When Blake ejaculated in her asshole, Alyssa felt the relief of knowing she could remove two of her hypnotic rules. She started trying to decide what to remove…
But before she could, Blake leaned down and said, “I don’t know what that rule is that’s making you shove things in your holes, but I’m curious about it. Remove whatever rules you like, Alyssa, but if you remove that one, I’ll call everyone in my address book and make them proposition you one at a time.”
Alyssa squealed in frustration. That had been her first choice, because it was the rule that stopped her thinking about how to avoid rape. And she realised if she wasn’t removing that rule, she couldn’t think about this too much, because thinking about what rules to remove to best lower her chance of being raped would trigger a hypnotic response.
She chose quickly, without thinking. The rule about wearing a collar? Gone. And the rule about encouraging her objectification? Also gone.
Blake pulled out of her, walked around to her face, and very deliberately wiped his cock clean on her cheeks. “Do you want to tell me about that rule, Alyssa?” he asked.
“No,” said Alyssa, honestly.
Blake laughed. “I’m sure I’ll find out in time. In the meantime, I’ll go take these back to the office.” He picked up the contracts and the photos.
“Sir,” said Alyssa quickly—and she kicked herself, because she hadn’t even meant to call him “sir”, she deeply wished she hadn’t, but she wanted something from him and it had been instinctive.
“Yes, Alyssa?” asked Blake.
“May I wear clothes?” asked Alyssa.
He looked at her—and for a moment she was sure he was going to say “no”. But instead he said, “Tell me you love me and you’re sorry for being a slut.”
Her face went red with humiliation. She said nothing.
He turned to head for the doorway.
“I love you sir!” she said quickly. “And I’m sorry for being a slut!”
“You may wear clothes,” he said, graciously—and then left.
As soon as the door slammed, she realised there was something she had forgotten to ask—when could she get rid of the hypnotic conditioning? She’d landed the part in the film—it could go now, right?
She got out her phone and tried to phone Blake, but he didn’t pick up.
She pursed her lips. He would be in the office tomorrow. She would go to the office, and ask. She just had to survive today.
It shouldn’t be too hard. At least she could wear clothes.
She picked up the pen that Blake had given her to sign the contracts, and began to write out her rules again.
1. I get wet at the thought of being raped.
2. I like to make out with pretty girls while men watch.
3. I can’t put on clothes without permission from a man.
4. I write out my rules and a confession twice a day, and leave them where someone will find them.
5. Whenever I think about how not to be raped, I take off a piece of clothing and leave it behind. Or if I’m naked, I stuff something in my pussy or ass.
6. Every four times I reject a man, I make a rule permanent. (This one is permanent!)
Two more rejections until my next permanent rule!
I deserve these rules because they are all things that my own mind made up for me to do, and no one is doing this to me—I’m doing it to myself.
Six rules. That wasn’t so bad. Even if most of them were individually pretty awful.
She put this list in her purse. She would find somewhere to leave it where people might see it.
She felt free to remove the remote control from her pussy, so she did. She wasn’t quite sure how long things had to stay stuffed inside her after she put them there, but clearly being ass-raped had cleared her conscience, and she had no problem removing the plastic intruder from her cunt. She cleaned her juices off the bed, then went to dress for the day.
What should I wear? she thought to herself. And then, automatically, she expanded it to, What should I wear, given how my rules will make me behave?
Her mind went blank. She had thought about avoiding rape. She went immediately to the drawer beside her bed, and took out her favourite vibrator—an internal purple dildo, long and of medium thickness. She moved her legs apart, and worked the vibrator up inside her until it was almost entirely in her cunt. Then she turned it on, using a switch at its base, and made a small moan as she felt it begin to throb inside her.
She blushed. It was immediately clear to her that she couldn’t just remove the device. When would she be able to take it out? How long did it have to stay inside her? The TV remote had only been in her cunt a half hour or so—was it the passage of time that had set her free? Or the rape? Would she have to leave the vibrator in her pussy until she had sex?
She had been intending to go out, to a local supermarket. Her house was short on basic supplies, and it would be nice to go and do something normal. The vibrator almost made her change her plans—but she didn’t, for two reasons.
