Alyssa was a rising star in Hollywood. A string of small parts had led into meatier roles, and now she was being courted for the headline role in a major erotic thriller.
“There’s a problem, though,” said Blake, her agent. “This role is supposed to scream sexuality and lust—and there’s a rumour going around that you’re frigid.”
“What?” protested Alyssa. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You’re almost never photographed with a man—or a woman for that matter,” said her agent. “You’ve never had a public relationship. You’ve got a smoking hot body, but if this idea of you being frigid takes off, it’s going to shut you out of this film entirely.”
Alyssa fumed. She wasn’t asexual—she was just picky, and a little repressed. She liked men just fine, but she had rarely been able to relax enough to let a man be intimate with her, and the thought of even holding hands in public made her blush, let alone being photographed by paparazzi. In truth, the whole idea of acting in an erotic thriller terrified her, but you didn’t say no to a part like this if you cared about your career.
“What do I have to do?” she asked. “Find a fake boyfriend?”
“Well,” said her agent, “the studio has requested you undertake a brief therapy session from a company called Average Availability. They’ve said that if you do the therapy, they can guarantee you the part.”
So Alyssa attended the nondescript offices of Average Availability. The male technician inside was evasive about the content of the therapy, but gave her a pair of headphones to wear. Alyssa put them on...
...and then the next thing she knew, it was night-time, and she was lying on a couch in the technician’s office, feeling confused and disoriented.
“What happened?” she asked, blearily.
“Just a little hypnosis,” said the technician. “It’s the Average Availability process. We’ve just given you some little guidance, to make you less frigid.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alyssa.
“Well, first of all, you’ll find that you’re unable to report or complain about sexual harassment or assault, or punish anyone for engaging in it,” said the technician. “Nothing helps a girl’s availability like taking the consequences of being forceful with her off the table.”
“What?” exclaimed Alyssa. “That’s abhorrent! You can’t... I’ll go to the police!”
“No, you won’t,” said the technician, and Alyssa instantly knew it was true. “You can’t complain or talk about this treatment either.”
Alyssa mewled unhappily.
“And then the main part of the treatment is I’ve set you to a one in three sex ratio,” said the technician.
“What does that mean?” asked Alyssa.
“Well, from now on, every time someone sexually propositions you, and you say no, you’ll be compelled to do something to make yourself more sexually available in future,” the technician explained. “It’ll be a semi-permanent alteration to your behaviour. You’ll come up with them yourself, automatically—we find most women are actually very creative at degrading themselves, when given permission. And every time you have sex with a new man—or woman, for that matter—you’ll be able to take back two of your changes. So if you accept at least one in three requests for sex, you’ll be okay.”
“I don’t believe you!” said Alyssa. “Hypnotism doesn’t work like that!”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” asked the technician. “Then why don’t you get down on your knees and suck my cock?”
“No!” spat Alyssa—and then, as soon as she did, she got up off the couch, reached under her skirt, and pulled her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them, picked them up, and passed them to the technician. Her eyes bulged in horror.
“Unfortunately,” said the technician, “it’s limited to one proposition per person per day, so I can’t just keep demanding you suck my cock until you obey. But I think you’re going to enjoy your new sex life, Alyssa.”
Once Alyssa had left the office and gone home, she learned that the technician was right that Alyssa couldn’t tell anyone. She couldn’t make herself dial the police. She couldn’t even form an intention to talk to her friends about it.
And, try as she might, she couldn’t make herself wear panties. Nor could she wear pants. It was short skirts without panties—nothing else would do.
The next day she went to see Blake at his talent agency—blushing all the while at the knowledge of her bare cunt, even if no one knew about it except her.
“Did you undergo the treatment?” asked Blake.
“Yes,” said Alyssa. She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him about the terrible nature of it—but she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t tell people what had been done to her.
But Blake already knew. “Well then,” he said. “Why don’t you undress, and finally let me fuck that slutty body you’ve been tempting me with?”
“No!” she protested. “God, Blake, you’re supposed to be my agent! I can’t believe this! I should fire you!”
“But you won’t,” said Blake, “because you can’t punish me for propositioning you, can you?”
She bit her lip. No. She couldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to.
“And is there... anything else you want to do?” asked Blake, smiling.
There was. She had to make herself more sexually available—at least until she let someone fuck her.
“I think maybe...” Alyssa heard herself say, “... when I’m in a meeting with a man, I should sit on his lap.”
“I think you should, too,” grinned Blake. He patted his knee. “Come on over, bitch.”
Blushing bright red, she crossed to Blake’s side of the desk and sat in his lap. She could feel his erect cock poking at her anus even through his pants and her skirt. He wrapped one arm around her waist—and with the other hand he grabbed her boob and started squeezing it. She jumped, intending to stand up—but she had told herself she would sit in a man’s lap, if she was meeting with him, and she couldn’t very well do that while standing—so she just blushed and let him keep groping her.
Neither could she complain about what was happening, or punish Blake for it. She tried to form the intention, and it just kept slipping out of her mind.
