Mind Control Physics: For the full multimedia experience … including the specific videos and atmospheric photos that accompany this narrative … I highly recommend reading this post on my Fanvue profile. However, if you prefer the text-only version, you are welcome to read on right here. This story exists solely because my followers on Scatbook demanded to know the truth about the first time I utilized mentalism and hypnotic suggestion to bypass a subject’s conscious resistance. You wanted to know what happened … so here is the physics of how it was done. See my gallery page for how I look these days, I just got the photos optimized so the page loads quickly now. Ok, enjoy the read 🙂
Mind Control: Unmaking vs. Forcing
There is a specific kind of friction that happens in my brain when the world doesn’t make sense. It is a physical sensation. A scratching on the inside of my skull.
It happens when I see a movie where the physics are wrong. It happens when I hear a polite lie that everyone else accepts just to keep the peace. My mind is wired to reject the “Hollywood version” of reality and hunt down the absolute, cold truth.
For most people, this kind of hyper-fixation is just a quirk. For me, it is the defining feature of my existence. I don’t see fantasies. I see blueprints. I don’t see a “scene” to be acted out. I see a sequence of irreversible actions that lead to a logical conclusion.
Most men who come to me are looking for a performance. They want the leather, the boots, and the illusion of danger. They want to feel “f*rced” without actually losing control. They want the thrill of the crash without the whiplash.
But I don’t do illusions. I don’t know how to fake the physics of domination.
And in my line of work, that demand for realism is dangerous.
That is why an email like the one I received yesterday is so terrifying. Not for me … but for the man who sent it.
From: Clive Date: Dec 14, 2025, 8:26 AM Subject: Inquiry
So just thinking,, If I came to see you, would you confiscate my passport and make me work for you permanently,
And if I gave you some blackmail material now would you frce me to come.*
And what would a typical day be like?
And if i came with say £100k would you frce me to have a sex change?*
Clive
Here is the reality for Clive, and for anyone else reckless enough to email me throwing around the word “f*rced” like it’s the box from Hellraiser … completely oblivious to the hell waiting inside.
I am the very last Mistress on this planet you want to challenge with a request like that. Why? Two reasons.
First, my brain is divergent, and the safety rails are gone now that I am off my meds. Second, I possess a vast network of professionals who helped me execute my darkest whims during the lockdowns, and whom I can call upon at any time if the price is right. My mind is wired to fulfill desires with zero regard for how messed up they might be. If you come to me with enough cash to clear the only obstacle I care about … “is this worth my time?” … then God help you. Because if the answer is yes, I will make it happen.
How so? Because I have already done it. Many times over.
See, this is exactly why I have spent the past week tearing down and re-designing [suspicious link removed]. It isn’t just a facelift … it’s a quarantine measure. I stripped out the contact forms and purged my email address from the site not because I don’t want to hear from you, but because I can no longer trust myself when I do.
Reading an email like Clive’s is not a business opportunity … it is a trigger. It unlocks memories of things I have done to men just like him in the past … dark, irreversible experiments that I swore I was done with. And then he dangles that £100k in front of me … and my brain doesn’t see a stopping point. It just sees the starting bid. It sees how much more I could extract from him before there is nothing left to take. I am barricading the laboratory doors from the outside, because if I let myself back in, I don’t know if I can stop.
But here is the thing … all I did was point him toward the evidence. I referred him to one of my more recent Scatbook posts … the one documenting how I once again am seeking to utilize a well-known mentalist friend of mine to bypass a subject’s conscious resistance. Clive read it, and he is “intrigued.” But intrigue is a dangerous, shallow thing. He thinks he is looking at a game … he simply does not understand the depth of the Pandora’s Box he is begging me to open.
You see … to truly grasp the danger of what Clive is asking for, you first have to understand what I did with Gérard. I am speaking of the French-Canadian slave who flew to me in November 2021 … the moment the “Test-and-Go” regulations finally cracked the borders open.
