Alyssa shuffled nervously to the door of the bedroom. She was still naked—except for her dog collar that said “Rape Me”—and her pussy was wet, her face was shiny with the porn-whore’s pussy juices, and her cunt was still wet and freshly raped. She clutched her clothes against the front of her body, trying to cover her tits and pussy as she opened the door and looked out.
The bedroom was far from the main party, and the corridor was blessedly empty, except for a single man, leaning against the wall, looking at his phone.
“Excuse me,” said Alyssa, raising her voice only as much as she needed to get his attention.
The man looked up from his phone, and his eyes widened a little as he saw her undressed state.
She decided to be direct. “Is it okay with you if I get dressed?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Sure, if you want to,” he said, clearly not understanding why she was asking.
She waited to see if her hypnotically-controlled brain accepted that as sufficient permission from a man to allow her to put on clothes.
To her relief, it did.
“Thank you,” she called out—and then shut the door, and quickly dressed.
The man was gone by the time Alyssa re-emerged, and she hurried quickly through the party. She was going to go home. She had done what she came here for—fucked George Rutlins and got the part in the movie—and now she could stand to be among these people no longer. She didn’t intend to even say goodbye to her manager, Blake. She could talk to him tomorrow. Her limousine would be waiting, and she could go home to a blessed night of sleep.
“Hey baby,” called a drunken voice—a man she didn’t even recognise, sitting on a sofa, clutching a beer in his hand. “Get over here and get on my dick!”
There was laughter from those around the man. Alyssa blushed, and ignored him, and hurried on—and then felt her hypnotic compulsion kicked in.
Once again, like the stupid dumb slut she was, she had rejected a man. And now she needed a rule to make her more rapeable.
She remembered when she had been a young schoolgirl, and her teacher had made her “write lines” when she was naughty—handwriting the same phrases again and again as a pointless, tedious chore.
“Twice a day, I will write out my rules,” she thought to herself, “plus a confession of why I deserve them. And I will leave it where someone might see it.”
The rule clicked into place, and she moaned.
But she was out—out of the house, into her limo, and a moment later she was away, driving down the lonely, dark roads towards her house.
And for a final blessing, her limo driver didn’t look at her, didn’t talk to her, didn’t sexually proposition her, and didn’t rape her.
It was almost disappointing, really.
She woke up orgasming, screaming with lust and pleasure, her hand between her legs, her fingers in her cunt.
She had been dreaming she was back with George Rutlins, kneeling nude, his cock jammed so far into her mouth that it tickled the back of her throat, his hand in her hair, stopping her from getting away. The porn whore Jayden was lying between her legs, using her fingers to twist Alyssa’s clitoris agonisingly.
But the worst of it—the bit that stayed with her even after she woke up—was that it wasn’t just her body being controlled, but her thoughts. In the dream she couldn’t even think of anything except how pleased she was to be a stupid rapedoll. She remembered trying to giggle like a bimbo around her mouthful of cock. She remembered being scared she would be pointless and worthless once Rutlins pulled his cock out of her.
That memory made her feel immediately nauseated and scared, as soon as she recalled it. And yet she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that that was the thing that had made her cum.
She staggered out of bed, and found a piece of paper and a pen. She took them to a desk, and sat down to write out the first document required by her new rule.
- I get wet at the thought of being raped.
- I wear a dog collar with a tag that says “RAPE ME”.
- I encourage comments that sexually objectify me.
- I like to make out with pretty girls while men watch.
- I can’t put on clothes without permission from a man.
- I write out my rules and a confession twice a day, and leave them where someone will find them.
- Every four times I reject a man, I make a rule permanent. (This one is permanent!)
Three more rejections until my next permanent rule!
I deserve these rules because I’m a dumb frigid whore who can’t stop being a bitch even when it’s ruining my life.
She took the paper and put it on the coffee table in her lounge room, where anyone who walked into the house would see it. She immediately wanted to move it—to hide it—but she could no more do so than she could turn invisible or walk through walls.
