Mary’s diary

Adult content. 18+ only.

Warning: This story contains elements of submission, humiliation, mind control, sexual scenes, body modification and provocative imagery. The author advises you to think carefully before reading. It also includes references to the church and religion. Contrary to possible interpretations, these are portrayed positively within the narrative, and the presence of a single negative character is not meant to justify generalizations.

The story with all illustrations can be read for free on my Patreon.

Chapter 1

My name is Mary Grace. I am writing this diary at my mentor’s request.

I am eighteen years old. My family and I are devout Christians. We honor the commandments, read the Bible, and attend church every Sunday.

It all began with my classmate, Tommy Myers. One day I looked at him and suddenly felt a strange warmth low in my body, and thoughts entered my mind that I had never known before. I felt ashamed. I understood it as sin within me, as my own weakness, yet that understanding did nothing to stop it. The thoughts kept returning, again and again.

I have never been with a man. I have never even kissed anyone or held hands. I always believed my future husband would be a righteous Christian, and that everything would happen in its proper time, according to God’s will. That is what my mother always said. But time passed, and nothing changed.

Besides, Tommy is, I think, Jewish. I should not have been thinking about him. My father would not have approved.

As time went on, the sensations grew stronger. At times it felt as though something inside me was waking up, and that frightened me. The thoughts became harder and harder to push away.

One day I carefully confided in my friend Tracy. Her family attends our church as well, though my father often says they do not live as they should.

Tracy seemed surprised that this had only begun for me now. She said it usually starts earlier. She suggested I try seeing someone, and if that was not possible yet, to find some way to ease it myself. Her words embarrassed me deeply. I knew such things were sinful. But I did not know what else to do.

So I spoke about everything during confession with Father Andrew. He listened, absolved me, and told me I should not be so afraid. Still, it seemed to me that he regarded me with unusual attention.

At the next services, I felt his gaze again. And after one of them, he approached me and handed me a small card with an email address, saying that I could find help there.

I hesitated for a long time before writing. In the end, I told myself that if it was connected to the church, then it must be right.

The reply came the same day. They wrote that many young Christian women go through such struggles, and that they knew how to help me. They asked for my home address so they could send what I needed. I felt uneasy, but decided that if it was for good, I should not doubt.

A week later, a package arrived. Inside was a strange device and a small earpiece, along with a letter and instructions.

The instructions explained what I had to do, and that afterward I should write to them immediately.

The device did not look sinful. On the contrary, it seemed serious, almost clinical, as though it had been made to help.

I waited until evening, until my parents had gone to bed, and then I followed the instructions.

When I pressed the button, I felt a brief, dull pain inside me, but it faded quickly. What remained was a faint, unfamiliar sensation—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

I wrote back that I had done everything.

In response, they sent me a link to a video call.

When I joined, I saw a dark figure in a hood. The voice introduced itself as my mentor.

As soon as she began to speak, a strong warmth spread through me, and my mind grew strangely light, as if everything around me had become clearer. I had never felt anything like it before. For a moment, I thought that perhaps this was what it meant when God spoke to a person.

I listened, and everything she said felt right. I wanted to agree. I wanted to do exactly as she told me.

We spoke about God, and about me. And all the while, that same strange, powerful sensation continued to fill me.

After that, we began meeting again and again. I found myself waiting for those conversations.

I installed an app on my phone and began wearing the earpiece. It was invisible, but sometimes I could hear her voice through it. She spoke to me, encouraged me, and it made me feel calm.

Chapter 2

One day, as I came home, I heard my mentor’s voice—and in that same instant a wave hit me so violently that I couldn’t stay on my feet and dropped to my knees. My mouth opened on its own, my tongue slipped out, my eyes rolled back, and my hand moved down involuntarily, reaching for myself. For a moment, it even felt as though I was watching from the outside—as if this wasn’t happening to me at all.

My father saw it.

He shouted, called me a whore, and threw me out. I tried to explain—that I hadn’t done anything sinful, that it wasn’t what it looked like, that it was a revelation, that someone was speaking to me—but the words tangled, and he refused to listen.

Then my mentor’s voice told me where to go. To Father Andrew. She spoke with such calm certainty that it felt as though she already knew everything—even the thoughts I hadn’t yet formed.

I knew where he lived. I was sure he would be home.

As I stepped onto his porch, the sprinklers suddenly came alive. Cold water struck me sharply, soaking my dress at once, the fabric clinging to my body, outlining everything. I shivered, but along with the cold, that familiar heat was already rising inside me again, making the feeling worse—sharper, more confusing.

