*I just want to say thank you, for all the people who asked about me, and I am glad to be back. 

This story idea has been brooding in my mind for a long, long while now and I finally decided to birth it. I can only hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I did inventing it. I'm sure it was inspired somewhere, off a story I read here, but I just can't place it. So, I'll just say thanks to *ALL* the authors here on this archeive for their trekking into this domain, and for their continuing aspirations in this wonderful field of eroticism.

As usual, this story is copyright cat_slave, 2000.*

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                       PRISONER OF PERCEPTIONS



	The smooth, hard plastic was cool against Cassandra's fingertips. She tentatively pushed her lips apart with the soft, warm, and well-versed tongue in the arts of eroticism before nervously pressing her teeth against her painted lips, and biting down. Her thighs squeezed together against the transparent slick blackness that encased her body. She thought the contents had been lost. She hadn't even thought of it in years. 
	Yet, here it was. No locks, no safeguards, kept within the open, almost as if it were of no importance and anyone was given permission to watch it at anytime. His chambers were empty, for she had been sent to prepare, to clean it, and so she was alone and would remain so.  There was nothing, nothing, to stop her. Inhaling sharply and closing her eyes a muster of courage welled in her heart. Within that, she found the strength of will to pop open the case, revealing the unlabeled videocassette within.
	It needed no label, for she knew already what it was, as did her Master.

	It was the beginning of it all. 

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	Cassandra was twenty-five, at the time. She was alluring, but hardly striking, and she never would have made it within the unkind and cruel world of the modern model; yet there was a certain charm, and beauty to her found within the almost childlike aura that blossomed from her Victorian Heart-Shaped face and her tiny, dancer-like appearance.  She had a small, waifish, girlish frame that lent to her youthful appearance, often causing people to mistake her to be a good few years younger than she really was. She had wits about her, but was not greatly gifted with intelligence either. All in all, one would simply have to say she was an average girl. And all in all, she was content with the deck life had dealt her.
	
	That, at least, would be your first impression if you knew the girl from afar. 

	Had someone spoken with her long enough to get to know her very, very well, another page in the book would have been turned. Her outside innocent demeanor was the yang to her inner yearnings. A secret part of her wanted what seemed so inappropriate; to be controlled and played with quite like the dolls she and her sisters used to, when she was younger. A simple story on a news board had seeped its way into her mind, forever planting the seeds of this seemingly forbidden, and unnatural fruit. It was there she'd read the erotic story of how a man kidnapped a young teenage girl, and 'trained' her in the arts of bondage and submission, over the slow years, until she only served and lived to pleasure him. All that was hers, her body, her mind, her thoughts, her decisions; they had become his. The girl in the story was *free* from the chains of burden, responsibility, and lived only in pleasure, and service.
	The moistness between Cassandra's thighs became a small seed that slowly, but surely over the years began to grow almost uncontrollably. 
	Throughout her later teens, her fantasies grew more uninhibited, and more imaginative, insatiable. She grew almost addicted to fetish sites, never daring to go to those web domain's from her family computer lest she be caught, she began spending most of her free time lost in the world of fantasy, seduction, humiliation and submission within the confines of a quiet Internet Café. There she would read, and view, and brood, until the frustrations grew to much for her and she dashed home madly where she would soon find herself thrashing to the pleasure of her own fingers and screaming muffled cries of bliss into her pillow.
 	She never dared speak a word of it to anyone she dated - after all, her parents were good Christians, and still lurking in her heart was the fear and awe of God, and the repercussions of disobeying Him.
All in all, she was ashamed, and humiliated at these yearnings, and so never let them seep into her outside life. While she wished to slide black stockings and garters with tight leather shorts, to prance around the streets in a binding corset, following blissfully on the leash that her Master tugged, she instead wore long-flowing flower-print dresses, and slacks - never letting any of her dreams show. She never even dreamt that she would. 
	So, being the good girl that she tried to be, she went to college, where she decided that she wanted to major in psychology. This seemed fitting enough, and it would prove a suitable, perhaps even profitable career. She thought to herself that should she graduate, she could cure herself of these awful lusts. The other half of her, that secret half that never spoke and was only heard in the darkest nights while she slept told her it was the avenue to finding complete contentment, and satisfaction and joy within herself.
She struggled through school, and it ended up paying off. A young professor by the name of Dylan Jackobs seemed interested enough in her ideas, and realized her drive and determination to succeed, even if her grades weren't quite as high as some of the other applicants. Far more beautiful girls were passed up in this process, so Cassandra had few doubts that she had earnestly come to this opportunity by her own hard work, and diligence.
	It was a rigorous trial, but, in the end Cassandra had found herself Dylan's assistant in a program that he called "The Struggle of Truth And Choice: Implanted Suggestions vs. Realism".

