When I hurried into the elevator, two tall, strongly-built men in MAGA hats were already there. They looked like ordinary businessmen-- well-tailored navy blue suits, crisp white shirts. One red tie with white pinstripes and one red tie with delicate white dots. I didn't look too closely at their faces, but there was a likeness between them, a kinship-- they might have been brothers.
I did give them a brief nod as I entered and pressed the button for floor 38, where my therapist's office was. I had learned-- cis men don't make sustained eye contact with each other like women might, but they do acknowledge each other in their own ways.
I also didn't want them to hear my voice.
I was passing pretty well by then. I'd gotten very efficient at binding, and the cold weather hoodie, jeans, and boots also helped, as did my New York Yankees baseball cap. But my voice was still a high-pitched giveaway, especially if I was excited or scared.
They had pressed the button for floor 40.
We all faced forward, quietly riding upward.
If I hadn't been running late, I would have probably hung back and waited for the next elevator. But I had overslept. So I didn't feel like I had that option. I was in the process of convincing my therapist to write the approval letter for top surgery and I didn't want to get on his bad side by being late.
The two MAGA men were quiet. Up we went.
The elevator ground to a halt between floors 27 and 28.
The lights dimmed but didn't go out entirely.
No, no, no, please no, I thought.
One of the men chuckled, although not meanly. "Old buildings, right? This happens at least once a week."
The other chimed in, "They'll be able to get us out within an hour or so."
"An HOUR?!" I choked out. "I'm already late!" My voice squeaked, as I had feared it would.
They glanced at each other. "You on your way to work, kid?"
I took a deep breath, pushed my voice back down, tried to stay calm. "No. An appointment." I fished my phone out of my pocket. Maybe I could at least text my therapist and let him know what had happened?
"Oh," said the man in the striped tie. "maybe you could try with mine? I usually do have signal in here." He handed me his phone.
As he turned his phone screen towards me, the image caught me.
A spiral. A flow. Red and pink and deep, deeper, deeper, down and down, pink and pink and red and red, eternally dropping, never landing, more and more pink, more and more red, filling my brain with itself, intruding, invading, overwhelming. Everything was pink. Everything was red. Everything was dropping down and down. Everything was warm and lethargic, a sweetness, a comfort, a pleasure, as my brain emptied itself into a sleeplike state. Everything was them, the two men, one still holding the phone and the other moving behind me to hold me up as I swayed on my feet. The pink and red and the two men were everything. They were in those moments my entire world, and it felt so good, so right, like my mind had just been waiting for this opportunity to surrender to something stronger than itself. Like this was what I was meant for, and it had finally, finally come for me.
I had known I was susceptible to hypnosis, in the way that made me funny at stage shows or able to use it to train myself to exercise more or whatever, but this was entirely new, this complete overwhelming surrender of my mind to the pink and red emptiness, this blankness.
And in the overwhelming comfort I felt as my mind yielded to the red, to the pink, to the arrogant masculinity of the two men who now controlled me, it didn’t even occur to me to fight back or even whimper.
They owned me. I was theirs. And that was the way it should be. I smiled, sleepily. My mind, body, and soul were suddenly theirs, and I desperately wanted this state of blissful ownership to continue. I would give them anything, do anything.
“Looks like it’s working just right,” said the man with the phone. “Let’s try some reprogramming.”
“Honey, you know you’re not fooling anyone, right?” asked the man holding me up. One of his hands moved to my chest, unzipping my hoodie, stroking my breasts through my t-shirt and binder. “Everyone can see that you’re a girl. What’s your name?”
“Robert,” I managed to choke out with one last gasp or resistance, but even then it felt wrong. It felt like I was lying. I was lying, and we all knew it.
“No, honey, your real name.”
“Katrina,” I breathed. I hadn’t said my birth name in many months, but it suddenly felt like perfect truth.
“Katrina. A beautiful, feminine name for a beautiful, feminine girl. What kind of appointment were you going to, Katrina?” asked the man with the phone.
“Therapist,” I answered, flatly. I could no longer summon the lower tones I had tried for earlier, and my voice sounded fully feminine. Alto at lowest, and probably not even that.
“And what were you doing with this therapist, Katrina?” asked the man behind me. He had gotten a hand under my binder and was gently tweaking my left nipple.