But do not confuse him with the other Gérard … the gentleman from Paris who was trapped here in the city with me while the world shut down. It was with that Parisian Gérard that I learned just how far money can bend reality. We exploited that unique, terrifying window of time when the lockdowns starved the city … when go-go dancers, ladyboys, and sex workers were so desperate for survival that they would agree to absolutely anything for cash. That specific era … funded by the Parisian’s frivolous spending … dragged me down a rabbit hole of perversity that didn’t just break boundaries. It shattered my mind. But in doing so, it tuned me perfectly for the kind of darkness Clive is now trying to buy … and exactly the kind of darkness that the Canadian Gérard had already bought.
This is going to be difficult to get down on the page. The shame that clings to any of those sessions … but particularly this one … weighs so heavily on my shoulders. But once you read it, I think you will finally understand why I had to step back from the Mistress who was consuming me. You will see that once one has gone down this path … it remakes the soul. And finding the way back to the person you used to be is the hardest thing I have ever had to do as it is a long climb back up from the darkness of an abyss.
https://youtu.be/VrKEVZcSxNM?si=4efs2wM8MDCmcG0o
The specific blueprint for that darkness I was planning to unleash didn’t come from a dungeon manual … it came from a late-night study of the human mind that had haunted me for years.
Long-time readers will remember my fascination with mentalism, and my clumsy, failed attempts to learn hypnotic induction myself via Mike Mandel’s online course and collection of media that I went through meticulously many times over. The barrier was always the same … language. To break a mind requires linguistic precision, and my English at the time lacked the subtle, poetic nuance required to slip past a conscious defense. Heh, it still does. So I gave up, until I saw a specific episode of Derren Brown’s Trick or Treat.
In the clip, a man, Richard, is put under with a secret mental suggestion in London and wakes up in Marrakesh. But what captivated me wasn’t the trick itself. It was the end. For nearly two minutes at the end of that episode, there was no narrative … no words at all … just the silence of a man whose reality had collapsed.
https://youtu.be/YQWiawLxaAU?si=vlvczQRY4L9-9xJn&t=1093
I realized then that I didn’t need to speak perfect English to enjoy that look of absolute bewilderment. I just needed to engineer the collapse … and I knew exactly who to hire to handle the words for me.
I recently finished reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein right after putting down Dracula, and the similarity was instant. Shelley’s creature was stitched together from the bones of charnel houses and the organs of the dissecting room. I realized then that I am no different.
Especially now, after twenty-two months of developing the Anesthetized Gaped Throat feeding method, I see that I, too, have been pieced together by external hands. I am a collage of “helpful” suggestions from dentists, doctors, and pain addicts who contributed their professional dark arts to my process. Every time I failed, one of them would whisper, “Hey, why don’t you try doing it this way? It’s what I do to my patients.” Each iteration … each improvement … added to the reanimation of the Mistress I became.
It truly takes an army of men to create a monster. I have made over eight thousand men bend the knee to me over the past twelve years, and I’ve gone out to dinner with most of them afterwards. I learned from all of them.
But one of those professionals stood out. He was a student of the famous magician Rich Ferguson, and he became one of my most loyal slaves long before COVID hit. He was a man who looked exactly like Brendan Gleeson from Mr. Mercedes … perhaps a bit more portly, with salt-and-pepper hair, but possessing that same rumbling, gravel-deep voice.
It was he who planted the seed. He told me once, with a wink of his left eye: “You can literally make him do anything … and he wouldn’t even know it until the suggestion had been lifted. In theory, you could keep him in that state for as long as your little heart desires.”
I don’t often stutter in sessions. Even with the language barrier, my command is usually absolute. But that day, the air in the room changed. I looked at my mentalist slave and asked, ever so quietly, “W-would you be so kind as to relay a mental suggestion … similar to the one Derren Brown did to Patrick in the Marrakesh episode … to one of my other slaves?”
He didn’t hesitate. His smile widened into something predatory. “For a handsome fee,” he replied.