	"Basically," he said, smiling gently at Cassandra, "What we intend to do is implant a small, harmless suggestion into the subjects mind. A mistruth, one that they are able to discover should they pursue whether it is fabricated, or whether it is real. I don't speak of silly, inconsequential things - like making them think night is day, and day night, or that they are a chicken. My studies are for more intricate purposes. The question then is whether or not they will choose to accept the truth they are given, or the truth that is real. What darkness lurks in the hearts of men? Well, that is what I hope to find."
	Cassandra nodded, albeit a bit skeptically. "How are we doing this? Through stimulus, or, ... what?" She hesitated at the last word. Cassandra had never believed much in the power of hypnotism.
He had read her thoughts, "The power of suggestion," he answered, smiling. "Hypnotism has its limits, which is why these truths need to be small, and simple. However, as the Chinese noted many times, it only takes a small pebble to change a lake forever." As he glanced at her through the thin wire-framed glasses, a curious sort of smile curled across his face. "You don't believe in it, do you?"
	She shook her head, slowly. "No, Professor Jackobs. I don't," she answered, shifting to sit down. Crossing her legs, she wondered why her heart was suddenly beating faster and why her skin suddenly felt so shamefully warm.
	He eyed her, for a long, uncomfortable silent while. She shifted, unsure of what exactly to say, and sat down. 
A slow smile crept over Dylan's face, "Well, I hope to prove to you how great a tool it can be. Are you ready to begin on our first subject?"
	She nodded, slowly, "Yes, Professor."
	The lights went out ...
 
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	Her head *hurt*. She opened her eyes, blearily, and only could tell they were open through the haze for it was almost as dark wherever she was. She felt the longing ache through the whole of her body. Groggily, she shifted and moved to sit up, get off the cool bench she was upon, only to find that her arms, legs, waist, and even forehead were all restrained by slick leather straps. The more she struggled, the more they bit sinfully into her skin. The scent of her own arousal struck her nose, as she whimpered in fear.
	She felt the pull of leather straps around her girlish small breasts, causing them to be pushed upwards. Smaller straps were tucked around her ass, and up her pussy, causing the oiled leather to rub against her arousal with each minute movement. 
	Sore and disoriented, she moved past the ache in her jaw. "Hello?" She spoke with all the strength she could find, the sound coarse and soft.
	"Would you like to see the true power of suggestion?" The familiar male voice came from behind her. There was a long pause, within the darkness. She couldn't see him, but she didn't have to. A chair behind her creaked, something clicked lightly and a machine whirred in front, a television flashed to life. 
	Wearily, she again tried to fight out of wherever she was, whatever situation she was in, and realized it was to no avail. Her head was held down, and she had no choice but to watch the glowing screen. Submitting, she watched the figures move through the tear-stained hue of her own vision.
	The figures on the screen looked familiar; yes, one was her captor - Professor Dylan as he came into view of the screen. Pausing, he turned, and smiled, calling into the camera, "Greetings, Cassandra. I've found that the best way to put doubts to rest is concrete, and undeniable proof. Experience, is the best teacher. So, therefore I've decided to give you a little documentary into your own explorations, and experiences within my power. And the power of hypnotism. So far, you've made a *very* good first study. But, we've only just begun. Come, tag along, my little slave." He chuckled, then, tugged on the end of a leash.
	A small girl, ... head ducked down, came stumbling into view. A skintight black silk shirt, brazen and sheer accented the points of her aroused nipples, and complimented her small breasts for anyone who cared to have a look. Her slender legs were encased in silk stockings, the ends of which were barely visible beneath the all-too short hem of the leather skirt about her waist. 
	Cassandra watched, wide-eyed and humiliated, as the girl on the television screen looked up into her own eyes, and brightly said, "Oh, GOD, Cassie, obeying Master is so much fun," she purred. 

	Again, the captured girl tugged slightly against her restraints; but not so much this time to escape, as another fearful whimper escaped her lips. The wonder, the awe, the repulsion and curiosity of the passers-by on the street were palpable against Cassandra's cold, naked body.

	Doing a little spin, the girl on the television fingered the leather collar about her neck that held the leash on, "We've wanted this for SO long. I just wish you could remember it all. He said if we were *really* good, we could go back to high school, and he'd tell us who to fuck. So *please* don't screw this up, Cassie. We're such a slut!" The giggled, devilishly, then followed, as Dylan tugged her into the awaiting pet store.
	The tape skipped, having been shut off, then flashed back on quickly. A barren hall of pet supplies lay on either side of the smooth store isle. Cassandra saw herself in a still position, frozen as if she'd been being walked like a common dog. Dylan was petting her hair, and murmuring softly, "Good Cassie. Such a good little bitch. Always doing what her Master wants. Maybe I should keep you. Would you like that, Cassie? I could take you home, and do whatever I wanted to you. Should we go make a dog tag for you, my cute little bitch?"

	Cassandra no longer struggled against her bonds; instead, she sniffed, and whimpered quietly to herself. As if she knew what was going to happen. 