Father Andrew let me in and listened. He said we should pray together, but first I needed to change. He led me to a room, gave me a dress, and left.

The dress was too small. Far too revealing. It barely covered my chest, clung to my hips, the fabric doing almost nothing to hide me. I couldn’t look at myself without shame, but there was no alternative. I told myself he must have made a mistake.

When I finished dressing, he returned almost immediately with a Bible. He began to read, and I knelt, hands folded, repeating after him, holding onto the words as if they might steady me.

And then it came again—stronger than before.

My mentor’s voice filled the earpiece. I couldn’t make out the words, but I felt them—precise, guiding, inevitable. As if she was shaping each moment before it happened.

My gaze dropped on its own, settling on his groin. I tried to look away—but I couldn’t. Something inside me pulsed, pulling me forward. I could no longer tell where my own desire ended and her voice began.

I moved closer. My hands followed. I began to unfasten him, and in that moment I knew—I was watching myself, fully aware, and yet unable to stop.

His hand rested on my head, stroking gently.

And then something inside me broke completely.

I knew it was sin. I knew it—and still I continued.

When my mouth filled with warm, sticky fluid, I froze. For a fraction of a second, panic surged—but her voice was already there, quiet, steady, arriving before the thought of refusal could even take shape.

Father Andrew spoke calmly, almost like delivering a sermon. I needed to accept it. Not reject it. This was part of purification.

And I obeyed.

He stroked my head again, told me I was a righteous girl, that we had prayed well.

Deep inside, something screamed that this was wrong—that this was not prayer, that it was a lie. But that voice had grown faint, drowned beneath the heavy, spreading warmth that filled my body, thick and inescapable.

We ate together afterward, saying grace before the meal. Then he said it was late and led me to the bedroom. Later, he came in to read a prayer before sleep.

He finished. Then his hand returned—first to my head, then to my shoulder, slower now, more deliberate.

The tension inside me kept building, as though I was being led somewhere I no longer resisted reaching.

The heat became unbearable.

And at some point, I stopped knowing where my will ended and something else began.

I reached for him myself—or at least it felt that way.

The night dissolved. There was nothing left but movement, breath, bodies, and that endless, rising wave.

We sinned.

I knew it.

But knowing no longer mattered.

By morning, as I was leaving, everything shifted. A different feeling overtook me—filth. Thick, clinging, as if it had seeped beneath my skin.

I wanted to go home. To wash. To scrub everything away.

But my mentor’s voice told me that I had caused it. That I had seduced him. That with such sin, I could not return.

And I… agreed.

She gave me an address.

I went.

On the way, I noticed I was still wearing that dress—too tight, too revealing. People looked at me. I could feel their eyes on my skin.

I felt ashamed.

And at the same time—I didn’t.

Beneath the shame, something else had already taken root. Deeper. Stronger. And I didn’t want it to go away.

When I arrived, the door was slightly open, the key left nearby. I stepped inside.

My mentor said I would stay there until I was cleansed.

I went to the bathroom, still feeling unclean, but her voice stopped me immediately—water wasn’t enough.

I needed real cleansing.

She told me to stand before the mirror.

There was a clipper waiting.

I was to shave everything.

I looked at myself—at my hair—and realized I was clinging to it as something old. Something unnecessary.

I turned it on.

Strands fell one by one. I watched as Mary disappeared.

And with each strand, I felt calmer.

When it was done, a different face looked back at me.

And I liked it.

After that, I showered.

Then she told me it wasn’t enough—that my body had to change along with what was inside.

I put on a black dress—no longer merely revealing, but deliberately provocative. I lined my eyes, painted my lips, put in the lenses.

I looked at my reflection.

This time, I didn’t search for who I had been.

My mentor called me Lilith.

And the name settled into place.

As if it had always been mine.

That evening, she told me I would have a visitor.

I waited.

Not with anxiety.

With anticipation.

When the door opened, it was Tommy.

He didn’t recognize me.

And I liked that.

I stepped toward him and immediately took him into my mouth—no hesitation, no thought. My body already knew.

Desire filled me, thick and heavy, as though it had become my nature.

When he finished, I licked everything clean and swallowed, slowly, deliberately, savoring the feeling.

I led him to the bedroom.

And there, I no longer remembered who I had been that morning.