“Well,” I said, my voice steadying, “as it turns out, money for this particular slave is no object. So name your price.”
His grin turned a few shades darker. And just like that … the plan was hatched.
The trigger for the entire experiment arrived in my inbox at 5:05 AM on a Friday, way back in 2018. It came from the young man in Montreal that I mentioned to you earlier, named Gérard.
I noted instantly the contrast between his polite, almost mundane opening … “wondering if you would be free” … and the sudden, desperate existential cry … “unmake me.” That is the kind of contrast my mind craves. It is what I am constantly looking for.
I could almost visualize this very confused man’s face … a look of desperately knowing what he wants, regardless of the cost. It reminded me of Frank’s face in the original Hellraiser, just before he knelt and opened the Cenobite’s box for the first time. It mirrors exactly what I said earlier about Clive … Gérard was just another man asking for the box without knowing what was inside.
From: G M Gerard—hotmail.com Date: Fri, Nov 16 Subject: Inquiry
Hi Mistress,
I was wondering if you would be free for an overnight slave session on the 17th Dec in Bangkok. I’m staying at the airport from the 17th-19th Dec.
I know it’s short notice but I thought I would ask. I want to explore, as deeply as is possible, what you can frce me to do. I’ve heard that you are exceptional at providing such a service.*
Money is no object for me. I might be young, but my life is so unfulfilling that if I don’t find “Alice’s rabbit hole”, as you consistently say your sessions provide the depths to, I’ll become undone. Can you unmake me and make me reborn again Mistress? It is what I truly desire.
Normally, I would have deleted this without a second thought. He revealed later that he was only twenty-eight at the time … far too young for the kind of heavy psychological dismantling I specialize in. I prefer men who have built a life before they ask me to tear it down.
But two phrases clawed at me. They stuck in my brain, drawing me back to the screen over and over again. “Unmake me.” And even more dangerous … “Make me reborn again.”
I knew, instantly, how to achieve such an awakening. The method was already sitting in the back of my mind, waiting for the right subject. The only two obstacles that could possibly stand in my way were money … which he had explicitly removed as a roadblock … and morality.
But morality has always been a quieted voice in my head … unable to make itself heard. And the way my mind is wired … it seeks only to please. It is designed to offer, with terrifying exactness, precisely what the slave is begging to experience.
He wanted to be unmade? Well, I had the tools to do it … or in this case, the man with the keys in his voice to open the box.
I know what you are going to say. I can hear the reaction this next part will elicit. “You did what? What the f*ck?”
And you would be right to ask that. In any sane world, you would be right. But please … you have to understand. Inside my head, this didn’t feel like madness. It didn’t feel like evil. It felt like the universe’s algorithm applying itself once again. To a mind like mine, connecting these dots didn’t look like a Hellraiser-like session. It just looked like logic.
To understand how I even knew such a thing was possible, we have to go back. Like, way back, around 2014 if I remember correctly. Back to the early days when I was working with the original Mistress Jaa. We had a ladyboy named Natty who was desperate to learn the trade. Natty still had her male parts then, but she wanted a vagina more than she wanted to breathe. We were using her for spit-roasting sessions at the time so … Jaa especially was reluctant to see her penis lopped off. But Natty was sweet, and it was Rainy and I who talked Jaa into saving up the money to get the procedure done for Nat.
The problem was money. The femdom business wasn’t a goldmine back then, and even pooled together, none of us had the cash to send Natty to a proper, professional clinic. But desperation finds a way. We found a place … essentially a back-alley clinic off a back-alley road … that promised to do the job for a fraction of the price. In the ladyboy community, the place was well-known and a well-kept secret because it wasn’t exactly a legally run business.
I forget the name of the street, but I will never forget the stairs the time we went to visit Natty just after she had her operation done. They were rickety, wooden things leading up to the third floor of a run-down building that looked like it had been abandoned by the rest of the city. There, at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway, was the “Doctor’s” office.
I use the word “Doctor” loosely.