	She watched herself bark, happily, and wriggle her ass for her Master. "Good," he crooned, stroking her back as if he was petting a canine. He crooked his finger, and another woman, this one dressed in fine, rich clothes, appeared on the screen. Cassandra could not see the front of the woman, but the way she walked, and held herself along with the clothes she wore suggested a person of richer blood than her own. She, too, held a leash in her hand. But, unlike the leash before, this one held a large male German Shepard. 

	The video paused, as the German Shepard jumped on her back, just about to lock its paws around her side. Cassandra's eyes were forced to watch herself actually arching into it, *wanting* to be fucked like a dog, by a dog. 

	A footstep sounded in the new silence behind her. Dylan's fingers brushed through Cassandra's hair. "Do you believe in the power of suggestion?" He asked, softly. 
	A tear leaked out of her eye, as she squeezed her thighs together, nodding.
	He smiled, kissing her forehead, "Then you already know what I'm going to say, don't you?" 
	She whimpered, trying to resist not arching into his touch, "You can have me like that anytime you want. I - I'd rather I remember," she breathed, both terrified and electrified at the same time. "I'll," she swallowed. Hard. "I'll be your property. Your," she sniffed, "Bitch. I'll be ... good."
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

	She hadn't watched the tape since that faithful day. It had been almost as long since she had even thought herself as a person with a free will, to make her own choices. So long had it been that Dylan had owned her, she found it vaguely uncomfortable to think of herself in any other light.

	She lived for the moment he'd wrap those leather straps around her body so intricately with the D-rings, the softest and smallest strap against her clean-shaven pussy, and tied to both give and deny herself pleasure for his amusement. Her eyes would glisten in pleasure and ecstasy as she watched the amusement on Dylan's face, and those he would have watch her perform.

	She especially enjoyed those days where he would carelessly give her out to anyone he saw fit, as if she was merely a thing to be tossed aside and later collected when missed. Her thighs glistened at that thought, and the many nights she'd spent between the thighs of the strong dominant woman and her well-trained German Shepard. For months, she would service the woman, parade around in a tight fitting corset for her; and fuck her many guests before Dylan would come back and reclaim her. He always reclaimed her. 

	Everything was right, and comfortable in her life. She grinned, and with a sudden burst of inspiration, with the glee of someone looking fondly upon old memories, she pushed the videotape into the player, and pounced back in her see-through silk cat suit that Dylan enjoyed dressing her in so often. 

	For a moment, there was nothing. Then Dylan's face appeared, against a black background. He laughed, softly, "I wonder," he spoke, quietly, "How long it's been before you found and watched this again, my little slut. My dear, dear Cassie, if you only knew how valuable you've been to my research. Yes, indeed, this is the tape you watched upon that cold table, strapped down, when you gave yourself to me. The very same, my property. Only, I told you what you would see; I gave your mind a truth, to see what would happen. And look at what you chose. Would you like to watch *that*?" The laughter faded, as so did the screen.

	Cassandra watched in disbelief, as a warm hand cupped her cheek. She sank back onto the bed, as she watched herself, that day, sit down in the seat, and say she was ready to begin with the goodly Professor.
	The lights went out.
	She watched him, manipulate her coldly, into feeling guilty and abandoned for her own beliefs, and mindset; and watched herself give him the gift of her right then and there as she allowed herself to fall under the spell of his words. 
	Her lifeless silhouette hung absently against the back of the chair, and Dylan leaned down, and murmured softly, "When you wake up, Cassandra, you will be strapped to a table. You will watch videotape, and on that videotape you are going to see your greatest hopes, and fantasies brought to life. You will see what you have denied yourself, all of these years. And it *must* be true, Cassandra, because it *is* video taped. You will believe it. Do you understand?" 
 
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	She hadn't even notice him enter the room. She was too transfixed at her image on the screen.
	"My poor little Cassie. Imprisoned by her mind, and her mind alone. By her own hand. What a dirty, dirty little slut." 
	Cassandra jumped, fell out of the bed, the remote falling onto the floor next to her, and abruptly causing the tape to stop it's playback.
	Her cheeks flamed with shame, as he pressed his hands against the silken suit, between her thighs, slowly lifting her up afterwards by her collar. "And *so* wet, you little bitch. I think I'll let the hands have a go at you tonight. And if you're very good, I might tie you up, afterwards for the night."
	Tearfully, and red-cheeked, she thrust herself towards him, and pressed herself against him. "Thank you, Master," she whimpered, pitifully. Her voiced was filled with the perils of despair, and hope. 	She *had* given herself to him, completely. She was her own fantasy, come true!
	Dylan merely smiled, as he considered what a valuable piece of property he had, and wondered what more he could do with it. 
	
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*Any feedback on this story or any other of my stories is always welcome. Drop me a line and let me know what you liked, what you didn't like; such information is invaluable for an author. Besides, I love to meet new people. ;) You can reach me at cat_slave@hotmail.com.*
