again and again without reaching the peak.

    I wanted to cry. To bed for forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed to deserve this humiliation, whatever it took for them to unchain or - if I must remain under their control - to at least give me release.

    As I cried out in my own mind, I felt my body giggle again, and I realised with mortified horror that the thing controlling me was indeed aware of my own thoughts and was gaining a twisted sense of enjoyment from my distress.

    Before I could rally any kind of indignant rage to admonish them with, my lips whispered a command to Callisto, who obliged by drawing back and thrusting into me until our crotches were pressed together.

    My possessor had been ready for it, and wrapped my legs around her lover to better grind my body against her, moaning in ecstasy as I was forced to share in her pleasure. Every part of my skin was electrified, and I could feel every hair, every raised pore, every millimetre of my breasts and vulva and sweat-slick skin rubbing and sliding and stretching over my muscles as they contorted and twitched.

    It was magical. As ashamed as I am to say it even now, it was like nothing I had experienced in my life up to that instant, and while I still try to convince myself that the memory makes me sick with disgust, the truth is that I am filled with a painful sense of longing for that moment and the many others that followed.

    She had called out a name as she poured herself into me, the warmth of her seed spreading a fire throughout my body. “Artemis,” she had cried out, and my own body moaned hers in response. Even after the spasms eased, we spent some time simply basking in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of climax.

    We did not remain in each other’s arms for long, and soon afterwards I would find myself once again being handed from partner to partner, sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups of four or more, each one of them hungry to savour this new morsel that had been puppeteered into their den. There was no effort to engage in intimacy, no connection formed other than the purely physical. I was the evening’s main dish, and I found myself being tasted by many mouths.

    I wish I could say that I blacked out, or that overstimulation numbed me such that time passed in a blur. I was granted no such mercy. I remember clearly peeling my viscid skin from the evening’s final paramour. I remember finding my garments among the pile by the door. I remember the knowing leer of the hotel staff as I saw myself out the lobby to a waiting cab that answered to foreign instructions and demanded no fee. I remember my confusion slowly turning to horror as I recognised the streets I was being driven down - that the thing within me had somehow gleaned my address and was taking me home. Is that how they had found me? Had some enchantment been weaved on me as I slept, culminating in my capture earlier that day?

    As I watched my body wash itself thoroughly, sneering at what modest comforts I could afford myself, I hoped with increasing desperation that the rising of a new sun would banish the nightmare. Despite certainly knowing my thoughts, my body gave no response besides rolling naked into bed and closing my eyes. I had only moments of darkness before the current of sleep dragged me under.


    * * *


    My eyes opened to the sound of my morning alarm, and it was with a sudden rush of relief that I sat up in dawn’s early light. That relief was short-lived, as my body had in truth been obeying its new master, who had simply risen as I would have done. Now I felt the world turn as my body spun out of bed and practically danced to the bathroom mirror to admire by the light of day the prize it had stolen.

    The expression of vindictive glee it wore with my face contrasted against my own horror, and while it spared no words for what it was or why it had chosen me, it took the time to tease us both to solitary climax with my stolen hands.

    Far from being freed, that morning marked the first full day of my new nightmare: A nightmare in which my body would walk familiar streets, greet familiar faces and complete familiar tasks without fault or any sign that I was anyone but myself. I soon realised that its knowledge of my address was not the fruit of reconnaissance, but its ability to effortlessly reach into my mind and pluck what memories it needed at will.

    Trapped within myself, I watched as my body greeted my peers and superiors with the deference each deserved, attended the venues and gatherings at which my absence would be noted and carried out my duties to a standard surpassing my own. It was on this last point that I felt my wayward body becoming unaccountably aroused, as praise was heaped upon my impostor for the improvement in performance. I realised that whoever had taken my life, they were gaining a wicked sense of glee for living it better than I had, and that should my body ever be returned to me, I would struggle to live up to the new expectations my possessor had created for me.

    It was with this terrible realisation that I watched my body bid farewell to my unsuspecting coworkers, hailing down a taxi and speaking once again in that unknown tongue. The cab drove us back to the hotel from the evening before, and my horror deepend at the revelation that last night’s humiliation had only been the first of many.

    From that day onwards, debauchery became my body’s nightly diversion. I would wake with my body in the morning, watch during the day in the futile hope that some trusted friend would glean the falsehood of my countenance, then once again find myself victim to the myriad indecencies my body would visit upon itself and others.

