Alyssa sat in the lap of her manager, Blake, as he fondled her tits, and she blushed.
“This is good publicity,” he said, showing her the magazine cover. It was the latest issue of Celebrity Slut, a tabloid that went out of its way to expose the sexual behaviour of pretty female celebrities, and there on the front of it was Alyssa—kneeling in a men’s bathroom, her tits exposed, with fresh cum dripping from her lips following a sloppy blowjob.
Alyssa blushed, and looked away. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said.
“No, no, it’s great,” insisted Blake, squeezing her left tit painfully. “The whole word is now thinking of you as someone they can fuck in a bathroom. You’re a lock for the lead in that erotic thriller we were talking about. The casting director says it’s your role for the taking—they’re sending over paperwork right now. It’s called “Rape Liar”, and it’s about a whore who seduces men and then falsely reports them for rape—until one brave man gets his revenge.”
“Can I at least have this hypnotic conditioning removed now?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” said Blake. “We need you to maintain this reputation from now all the way through to the release of the movie. We want the world to associate your name with the words “whore” and “rape”. It’ll sell buckets of tickets.”
The hypnotic conditioning was the “Average Availability” program, designed to remove a public perception that Alyssa was frigid. Each time she said no to a sexual proposition, the conditioning compelled her to come up with a humiliating new rule for herself that she was then compelled to obey. And each time she had sex with a man or woman that she hadn’t previously fucked, her brain would let her delete two rules of her choice. It created what the company who gave her the programming called a “one in three average availability ratio”.
On the very first day after the conditioning, Alyssa had rejected five sexual propositions and only sucked off one man (the one who had taken the photo on the magazine cover), which left her with a net total of three rules she had to obey. They were:
- No wearing panties.
- When in a meeting with a man, she had to sit on his lap.
- Every night she would go out to a single’s bar and get blind drunk.
In addition to which, she was permanently prevented from complaining about sexual propositions or sexual harassment, and prevented from punishing or disincentivising any man from doing so.
This morning when she had come in to see Blake, eager to see if he could prevent the publication of the photo of her (but it was already too late)—he had propositioned her again.
“Hey Alyssa,” he had said. “Interested in sucking my cock like you’ve clearly just done in this photo?”
“Go to hell,” she had said—and immediately decided that when a man expressed an interest in fucking her, or she became aware that a man had an erection, she would thank him for the interest.
The hypnotist had been right—her subconscious was surprisingly creative and talented in degrading her.
“Thank you for wanting to fuck me, though,” she said, awkwardly. And then she went to sit on his lap as he talked to her, as her rules required her to do.
Now, as she tried to avoid looking at the humiliating picture of her, she was aware of Blake’s stiff cock poking against her pussy, despite the layers of trouser and skirt between the two organs. “Thank you for wanting to fuck me,” she said again, blushing, and wiggled her ass against his cock a little so that he wouldn’t make her explain what she was talking about.
“Any time,” said Blake. “You know I’m going to ask you for sex every day until you act like a good little slut and give in, you know?”
Alyssa blushed and said nothing.
“Anyway, everyone’s talking about this photo,” said Blake. “So I’ve booked you a slot on daytime television today to discuss it, on “Midday with Jimmy Rayhurst”.”
Alyssa’s eyes widened in horror. “Talk about it?” she said. “Wait, no, I can’t…”
“Do you want the movie or not, cunt?” asked Blake. “I know you do. And I know you want out of this hypnosis. I’m only authorising the fix if you make it through to the release of the movie like a good girl. If you don’t play ball along the way, you can consider yourself stuck like this for life.”
And so Alyssa reluctantly agreed to do the interview.
In the taxi on the way to the studio, the taxi driver propositioned her. He was a large Middle-Eastern man—not unattractive, but not Alyssa’s type.
“Hey lady,” he said. “I saw you in Celebrity Slut. You want to pay your fare by giving me whatever you gave the guy who took the photo?”
Alyssa blushed. “Thank you for wanting to fuck me,” she said, “but no thanks.”
Her mind immediately made a new rule for her. You’re going to pretend every sexual interaction, humiliation, degradation or molestation is either your idea, or your fault.