The words came out on their own—rough, filthy, unfamiliar and yet completely mine.

“Fuck me in the ass.”

I heard myself say it.

And this time, it was almost entirely me.

Almost.

He did.

It hurt.

And it felt even better.

I moved against him, asked for more, guided him myself.

And somewhere, very deep—at the very bottom—something still resisted.

But that voice was no longer heard.

By morning, he was gone.

And I stayed.

And I no longer wanted to go back.

Chapter 3

When I woke, my mentor told me I had to change further. People needed to see my sinful nature—I had to be marked. Somewhere deep inside, Mary wept in terror, while Lilith rejoiced.

They took me to a strange clinic that same day. No one asked for documents—they already knew everything. I only had to sign. Voices spoke around me about procedures, about hair, skin, transformation, but the meaning slipped past me. My mentor’s approval murmured in my ear, and that was enough—my body was already anticipating what would come.

The first room was filled with light. A woman moved a device across my shaved head, flashing red. There was no pain, no fear—only a steady warmth spreading across my skin, calming, almost comforting. At some point, I drifted into sleep. Even then, I could feel her working, not only on my head, but on the rest of my body.

The next room was colder. Harsher.

They stripped me completely, laid me down, injected something to dull sensation. Above me, mechanical arms hovered, tipped with needles. Fear was still there then—sharp, instinctive—but beneath it something else was already growing. Stronger. Deeper.

The machine started.

 

The needles descended with a low hum, piercing my skin, drawing red lines. At first scattered, then denser, until my body began to disappear beneath the color. I knew it should hurt. Instead, it felt like a strange, persistent tickling—almost pleasurable. Each touch sent a wave through me, spreading inward.

When they moved to my face, thought vanished entirely. I only felt my features dissolving, everything becoming uniform. They turned me over and began again. The operator adjusted my limbs when needed, positioning me for the machine. Sometimes he worked in places I had never allowed to be touched before, and my body responded even more strongly, as if every boundary had been erased. He said the color would even out with time. By the end, I was trembling, though I barely moved.

Then—darkness.

I woke the next day with a dull discomfort in my ears. Not pain, exactly—something altered. Beneath the bandages, I could feel the shape had changed. My ears had become pointed.

Next came the pins.

They drove them into my skull. I felt the pressure, the intrusion of metal into bone—not painful, but unmistakable. The doctor explained something, and this time fragments stayed with me.

He spoke of anchors for horns. Of growth, not attachment. Of altering tissue, of making the body accept something new as its own. The pins were only temporary, he said—support until the body learned, adapted, recognized.

I did not listen to everything. But I understood enough.

Then another machine traced a line along the center of my head. The sensation was stranger still—as if something was being planted inside me, rooted deep. I drifted in and out of sleep again.

When I woke, I was already home, lying in bed. My whole body ached—skin, ears, skull. I lay there until night fell, then forced myself up and walked to the mirror.

And stopped.

The figure staring back at me was not human in the way I remembered. Red skin covered everything—arms, shoulders, chest—uniform, unbroken. Metal horns rose from my head. Beneath the bandages, the sharp shape of my ears was visible.

I am Mary Grace. A devout Christian. A week ago, I looked almost like an angel.

Now—I did not.

It could not be washed away. It could not be undone. It was permanent.

Tears came without effort. I stood there, unable to look away, feeling something inside me collapse completely.

Then my mentor’s voice filled my mind.

“Now you have revealed your true nature. Everyone will see what you are—a creature of insatiable desire. You are beyond salvation. From now on, there is only pleasure, here and now. And you will call me Mistress.”

The answer came instantly—not as thought, but through my body.

A wave surged through me, overwhelming everything else. Fear vanished. Shame vanished. What remained was a heavy, burning gratitude. I sank to the floor and began to masturbate—quickly, greedily, almost roughly. I needed more. Stronger. Deeper. And it still wasn’t enough.

Weeks blurred together.

Food left at the door. Short conversations with Mistress. And a constant, unrelenting need—for touch, for release, for something that had no name. Satisfaction never came. Even at its peak, there was always something hollow left behind, demanding more.

My ears healed, perfectly shaped. My skin stopped aching, the color evened out. I wore yellow lenses constantly. Then, along the center of my head, coarse black hair began to grow—nowhere else. The old hair was gone completely.

Then people started coming.

Men first—I didn’t greet them, I lunged at them immediately, greedy, wordless, as if I wanted to drain them completely. I took all of their semen, every last drop, and still I was empty each time. As one left, I was already waiting for the next.