    Most times it would be at the same hotel, though on rare occasions I would find myself being piloted to one of the party member’s own domiciles. Against my will, I became familiar with the personal penthouses of many wealthy figures in the city, earning entry through various acts of self-debasement. Country cottages, summer homes, private jets; my body took itself on a tour between various spheres of power and influence, grovelling and dancing and mewling its way under every table to lick the floor clean of scraps.

    Upon my first encounter with a true public figure, I had resolved to burn the sight of every face and the sound of every name into my memory, such that upon my eventual release I could throw back the curtain on the carnival of corruption and gain some measure of closure for the suffering inflicted upon me. Naively, I hoped to retain enough information to tear down their palaces of sin and expose their crimes to the world.

    A stupid, childish ambition.

    In the three months since my release, no matter how I wrack my brain, no matter how many newspaper photos I look at and how many public broadcasts I watch, not a single name or face evokes so much as a twitch of recognition. Whatever memories I had retained up to the day of my release, my possessor had reached into my mind and erased them.

    But I remembered Callisto. Among the countless sea of fog-obscured faces that flooded my recollection, Callisto’s remained clear.

    I saw her surprisingly rarely, given the relationship she had with the thing controlling me. I had no idea where she was on the many nights I endured without her, and there was no pattern or apparent purpose to her attendance. Some nights she was simply there waiting for me, and some nights she would arrive later and seek me out in the heaving, sighing, moaning mass of limbs and flesh.

    Despite its many sordid engagements with countless partners, Callisto was the only one that my body was truly intimate with. They would burrow out a private nest among the pillows, slink away to some shadowed corner booth or in one case, cradle each other in the arms of the statue that dominated the hall where everyone could see, but none could reach.

    Callisto was the first and only person my body invited back to my own apartment, and while I raged at this latest invasion of my privacy and trespass on my life, I could not overcome the excitement burning through my body as it gave Callisto a tour of my meagre dwellings.

    Unlike Artemis, Callisto did not sneer. She had eyes only for her lover, and it wasn’t long before they were tumbling naked onto my bed.

    I had invited some promising suitors to my apartment in the past, and in exceptional cases had invited them to spend the night in my bed, but I had experienced nothing like the overwhelming passion these creatures felt for each other. As they lay panting in the dim lamplight, gazing into each other’s eyes, I had to remind myself that the sensation of joyous fulfilment welling up in my heart was not my own, and that the gorgeous woman leaning in to press her lips against mine was not my lover, but a concubine to the foul thing that wore my face and had stolen my life.

    It was perhaps six months since losing control of myself that I arrived as accustomed to the hotel banquet to find Callisto waiting for me but unaccountably nervous, as though she had suddenly shrunk in on herself and lost all sense of confidence.

    She approached me with uncharacteristic trepidation and in a quavering voice spoke the name Artemis, as though unsure if I was still being controlled.

    The thing wearing my face smiled, but not with the warmth or affection I had come to expect. It was a sinister smile. A predatory smile. And, like a predator, she drew Callisto into her arms and flung her to the floor before pouncing on top of her while the crowd roared with laughter.

    Artemis seemed to have grown weary of her lover, and I felt my blood surge in unwanted excitement as I watched the horror of realisation drawn on Callisto’s face. I felt her body squirm beneath my weight as she cried out in pain and fear, begging for forgiveness as my hands roughly tore at her clothes. Despite her protestations, she was fully erect beneath her skirt and my body laughed at her humiliation as it brought her struggling upright, exposing her shame to the mocking throng.

    I had never pictured Callisto as being possessed of physical or mental strength, and my suspicions were confirmed as the poor girl hung helplessly from one arm gripped by my own hand while my other jerked her roughly to climax.

    She moaned piteously as she emptied her soul onto the marble floor, and when thrown to her knees and ordered to clean it with her mouth, she did so without resistance, weeping such that her tears mingled with her seed on the floor.

    That was the last time I saw Callisto while deprived of control. I remember taking on new lovers to varying degrees of intimacy, but any memory of names or faces have been pulled clean from my mind.

    My impression of the six months that followed were simply of the same routine: Appear as normal during the day, lascivious pursuits by night punctuated by weekends of debauchery.

    It was with a genuine sense of shock that one morning I woke up to find that my body did not rise from my bed of its own accord, nor did it leap to the mirror to admire itself. Instead, it lay listlessly in bed, staring at the ceiling.

    With a great effort of will, reforging the connection from months of disuse, I raised my hand up to my face.

    My body was my own once more.


    * * *


    I did not cheer, I did not even smile. I realised that despite my freedom, I had somehow not recovered control of my body. Even the steady rise and fall of my breast was automatic, and I could neither slow nor hold my breath.

    It took several frustrating minutes just to move my eyes and turn my head. Moving my limbs felt like swimming in mud, and I would have cried from the effort if I could only remember how.