“I understand why you’d want a blowjob from me, though,” Alyssa continued immediately. “It’s my fault for having been such a slut.”
The driver’s eyes widened—but he blessedly said nothing further as he drove her to her destination.
About halfway there, her phone buzzed. She looked down, and saw it was a message from an ex-boyfriend by the name of Harry. She’d dated him twice, and then dumped him when he wanted to get physical, scared of the intimacy. He still texted her occasionally when he was horny, seeking the fuck she’d never given him.
“Saw you in the magazine,” said the text. “Want to hook up and show me your new skills?”
She made a disgusted noise. She intended to just ignore the gross message—but instead she found herself texting him back. “Thank you for wanting to fuck me in the mouth,” she wrote. “I guess I invited this by being such a cocktease to you and such a slut to the guy who photographed me—but I have to turn you down right now, sorry.”
And then, as she pressed “send”, her brain came up with a new rule for her—when she turned a man down, she would tell him that he was allowed to rape her.
“It’s okay to rape me, though,” she found herself texting, to her complete horror. She tried to stop herself pressing “send”, but couldn’t—and felt her heart sink as the message transmitted to a man who she very much did not want to fuck.
She couldn’t keep that rule. She just couldn’t. And now that she thought ahead, some of her other rules were going to cause a problem if she had to do a television interview. She couldn’t very well sit on Jimmy Rayhurst’s lap for the duration of the segment.
She looked at the driver of the taxi and said, “I’m sorry, can I change my mind? Would you like a blowjob after all?”
It turned out he would. He didn’t even stop driving. He just had her lie down across the front seats, with her head in his lap. He took his cock out of his fly, and used one hand to drive, and the other to grip her hair and push her head up and down on his dick until he ejaculated into her mouth, just as they were pulling up at the studio.
Alyssa felt humiliated and dirty. She felt like a whore.
Well, she was a whore, she realised. She’d just fucked a stranger in exchange for personal benefit. The benefit being that she was now allowed to forget two of her rules.
She let go of the idea of telling me they could rape her.
And the requirement to sit in men’s laps.
Preparing to appear on live television was difficult for Alyssa, but it could have been worse. Her make-up attendant was a woman—a thin redhead—and she didn’t proposition Alyssa.
But nevertheless, the outfit was tricky.
The dress itself was short and tight, almost scandalously so. She was doing an interview about being photographed giving a blowjob, after all—the show wanted to accentuate her sexuality. But it wasn’t too awful.
The difficulty came when the make-up girl said, “Do you need a bra and panties that work with that, or is what you’re wearing good?”
Alyssa felt herself blush. “Ah… I don’t need panties,” she said. She immediately wished she’d phrased that differently, because of course the girl followed up.
“Let me see what you’ve got,” the girl said. “We don’t want a panty-line with that dress.”
“I… don’t wear panties,” said Alyssa. What she wanted to say was that she couldn’t wear panties, but thanks to her new rules, she had to pretend that humiliations were her own fault.
“You’re on national TV, honey,” said the girl. “You need to wear panties.”
“No,” said Alyssa. “I just…. really like acting like a slut. I love it when I’m not wearing panties. Please—you’re having me on because that photo says I’m a whore. Can’t you make an exception?”
The girl pursed her lips. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m telling Jimmy about this.”
Later, as Alyssa waited, dressed in the tight dress—with no panties—for her cue to come on stage, a sound technician leered at her.
“Hey, I heard you’re not wearing panties,” he said. “Want to show me?”
Alyssa opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off—but refusing him would mean another rule. Showing him wouldn’t count as fucking, and she wouldn’t get a benefit from it—but that was better than a punishment.
Blushing, her lips pursed in unhappiness, she pulled up her dress, and let the man stare at her shaved cunt.
He looked for a minute, and then chuckled. “What a slut,” he laughed, and then walked off about his business.