Suddenly there was a knock at her front door. Alyssa jumped, and ran to her room to put on clothes—and then stopped. She couldn’t put on clothes without permission from a man. And there was no one to ask permission from.
She moaned. She decided to wait, and see if the knock would go away.
It didn’t. The knocking continued. “Alyssa, open up!” called a voice—and she recognised Blake, her manager.
She wanted to scream in frustration. She knew Blake wouldn’t go away. Once he had told her that if she ever dropped out of communication, he would forcibly enter her house—in her own interests, of course. “Too many actresses overdose, and no one ever finds them,” he had told her. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there for you.”
She shuffled to the door, and opened it a crack so that it hid as much of her body as possible. Blake’s energetic, smug face became visible through the crack.
“What is it?” she asked.
Blake pushed at the door, and though Alyssa tried to hold it shut, Blake was stronger. The door pushed open, and Blake stepped inside.
Alyssa’s nudity was immediately obvious. She blushed.
“Well,” said Blake. “You sure do look good this morning, Alyssa.”
“Can I at least go put on some clothes?” asked Alyssa hopefully.
“No, you look good like that,” smirked Blake. Nevertheless, he clearly expected her to go and get dressed—but without permission, Alyssa couldn’t. She just stood there, exposed to his gaze.
“What’s this?” Blake asked. ‘You finally want me to see your tits and pussy?”
Alyssa wanted to say “no”—but she was required to encourage her sexual objectification. “That’s what I’m good for,” she heard herself say.
“Oh, you’re good for more than that,” said Blake, stepping closer, into her personal space. “Are you finally ready to fuck?”
Her face went bright red. She knew what she looked like. She knew she should say yes, and get rid of two more rules. But she had been resisting Blake since day one, and it was a matter of principle.
“No!” she objected. “Gross!”
Her mind immediately formulated a rule. It remembered the dream feeling of being brainless, her resistance gone.
“Every time you think about how to avoid being raped,” she thought silently to herself, “you will remove a piece of clothing and leave it behind. If you’re already naked, you will stuff something up your pussy or ass.”
And in two more rejections, she would make a rule permanent.
She choked off a half-formed sob.
Meanwhile, Blake’s face had hardened at her rejection. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever. Well, Rutlins sent over the contracts for the film nice and early. Come through into the lounge and we can sign.”
He started towards the lounge without waiting to see if she followed. Naked, Alyssa hurried along behind him.
As she saw him approaching the table with the list of her rules, she panicked. Blake knew she had hypnotic conditioning, but he didn’t know all her rules. If he did, he would exploit them. She tried to work out how to stop him seeing the paper…
… and as soon as she did, the thought vanished from her mind. And seemingly of its own volition, her hand reached out and took the TV remote from a nearby mantelpiece. She felt herself spread her legs slightly, and then she was working the remote up inside her fuckhole, moaning as she shoved the long rectangular plastic remote up her snatch.
This was what happened when she thought about avoiding rape.
She wanted to cry. How was she ever going to get out of this mess if she couldn’t even plan for how to do it? She would have to fuck someone soon, and lose the rule.
Blake was staring at her. “You really are a whore now, Alyssa, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” she heard herself say meekly. “Thank you.”
His face turned back to the table—and he saw the list. He picked it up, read it—while Alyssa was still working the remote into her cunt—and smiled. He then folded it up and put it in his pocket.
“Sit,” he told her, pointing at the couch, and she did, the remote control still stuffed up her pussy.
He opened a large envelope he was carrying, and took out sheafs of paper. “This is the contract,” he said. “You’ll have the female lead in Rape Liar, at a very generous pay rate, even after I take my cut. You’ll be required for two months of principal photography, potential reshoots, and a press tour.”
Alyssa took the papers and began looking over them.