    I could not stand. I could barely raise myself on all fours, the softness of the mattress causing me to lose what little balance I could muster. It was not until I heard the chime of my phone that I realised I had spent several hours simply trying to get out of bed.

    Mercifully, my phone was close to hand, and while the first two calls failed before I could reach it, I was able to answer the third.

    “Angie, where are you? It’s almost midday!”

    I recognised the voice as my supervisor. Thanks to my artificially improved performance, I was her star employee, and her concern at my sudden absence was clear in her voice.

    “Hrrn,” I said, my throat thick and my tongue sluggish.

    “Angie? Are you there?”

    “Heeln,” I managed, my vision swimming with the effort.

    “Oh my God, Angie. Are you okay?”

    “Herlp. Mrr.” It was all I could think of saying.

    “Oh, God. Oh, God, Angie you stay where you are, I’m going to get help.”

    It was a thin silver lining of my possession. Possibly Artemis had intended it from the start: That the person charged with contacting me from work would also be kind enough not simply to worry, but also to act if she thought I was in danger. No doubt she believed I was suffering some kind of medical emergency, though she could never have guessed the truth.

    I soon found myself in hospital, where I was diagnosed with a sudden onset neurological disorder. The doctors had come to that conclusion after many frustrated attempts to quantify my condition via their many scans and tests. They suggested more out of hope than certainty that my condition would improve with rest and gradual physical therapy.

    I wasn’t about to correct them. Not simply because of my inability to speak or write, but also because they would most definitely have deemed me insane as well as crippled.

    Their prognosis proved sound, despite their ignorance. Over the course of the next four weeks, I gradually regained the use of my own body thanks to the patience of the staff assigned to me. It was maddeningly tedious, frustrating work, but by the end of the month I was able to walk unassisted out of the hospital to the taxi that was waiting for me.

    For a moment I thought I might recognise the driver, or that they might recognise me. I had already come to the realisation that my memories had been tampered with, but if I perhaps mumbled something in the correct tone with enough confidence, would he still think me under Artemis’ control?

    I gave my address and went home.

    After that, my life fell apart. As predicted, I could not match the workplace performance Artemis had given while wearing my body, and what began as sympathy for my recent hospitalisation turned to frustration at my inability to recover.

    Compounding my poor state of mind was the persistent sensation of emptiness that stole over me in the night: The feeling that I should be wrapped in the arms of another, gorging myself on their scent and sweat instead of languishing alone in the coldness of solitude.

    Weeks passed one after the other with not only a failure to improve but the bitter void within me growing deeper with every passing night. I would dream of Callisto’s tear-stained face and wake up begging for forgiveness.

    I entertained the idea of returning to the hotel, to the crucible of sin I had been forced to spend a year of my life, but the fantasy of what would happen on my arrival grew increasingly deranged. No arm of the law could be trusted to stand against the men who had taken advantage of my body while I was possessed, and even if I could somehow fool the guards into thinking I was still being controlled, what could I hope to achieve upon my return?

    Despite this, I found myself helplessly drawn to the street outside the hotel in the safety of daylight, trapped at the periphery, both hoping and dreading being seen and recognised.

    It was there, nine months after last laying eyes on her, that I saw Callisto.

    I did not call out, but instead ran with a silent desperation to catch up to her as she moved through the crowd. The sound of my footsteps drew her attention, and she turned just as I drew close enough to reach out and grab her.

    The look of sudden terror on her face caused my heart to sink, but her expression quickly turned to one of confusion as she clearly saw the difference in my nature since our last meeting.

    “You,” she said, with none of the fear I remembered in her voice. “You’re not Artemis, are you?”

    It was in that moment that I felt the ground tilt beneath me, a sudden dizziness claiming my mind as I came to terms with the implications of her question.

    A pair of arms grabbed me, not unkindly but without unwarranted tenderness. I looked into eyes I had been made to fall in love with against my will, and saw another soul behind them.

    She wasn’t Callisto. She never had been. Just as the thing that answered to the name Artemis had worn me as its meat puppet, a creature that called itself Callisto had worn her.

    The horror must have shown in my expression, because hers softened as one who had experienced the same loss and revelation.

    She embraced me then, and I held onto her as though she were the only real thing in the world: Two lovers deprived of their souls.

    We found ourselves at a nearby cafe sometime later, recounting the circumstances of our respective capture, speculating how it was done and pointedly pretending not to know any intimate details of the other’s anatomy.

    Her name was Christina, and after what seemed like much internal debate, she asked if I wanted to go back.