“Ooooohhhhhh….” I gasped. His hand felt so good, his attention felt so good. I needed to be groped. My nipples were hard. My cunt was beginning to drip. His fingers moved faster.
“Were you maybe going to ask your therapist to approve you getting mutilated, to cut these beautiful tits off?”
“Yes sir… oooohhh.” I was now more stable on my feet in this altered state, so he began groping both of my breasts.
“That was very naughty of you, Katrina. The most important thing every girl needs to do is to be pretty and sexy. That’s what matters most. And if you cut off your tits, you’ll be ugly. You don’t want to be ugly, do you, sweetheart?”
“No…. no sir…” I felt tears welling up in my eyes. How could I have ever considered cutting off my tits, when men loved them so much? When it felt so good, so insanely good, to have a man grope them?
“But don’t you worry, babygirl. You’re not going to do that now. We stopped you in time. And you’re going to do exactly what we tell you from now on, aren’t you, Katrina?”
“Yes… yes… please…” I gasped. The man behind me was kissing my neck now, his rough shaven face bristling in a way that made me nearly scream with desire.
“You like that, don’t you?” said the man holding the phone. “Why don’t you take off those nasty boy clothes so we can see what you really look like?”
I did. Obedience was now my entire purpose and if my masters wanted me to be naked in an elevator, I was going to be naked in an elevator.
“Hmmm, nice tits, nice round ass. So feminine. You were very naughty to try to hide that from everyone. Everyone should get to see how feminine and soft you are, don’t you think so, Katrina?”
“I agree,” murmured the man behind me, squeezing my ass. I could feel his hard cock pressing against me and I ground myself back against it, moaning. “I think from now on you’re going to dress like a very sexy girl. You’re going to wear short skirts, pretty dresses, high heels, stockings. You’re going to grow your hair long like a good girl, and you’re going to bleach it blonde.”
“You’re going to wear full makeup every day. Being pretty and pleasing for men is going to be the most important goal in your life. You’re going to love it when men stare at you and catcall you, aren’t you, darling?”
“Oh Katrina. You’re going to forget that you ever believed you were a boy. You were confused, but now we’re going to show you how to be a good girl and you’ll always be a good girl.”
I could no longer see the phone screen, as that man had stepped closer to me and was fingering my sopping wet pussy as he whispered into my ear, but it didn’t matter. The pink and red swirls and spirals ruled my entire mind, and I didn’t need to see them anymore. “Of course, the very best good girls are all MAGA sluts. So you’re a MAGA slut too, aren’t you, Katrina? You’re so desperately horny for MAGA cock, aren’t you?”
His fingers quickened on my swollen clit. “You’re a real conservative bimbo, Katrina, heart and soul. You worship conservative men. You hate feminists. You hate liberals. You hate queers. You hate everything that’s woke.”
I was just at the edge of orgasm, gasping, and I know my brain absorbed everything he said as absolute truth. I was a MAGA slut, of course I hated woke bullshit. I existed to look pretty and do whatever strong MAGA alpha men told me to do. I didn’t need to know any more than that. I didn’t care about anything more than that.
“On your knees, Katrina.” The man in front of me unzipped his pants and his hard cock beckoned me. I dropped down to all fours, mouth open, drooling in my eagerness to take my master’s cock into my mouth. I took him eagerly, bobbing up and down, swirling my tongue along the underside of his cock. He grunted.
As I sucked and slurped, the man behind me knelt and shoved his cock into my dripping cunt. I moaned deeply as he slid in and began to fuck me, harder and deeper than any soyboy liberal had ever done and better than any fakeboy or dyke with a strap could ever dream of.
I came, easily. One master came in my mouth and I gulped down his cum as if I’d been starving for it. The other master came in my cunt, and his cum felt warm and wet as it slowly began to trickle out of me.
I hadn’t noticed the elevator move. I hadn’t seen us stop at the 38th floor or heard the door open, or seen the wide-eyed woman walking through the hallway.
My masters led me off at the 40th floor.
“You’re going to come home with us this weekend,” one said. “We’re having a party, and you’re going to be a good slut for all our guests, aren’t you, Katrina?”
I smiled, sluggish, sleepy, obedient. A horny MAGA slut ready to fuck and suck and serve my conservative masters and their friends in any way they commanded. “Yes sir.”
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