They sat like that for another half an hour, discussing Alyssa’s career as Blake used her tits as a squeeze toy. And Alyssa was uncomfortably aware that the whole experience was making her underwear-free pussy very wet. The stimulation of her breast was distracting, the awareness of Blake’s cock was always at the forefront of her mind, and something about the feeling of powerlessness was magnifying the overall effect immensely.
By the time their appointment time was done, allowing Alyssa to scramble to her feet, she was feeling very flushed and flustered, and part of her was wishing that she’d just let Blake fuck her. She’d be able to wear panties then, after all.
On the way home, she walked past a construction site. A burly male worker catcalled her from a gantry. “Hey, baby, come over here and use those sweet tits to make me a happy man!” There was laughter from the rest of his team.
Gross, thought Alyssa, and ignored it.
And then she thought to herself, I think I should start going out at night to singles bars, and getting blind drunk.
She found herself at a bar called the Kitten Korner. It was sleazy and unclean. A bored bimbo was rubbing her big fake tits against a stripping pole in one corner. The clientele were almost exclusively men. Alyssa was wishing she’d worn something less sexy than the tight black clubbing dress she’d chosen—especially as she still had no panties on.
She was recognised almost immediately.
“Hey, you’re that chick from those movies,” said a somewhat inebriated man at the bar. “How about you and me go back to my place and make a sexy film of our own?”
“No, thank you,” she said, blushing. She moved to a booth in a corner, and sat down—and then, to her horror, found herself pulling her dress up to her waist, so her ass made direct contact with the seat, and her pussy was exposed. She went red, and tried to fix her clothes—but no. She had said no to a man again, and needed to make herself more sexually available. This is how she was going to sit from now on.
She sat very still, mortified, trying not to call attention to herself. She couldn’t cover herself, but nor could she leave—she had committed to coming to singles bars at night and getting blind drunk. She wondered how she was going to get any drinks. She would have to stand up and go to the bar, she supposed...
A handsome man answered the question for her. He sat down opposite her, without asking, and put a drink on the table in front of her—some kind of vodka mix.
“A drink for the film star who’s obviously decided to slum it tonight,” he said, smiling. And then he looked down, saw her bare pussy, and his eyes widened.
She closed her own eyes, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. “Thank you,” she said.
“Wow, you’re...” he began. “You know your groin is naked, right?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, blushing. She wondered if she should proposition this man. He was good looking. If she fucked him, she could reverse some of the rules she had set herself....
“Can I take a picture?” the man asked, getting out his phone.
“No!” she said hurriedly. If a picture of her like this got out, all the gossip sites would run it—it would be everywhere....
But she had said no. She needed to be more available. She didn’t deserve to cover her tits. She felt herself reach down the front of her dress and lift each of her boobs out, into the view of the surprised man.
The man couldn’t help himself. He lifted up his phone, pointed it at her—her tits and cunt fully exposed—and took a picture.
She moaned. “Please, please, delete that photo,” she said.
“If you don’t want to be photographed, why are you undressing?” he asked her.
“I can’t explain it,” she said—and it was true, she couldn’t. “Please just delete that photo.” She was looking around to see if anyone else had seen her bare-titted—but it was a corner booth, and so far she was safe. “Please,” she said. “I’ll.... I’ll suck your cock if you delete it.”
She didn’t want to suck his cock—but he wasn’t too unattractive, and it was better than fucking him, and she could tell that if he came in her mouth or on her face she would feel free to cancel two of her rules.
“Fuck,” said the man, stunned by the turn the encounter had taken. “Um... okay. Yeah—fuck, yes, suck my cock. Where should we do it?”
“The women’s toilets,” she said. There were no other women in the bar other than the stripper—it should be fairly private.
And it was. Kneeling on the stone tiles of a public toilet was gross, and sucking a stranger’s cock was humiliating—she still didn’t even know the man’s name—but his cock tasted surprisingly good. He gripped her hair, and used her face as a masturbatory toy. The sense of being used as an object made her unaccountably wet, and every time her nose bumped his stomach and the tip of his cock tickled the back of her throat, she got wetter.
Eventually he came, filling her mouth with wet, salty sperm, and she swallowed—and when she did, she felt suddenly free to remove two of the rules she had set for herself.
Well, she needed to be able to cover her tits, so that was first. And sitting without her cunt exposed was important too—should she choose to wear panties, or not have to pull her dress up to her waist? She decided to stay panty-less, and wear her dress properly.
And with that choice, the gates of her mind slammed shut, and the rest of her rules stayed in place. No panties. Sit on men’s laps in meetings. Get drunk at a singles bar every night.
“Fuck, that was good,” said the man whose cock she had just sucked.
“Thank you,” said Alyssa numbly. “Will you delete the photo now?”
He looked down at her. “Actually, I don’t think that I will. The internet is going to love this.” And he took another photo of her—tits still exposed, a trace of cum still glistening on her lips. “Thanks for the blowjob, slut.” And he left the toilets, leaving her shocked and dismayed.
She wanted to chase him out of the bar, to his car or taxi, and demand that he delete the photo....
...but she couldn’t leave the bar. She had chosen to come here to get drunk... and she wasn’t drunk yet.
She was humiliated and scared. She was at the mercy of a hypnotic compulsion that seemed determined to wreck her life. Her cunt was embarrassingly, distractingly wet....
...and the night was still young.