    I was horrified at the suggestion, bringing up her own mistreatment as reason never to return, but she admitted that even after her rejection and humiliation at my hands under Artemis’ control, she had continued attending other venues to indulge her carnal impulses, describing the same cold hollowness that had robbed me of sleep for so many nights.

    I told her that I would need some time to think about it, and in the dying light of the setting sun, she offered to walk me home.

    She did not in fact remember my address from her evening with Artemis - Callisto having robbed her of the memory - but her face lit up in recognition when I let her into my apartment. Neither of us needed to say that she had never intended to simply walk me home, and after a brief moment of awkwardness, we found ourselves in each other’s arms once again, though for the first time of our own volition.

    The lovemaking was… awkward. Neither of us possessed the confidence, nor ravenous hunger for the other that the creatures controlling us had possessed, but there was a sincerity to the moment we shared that was entirely unique.

    My body still remembered the shape of her as she pushed herself into me, hesitant despite the countless times we had rutted with abandon in the past. There were no heroic thrusts, no cries of triumph or ecstasy; just a pair of stringless puppets filling the hole in one another’s lives.


    * * *


    We returned to the hotel the next morning. My life was beyond recovery, and Christina seemed to have given up on her own.

    The true extent of her despair did not dawn on me until I witnessed the familiarity with which she was greeted by the denizens of the grand hall. A familiarity that betrayed the fact that she had in fact already returned, possibly while I was still possessed and that the memory of seeing her again had simply been erased from my mind.

    Too numb with shock to resist, I found myself being led first by Christina but soon by the entire congregation, shepherding and pulling and lifting me up to the feet of the statue where two figures lay draped in its arms.

    Despite wearing new faces, I recognised their expressions at once. Artemis and Callisto leered down at us: Two discarded skins now returned to their lair.

    Through a haze of terror I heard Christina praise their names and claimed me as her other half in the coming sacrifice. I had no knowledge of what she was speaking of, but whatever horror lay in store for me seemed a fitting start to yet another nightmare.

    The body of the woman Artemis now wore sniffed, looking down at me with scorn. She wondered aloud if I had actually been informed of the coming ritual, chastising Christina with a reminder that the sacrifice must be voluntary or the coming rite would fail.

    Christina turned to me then, an anguished hope in her eyes.

    We could still be together. Not as Callisto and Artemis, not as Christina and Angela, but as the new souls that would be summoned from beyond the void to fill our vessels and once again give purpose to our lives.

    We had tasted the joy of subjugation, and would remain forever desolate if we continued to obstinately exist without a master.

    She had deceived me. By omission and by trickery, she had deceived me into returning here, but on this she spoke truly. She knew I had felt the emptiness within me as surely as my own warm heart had been plucked from my chest - and emptiness she had been forced to suffer half a year longer than I. I saw in her desperation what I could become if I refused.

    I agreed, though neither the triumphant roar of the throng nor the tight, grateful embrace Christina gave me assuaged my fear.

    There was no drinking of blood or reading of entrails, no sonorous gong or ringing of bells. It happened in an instant. No sooner had Christina tearfully released me than I felt the shiver run through me once more.

    It was different this time: Where a year ago, it had felt like stepping through a sheet of frigid water, now it was like a distant pattering of freezing droplets raining down on me, first as a trickle but gradually growing into a flood.

    In my soul I knew what the difference was: Over a year ago, I had been assaulted by the will of some foul spirit that already commanded a foothold in our world. Now some new demon was being called, called from across the infinite planes of space to its new home in my mortal shell.

    In my terror, I considered resisting, but it was already too late. I gasped as the mist filled me - the last action I would ever make with my own body. I felt the rivulets of ice spread from my chest into my spine, splitting into countless fine hairs that ran along my arms and legs into hands, feet, fingers and toes. I felt the cold reach up into my neck, my skull, my face and finally, my mind. I felt it dig its cold claws into every inch of me before wresting control like an apple plucked from the tree.

    I felt full. I felt whole. I felt my face break into a lascivious smile, mirrored on the face of what was no longer Christina as we stood, still with our arms around each other.

    As the beings controlling us sealed their dominion over our bodies with a kiss, I felt Christina’s length sliding into my already slick womanhood, our bodies like virgins to the occupying souls.

    As our conquered bodies rapidly reached climax, I felt the invading spirit settle over mine completely and knew with terrible certainty that this one would never let go.

No more chapters.

JJ97TSF ∙ 24 April 2024

Subtle and dark, while still hitting all of the kinkiest parts of possession! In love with Angela's inner voice, too, it feels markedly different from the other stories I've read from you and fitting for the scenario.

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