“It’s not quite a standard contract,” said Blake. “Rutlins doesn’t put up with any diva nonsense from his actresses. You’ll be obliged to abide by any code of conduct or rules that the producer or director create for you, both on set and in your personal life, until the end of the press tour. You’re expected to be ‘pleasant, attractive, cooperative and entertaining’ at all times. The studio has exclusive control over your dress, diet, exercise, medication and medical treatment. You can be required to engage in any activity the studio sees fit in regards to publicity, including nudity and sexual behaviour.”
Alyssa grimaced. “That’s a shitty contract, Blake,” she said. “Can’t you negotiate better?”
Blake laughed. “Alyssa, you’re lucky to get this role at all, and you’re getting paid for the inconvenience. Just take the deal.”
Then he coughed, and added. “There is one more thing. You’re expected to provide ‘personal prostitution services’ to the producer, director, and male lead throughout the filming, ‘without limit, boundaries, or additional compensation’.”
Alyssa felt sick. It was no more than Rutlins had warned her about, but to have it in a legal contract…
Blake saw her expression. “Alyssa, you’re sitting here naked in front of me with a TV remote jammed in your pussy. Don’t be a prude about this. Just sign the contract.”
She would be legally binding herself to be a prostitute. She would be taking money to be a whore.
She took the pen from Blake, and signed. And signed. And signed.
When she was done, he passed her something else—a set of three large poster-sized glossy photos.
She looked at them. They were of her. Well, specifically, they were of her and Jayden, nude, kneeling, fighting over George Rutlin’s erect cock.
The bastard had set up a camera to photograph them. This was a picture of her being a slutty, degraded animal, competing with another naked slut to suck an old rich man’s dick.
“George is going to hang this in his office,” said Blake. “He wants you to sign it.” He gave her something else—a tube of lipstick. “Sign it with this.”
She looked at the photo. “There are three,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” said Blake. “One’s for me, and the third one goes back to Rutlins for him to auction later, after Rape Liar is a hit.”
She didn’t want to sign them. It would make it look like the slutty behaviour had been her idea. Like she had liked it. Like she hadn’t been raped.
But she hadn’t been, had she? She had been so wet…
Blake sighed. “Alyssa, do you want me to get a guy on the phone and have him ask if he can fuck you?”
She squeaked. “No, please, no,” she said. “Blake—I’ll do it. Please don’t.” She couldn’t abide getting any more rules right now.
“You probably should have thought of that before you turned me down,” said Blake. “But I’ll show mercy, for now. Just sign the photos.”
She took the lipstick and wrote “Love Alyssa XOXO” on each of the three, directly above Jayden’s naked ass. Then she applied the lipstick to her lips, and applied a kiss to each one, leaving a kiss-shaped mark on the porn-whore’s buttocks.
“There you go,” she said, passing them back.
“Good girl,” said Blake. He looked at her tits. “You know, you really do look like a very pretty rape-doll.”
She felt her rules engage. “Thank you, sir,” she said.
“I bet you’d be fun to rape,” he said, smiling.
Once again, her answer was dictated by her rules. “Thank you, sir,” she said. She wiggled her tits. “I hope I am!”
Panic began to rise in her. She could see Blake’s cock tenting his pants. She knew where this was going. She felt her pussy began to wetten as the possibility of being raped began to develop into a probability.
“You know I always want what’s best for you, sweetie,” said Blake. “And you want to get rid of some of your slutty new rules, don’t you?”
She did—but not with him. She tried to work out how to get out of this position…
… and immediately, the thought vanished. She got up on her knees, pointed her ass at Blake, and began trying to push the lipstick tube into her anus.
Blake caught her hand. “That’s not necessary, Alyssa,” he said. “I’ll fill that up for you.” And she felt herself being pushed roughly forward, her face pressing against the leather upholstery of the sofa, before a moment later the hard, warm tip of Blake’s cock penetrated her anus.
She moaned, and sobbed. She hoped he fucked her pussy when he was done with her ass. She was so wet.
And she thought that this was new and strange. After all, she had never previously had her ass raped by a co-worker while simultaneously having a TV remote jammed up her cunt. But there was, she supposed, a first time for everything….