When Jaa and I went to visit Natty that late afternoon, I walked into a room that sealed itself into my nightmares. It was small … maybe three meters by three meters square. And crammed into this tiny, humid box were eight hospital beds arranged in a tight square around soul-sucking, dimly lit fluorescent lighting and a single, solitary tungsten lightbulb that dangled from a wire in the middle of the concrete-walled room.
Lying in those beds were eight newly formed ladyboys. They were all in pain. They had all just woken up to a body that was radically different than the one they went to sleep with. I could see the shock in their eyes … a silent, collective trauma that hung in the air like smoke.
The moment felt ripped straight from Invasion of the Body Snatchers … specifically the scene where the nurse leans in close to Jeff Goldblum’s body. That is exactly what I was doing when I first stood beside Natty’s bed … right before the body opened its eyes.
https://youtu.be/b5d7O_XKA-o?si=6HvPpbmLe9oiYfNi&t=41
Standing over one of those unlucky girls was the man responsible. And in that moment, my mind didn’t register fear. It registered curiosity. For he reminded me instantly of Dr. Channard from Hellbound: Hellraiser II. Not the human version, but the one who floated through the labyrinth, sneering, “I’m your doctor, I’m here to help you.”
https://youtu.be/WIr2TExKnBU?si=143rY7hwf7Tj9GbX&t=109
Granted, this man didn’t have the tentacles or the evil, bladed appendages sprouting from his palms. But he and Channard shared the one tool that mattered … the surgical knife. And looking at him, a shady, frantic figure churning through seven or eight operations a day for pure profit, I realized he shared Channard’s lack of soul, too.
So … when Gerard offered me an unlimited supply of greenbacks to “unmake” him … my mind didn’t go to a luxury hospital. It went right back to that third-floor room. I knew that for what I was about to do, I didn’t need a healer. I needed a Channard. I needed a man whose ethics could be bought.
But more importantly, to make the whole plan come together as envisioned, I needed my very own version of Derren Brown the mentalist. And since I now possessed both the butcher to flay the flesh and the mesmerist to fracture the mind … the algorithm was complete. The trap was sprung. And the slow, agonizing unmaking of a human soul … was now inevitable.
I am not going to sit here and write you the Hollywood version of how this session ended. I am not going to pretend that the air was filled with dramatic violins or that I was holding his hand with bated breath.
The truth is … I was bored. And I was sweating.
That room didn’t just smell like a hospital. It smelled like copper and wet concrete. The “Doctor” had finished his work and vanished back into the hallway to … I guess count his cash perhaps, leaving me alone with a boy who was currently in the deep dark, but just the same, was bl**ding into a pile of gauze between his legs. I sat on a dark green plastic stool that was too low for my legs, scrolling through my phone … a Nokia that I had instantly regretted purchasing the day I’d bought it, occasionally looking up to watch the rise and fall of Gérard’s chest.
I remember thinking about the money. I remember calculating the total cost of his flight, the mentalist, the bribe for the clinic, and wondering if I had just thrown it all down the drain. Because in my experience, the human brain is resilient. It fights back. I fully expected him to wake up angry. I was mentally preparing myself to have to hold him down, or to call the “nurse” in to sedate him when the reality of the castration crashed through the hypnotic wall we had built.
I wasn’t worried about his pain. I was worried about my experiment failing … as I always am. That is the honest truth of where my head was at.
It took hours. The chemicals they used in places like that wasn’t the clean, calibrated stuff you get in the West. It was heavy, dirty sedation. When he finally started to stir, it wasn’t a flutter of eyelids. It was a groan … a deep, guttural sound that seemed to bubble up from his stomach.
I put my phone away. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching his face with the intensity of a scientist watching a rat in a maze. This was the variable. This was the moment the equation either resolved itself or collapsed.