Then women. Before, it would have been unthinkable. Now it felt natural. My body knew what to do. I pushed them to the edge, beyond it, into that breaking point where control dissolved—and in that moment, it felt as though I was taking something from them.

But it was never enough.

Never.

When the black strip of hair along my head had grown into a mohawk, Mistress told me to return to the clinic. The doctor spoke as he secured the horns, and now I understood better—they were not just fixed in place, they were integrating. My body was learning them, accepting them, making them part of itself.

I barely listened. I watched him instead.

His hands. The movement of his body.

I barely listened—I watched him and imagined walking up to him, dropping to my knees, taking his cock into my mouth, feeling it harden on my tongue, the veins rising under the skin, bringing him all the way to the end and swallowing everything, every drop, making it mine so no one else could have it. The thought alone sent a wave rising inside me.

But he stepped back.

Left.

I was alone.

I lifted my head and felt the weight.

The horns were large now. Black.

No longer foreign.

Mine.

Chapter 4

Mistress continued shaping my body. Tattoos spread across my red skin—symbols, sigils, filthy phrases that said plainly what was done to me and what I did to others. My skin had become a text that demanded to be read.

This time, the artist carved a pentagram across my chest. He placed the candles slowly, deliberately, as if preparing for something beyond mere work. I could feel it. I already knew how the evening would end.

I wouldn’t stop.

I would take everything from him.

I wouldn’t stop. I would take everything from him. He would come again and again, until his hands began to shake, until he stopped understanding where he was or what was happening to him. And then I would put on a strap-on, enter him, and force him to move until he gave me everything, until there was nothing left inside him, leaving behind only an empty shell.

I wanted to drain him completely. To take everything, down to the last drop, and leave behind nothing but a shell.

Somewhere deep inside, something faint resisted—a distant, alien echo. Weak. Almost gone. It didn’t interfere. It only reminded me of what I had been.

I caught the eyes of passersby, hooked them, pulled them in. Men looked the same—hunger, sometimes fear, but fear only made them sweeter. Women understood immediately. They knew they wouldn’t stand a chance near me, and that made it better. I missed nothing. Not a glance, not a moment. Desire never left me. It pressed constantly, demanding new bodies, new release, and even when I took what I wanted, there was always that hollow space waiting again.

Old men made me laugh. There was nothing left in them—no hunger, no strength. Only irritation and uselessness.

And that was when I remembered Mary.

She was still there, somewhere. Quiet. Fading.

I understood how to end her.

I took a taxi and went to my parents’ house.

We stopped across the street. I could feel them behind the curtains—watching, waiting, already afraid.

I didn’t get out.

I leaned toward the driver, unzipped him, and took his cock into my mouth slowly, without taking my eyes off the house. I felt him try to hold back at first, then lose control, his breathing breaking apart, his hands gripping the seat. I moved deeper, slower, pushing him to the point where he couldn’t stop anymore. He came, gasping, and I swallowed everything, still watching the house.

I wiped my lips and stepped out. I still needed him.

I walked toward the house. Toward that same porch.

The door opened before I reached it.

“Begone, devil’s spawn!” my father shouted. “I saw what you were doing! I’ve called the police! Get away!”

My mother stood beside him, clutching the Bible so tightly her hands shook.

They didn’t recognize me.

I stepped closer. Stopped. Looked at them.

Silence.

A second.

Another.

Then it came.

Recognition.

Slow. Breaking.

They knew.

And refused to accept it.

“Hello, Father.”

I said it calmly. Almost gently.

They went pale.

“I sucked off ten men today and two women. Slowly. All the way. I felt their semen and fluids in my mouth. And it still didn’t stop me.”

I stepped closer.

“This isn’t makeup. This is my skin. Tattoos. Implants. The horns are growing out of me.”

“I live like this. I take everything. All of it. Again and again.”

A pause.

“And none of it would have happened.”

Quieter:

“If you hadn’t thrown your innocent daughter out.”

My father clutched his chest and slid down against the doorframe. My mother caught him, but her eyes never left me—full of horror, grief, and something irreparably broken.

I smiled.

Slowly.

Almost tenderly.

Then I turned and walked back to the car.

The driver was waiting.

And I already knew how I would make him hard again, make him come again, make him give until there was nothing left—just like all the others.

Somewhere deep inside, there was still silence.

But it no longer meant anything.