“Okay,” said Jimmy Rayhurst, on the brightly lit set of “Midday With Jimmy Rayhurst”. He grinned a big, fake grin, and brushed idly at his cropped red hair. “Our next guest is actress Alyssa Vandred. We’ve all seen her in Munich Love Story and The Ghosts Of Our Mothers, but now we’ve all seen her in Celebrity Slut magazine—and I have to say, it’s a welcome change! Welcome, Alyssa.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” said Alyssa, seated in a couch next to Jimmy’s presenter desk. “It’s nice to be here.”
“Tell me, Alyssa, because I have to ask,” said Jimmy quickly. “Do you spend a lot of time sucking off men in public toilets?”
Alyssa blushed. “No,” she said. “Um… I’m kind of new to it.”
Jimmy held up a copy of the Celebrity Slut magazine. “So in the photo,” he said, “—oh, and by the way, those are fabulous tits. Real or fake?”
“All real,” said Alyssa. She wished she were somewhere else.
“So in the photo, you’ve got cum all over your naked breasts,” said Jimmy. “And we were talking about this, and we were divided, so settle this for us—do you think your tits look prettier covered in sperm, or gross and disgusting?”
“I… um…. “ said Alyssa. She didn’t know what to say.
“Well, let’s go to the audience!” said Jimmy. “Audience, shout out if you think Alyssa’s tits are gross when they have cum on them!”
There were some shouts, mostly from the women in the audience.
“And now be loud if you think her melons are prettier with sperm on them!”
The cheers were much louder—nearly deafening.
“Well, there you have it, Alyssa,” said Jimmy. “Come on, say it for us. Say that your tits are prettier when they’re covered in cum.”
“My tits are prettier when they’re covered in cum,” said Alyssa, looking down, not believing how humiliated she felt in front of this audience.
“Now, it looks like this guy got some of his cum in your mouth,” said Jimmy. “And some on your boobs. Were you disappointed he didn’t cum in your pussy?”
“A little bit, yes,” said Alyssa—and then brought her hand to her mouth. She’d meant to say “not at all, no”, and then realised that would make it sound like she hadn’t wanted what had happened, so of course she’d immediately said something different.
“Face, mouth, tits, cunt, anus—where do you prefer a man to cum?” asked Jimmy.
Alyssa didn’t know what to say—but she was worried if she didn’t answer, that Jimmy would throw it back to the audience to vote on where men should cum on her, so she picked one at random, and quickly said, “I like it when men cum on my face.”
“Now,” said Jimmy. “I hear you’re such a slut you’re not wearing panties right at this very moment. Is that true?”
Alyssa blushed, and was silent for a long time. She wanted to say no. She didn’t know what Jimmy would do if she did, because he clearly knew for a fact that she wasn’t. “Yes,” she said, finally.
There were hoots and catcalls from the audience.
“And,” Jimmy continued, “we’ll have to censor it for the broadcast, but I bet the audience would like to see—how about you show us that pussy of yours right now? Because it’s not clear in the photograph.”
“I don’t want to!” protested Alyssa—and immediately her mind made her a new rule.
When a man offers you a choice between two or more specific alternatives, you will pick the most degrading one.
She whimpered as she felt it sink in.
“Come on, Alyssa,” said Jimmy. “Either show us your pussy—or go behind that screen over there and take a picture for us!”
Alyssa didn’t have to take a new rule for saying no to Jimmy again—it only triggered once per day per person—but he had just offered her a choice between two alternatives.
So, blushing, she stood, went behind the screen—which sheltered her from the view of the audience and the host—lifted her dress, photographed her cunt on her camera, and sent the picture to Jimmy.
When she came back up, the picture of her cunt was already showing on the giant TV screen on the set. The audience were going wild. You could see every fold of her pink, wet labia magnified on the screen. You could see the little bud of her clitoris. You could see she was completely hairless—the benefits of waxing. And you could see that she was visibly aroused.
The photo would be everywhere on the internet within hours. Oh, they would censor the live broadcast, because they couldn’t show a cunt on TV, but she saw audience members taking out their phones and taking their own photographs. What her pussy looked like was no longer her private secret, but the property of the world.
“That should be your next movie poster, right there,” laughed Jimmy. “I’d see it! I bet the audience would see it!”
The audience cheered that they would.