Her eyes opened. I remember having the thought that I wanted to call her by a female name but decided against it as I wanted no interference with the purely distilled, primal human reaction that was about to play out. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swimming in a haze of trauma and medication. She blinked, trying to focus on the single lightbulb dangling above her. As I recall, she didn’t see me at first. Instead, she just stared at the ceiling, licking her dry lips.
Then, the sensation hit her.
I saw the exact moment the nerves fired. Her body went rigid. A spasm of pure shock jolted through her hips. Her hands flew down … not drifting, but snapping down to her crotch in a panic reflex.
I didn’t stop her. I let her feel it as I sat there with absolute fascination.
Her fingers clawed at the sheet, ripping it back. And there it was. The aftermath. The heavy taping. The plastic tube of the catheter snaking out from the bandages. The complete and total absence of the bulge that had been there when he walked in.
I held my breath. I waited for the scream or the anger. I waited for the realization that his life … as he had known it … was over.
But the scream never came.
Gérard stared at her new womanly groin. She touched the bandages with trembling fingertips. She looked at the bl**d staining the white gauze. And then … her brow furrowed. She didn’t look horrified. She looked confused.
She looked like a human trying to read a map in a language she didn’t speak.
The hypnotic suggestion the mentalist had planted was a complex one. We hadn’t told him he was a woman. No, my idea had been for him to wake up experiencing something so much deeper. We had told him that the “old him” was a heavy coat he was wearing … and that when he woke up, he would finally have taken the coat off.
The brain is a funny thing. When faced with a physical reality that contradicts its programming, it will snap reality in half to protect the suggestion.
Gérardina looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, the pupils blown out to black saucers. She looked back down at the bloody ruin of her manhood, then back at me. But she didn’t cry. She didn’t even ask what happened.
Silence at first, and then, she simply let out a long, shuddering sigh. Her shoulders dropped back against the thin pillow. The tension evaporated from her body.
“Mistress,” she croaked. I barely heard her over the hum of the air conditioner.
“I am here, Gérardina,” I said, my voice flat, giving her nothing to latch onto.
She looked at me with a terrifying clarity. A look of pure, drugged adoration.
“It’s so quiet,” she whispered.
I frowned. “What is quiet? The room?”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes drifting back to the ceiling. “No. The noise in my head. Il est … parti.” And after a moment, seeing the blank stare in my eyes, she finished the thought in English … “It’s gone.”
And that was it. That was the reaction. No horr*r. No regret. Just a chemical-fueled gratitude for the silence. She didn’t realize, even at that moment, that she had been mutilated. She thought she had been cured.
I sat back on my stool, a cold smile spreading across my face. The algorithm had worked perfectly. I hadn’t just unmade his body. I had rewritten his history. Or should I say, herstory.
Epilogue: The Physics of Truth
But I promised you believability at the start of this story, didn’t I? I promised you the physics, not the poetry.
So I have to be honest with you. That beautiful, poetic ending … the one where she looked at me with adoration and fell back asleep? It didn’t last forever. In fact, it barely lasted an hour.
The reality of physiology eventually outweighs the poetry of the mind. The hypnotic suggestion was powerful, but it wasn’t magic. As the heavy sedation began to wear off and the raw, biting pain of the surgery began to chew through the mental blockade … the “coat” metaphor dissolved. Gérard did not stay happy. Let’s just say that the hours following that perfect moment were filled with a very different kind of noise.
But for that one hour … the experiment was a success. It was absolutely perfect. It was exactly as I had imagined it.
Now … knowing that, I tell you with absolute honesty: I have no idea whatsoever what will happen when I next use the hypnotic suggestion to make a slave think he’s eating Dairy Queen soft chocolate ice cream from my ass. Nor do I know how long the illusion will last.
I am hoping, though, that it lasts a little longer than the hour it lasted for Gérard.
But that is the gamble you take when you ask to be unmade. You don’t get a guarantee. You just get an attempt. And sometimes … for sixty glorious minutes … that is enough.
The full book that follows up on this post will be up on January 1st on beneathherwords.com in my bookstore.
Mistress Wael