“But let’s ask the hard questions, Alyssa,” said Jimmy. “Why were you sucking off a man in a public toilet?”
Alyssa suddenly saw a way to fulfil all her rules AND take back control of the interview. “Well, it’s for my upcoming movie, Rape Liar, Jimmy. It’s an erotic thriller where I play a woman who seduces men and then falsely reports them for rape. I wanted to show the world that I can be a sexy slut, and also get some practical experience in the role.”
“Method acting!” said Jimmy. “I love it! All right, time for a difficult question—who would you prefer to be raped by: the president, or your own father?”
It was a choice between two specific options. “My own father,” said Alyssa, blushing.
“Do you think your dad’s watching this right now?” asked Jimmy.
“He might be,” admitted Alyssa, feeling like she was dying inside.
“Okay,” said Jimmy. “Let’s go to questions from the audience! You there, man in the green shirt, what’s your question?”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” said an overweight man, standing up to accept a microphone from a stage attendant. “Alyssa, would you be interested in giving me a blowjob like the one you gave this guy who photographed you?”
Alyssa blushed and said, “Thank you for the sexual interest, it’s not surprising given what a whore I am, but I’d prefer not to.”
New rule: If anyone gives you a demeaning or embarrassing compliment, reward them, said her brain.
The next audience member stood—a boy in his late teens. “You look amazing with cum on your tits, Alyssa,” he said. “Are you interested in recreating that right here and now?”
She blushed—and then found herself standing, walking into the audience, and tongue-kissing the boy. His reward, for his demeaning compliment. The crowd cheered wildly.
“Thank you for wanting to cum on my tits,” she told him, after the kiss was done. “They look prettier with cum on them, so that’s a good idea. But I can’t do that on live television!”
New rule: When in the presence of men, draw attention to your tits constantly, with words, body language, or clothing.
She sat back down, but found herself thrusting out her tits, and then her hands moved to them, cupped them from beneath, and bounced them a little. The crowd cheered again. She blushed, and then found herself squeezing her tits.
“Last question,” said Jimmy. “You, ma’am, in the cute dress.”
A woman stood up in a conservative white church-dress. “I can’t believe everyone is encouraging you to be such a disgusting whore,” she said, in a stern voice. “No good woman prances around with a man’s seed on her for photographs. How about you quit pretending to be an actress, and go work in a brothel instead?”
Alyssa froze. Was it a sexual proposition? It was a person asking her to do something sexual. It counted. And there was no way she could say yes….
“That’s a very good suggestion,” she said, “because I am a whore, but I can please more men getting naked on screen than I can fucking them one at a time in a whorehouse, so I’ll have to decline.”
New rule, said her brain. And her subconscious was cruel indeed. When you’re humiliated, you will masturbate, and you won’t stop until you’re not humiliated anymore, or until you cum.
She moaned in horror as she felt her fingers descending to her hem, raising her dress to show everyone her cunt once again, and then beginning to desperately rub at her clitoris.
“That’s revolting!” shouted the woman with the microphone. Other audience members were cheering.
“Oh, wow!” said Jimmy. “Alyssa, you can’t do that on stage!”
“I can’t help myself!” wailed Alyssa. Which was true. Her pussy was so wet, and she was SO humiliated. She was on national television.
“Someone get a hold of her,” said Jimmy.
Security rushed towards her. Alyssa fought them—fought them, because she needed to keep masturbating, needed to cum. As they struggled, her dress ripped, baring her tits to the audience as well. There were more cheers.
And with a burst of energy, she got one hand free, and brought it back to her pussy. And—nude in front of a live audience, on a national television show, being held down by three burly men—that was all it took to push her over the edge. Her fingers brushed her clitoris, and she orgasmed.
It’s not every woman who can make the national news just by orgasming. But Alyssa was the headline story that night on every channel.
Blake messaged her to say that she’d been wonderful, that she’d created perfect publicity for Rape Liar.
But Alyssa couldn’t reply because she was too busy masturbating. Lying in her hotel bed, masturbating and masturbating and masturbating from humiliation. And she wouldn’t recover enough to stop until almost 24 hours later….