The first was that the vibrator was relatively quiet. She didn’t think anyone would know it was inside her unless they were listening very carefully and the surroundings were very quiet. She could go out with it inside her.
But the second reason was more worrying to her. When she felt the thought forming of not going out, her brain instinctively flinched. Because it was thinking about how to avoid being raped. Because it would get her in more trouble. And before the thought could develop enough to trigger her conditioning, her brain aborted it for her.
The hypnosis was training her out of even thinking about not being raped. It was fundamentally re-conditioning the way she thought. And that terrified Alyssa.
It terrified her—but not enough to think too hard about it. Because that might get her in trouble too.
In any case, she pulled a pair of white panties on over her pussy. The base of the vibrator was visible pushing against the groin of the panties, but no one would see that as long as she was wearing something over the top. She put on a bra, and then a white button-up blouse, a knee-length skirt, and high heels. Then she collected her purse, and headed out to the supermarket.
She drove her own car—there was no need for a limousine—and parked in the parking lot. Soon she was inside the large supermarket, a plastic basket in her hand, strolling the aisles looking for basic supplies.
Her mind was thinking idly about her rules. It seemed to her that her rules were getting more specific—more explicit—although that may just be her imagination. Some of her early rules had been difficult, too. But ultimately, all the rules came from her own imagination. Why was she coming up with such slutty ideas? Was it that part of her wanted to be humiliated? Or was it guilt? Was a sense of guilt for being a whore driving her to punish herself in more and more humiliating ways?
Before she could answer that question, she felt her mind glide away from the topic. Probing in that direction might help her avoid rape. Best if she didn’t.
But before she left the topic entirely, she remembered that she should leave her list of rules somewhere where people might find it.
Where can I leave it that people might find it, she thought, but that won’t get me into too much trouble?
And that was the wrong thought. It was a thought about avoiding rape. Her mind clicked and went blank. In the middle of the aisle at the supermarket, she reached under the hem of her skirt, grasped the waist of her panties, and pulled them down her legs to her ankles, before stepping out of them and leaving them in the middle of the aisle.
Her mind switched back on, and she flushed in humiliation. She wanted to pick up the panties and put them back on—but she couldn’t. She had to leave them. She reached into her purse, pulled out her list of rules, and dropped it next to the panties, and then went to walk away.
Except—she could only walk slowly. Really, she could only waddle. Because she still had the vibrator humming away in her pussy—her quite wet pussy—and if she spread her legs too far, it would fall out. She moaned, and reached down, trying to press it up into her groin through the fabric of the front of her skirt.
A voice sounded behind her. “Miss! Miss!” it called out. “You dropped these!”
Alyssa went bright red. She knew what this was about. She tried to walk away, and pretend she hadn’t heard—but she simply couldn’t move very fast, and soon she felt a hand tapping on her shoulder. She turned, reluctantly.
It was a young man, maybe 19 years old, wearing the uniform of the supermarket. He wore a nametag that said “Chaz, and he was blushing a little himself. “Miss,” he said, holding up her panties and the piece of paper, “I think you dropped these.”
She wanted to snatch them off him and walk away—but she couldn’t. She had to leave these behind. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can have them.”
Chaz looked at the panties, and back at Alyssa. “Hey,” he said, “I know you! You’re Alyssa, from the movies!”
“No,” said Alyssa. “You’re mistaken.” She tried to turn and shuffle away, but Chaz moved around in front of her.
“Yes, you are!” he said. “I saw you in Munich Love Story! Why are you leaving your panties on the floor?”
She didn’t know what to say. Chaz wasn’t going away. “Haven’t you seen the news?” she said, sourly. “I’m a huge slut now.” It was true, after all.
“Are you?” asked Chaz. He looked at the panties again. “Then, um, do you want to have sex with me?”
She moaned. She didn’t want another rule. But she didn’t want to have sex. She didn’t want this teenager to treat her like a sex object, to discover the vibrator wedged in her cunt, to act as though he, a cashier at a supermarket, was somehow superior to her, an award-winning actress. She knew she should swallow her pride, but….
“No,” she said. “I just want to do my shopping.”
And just like that, she had turned down sex again. Like a stupid bitch. And the consequence would be a new rule.
Whenever a man shows interest in me, I’ll ask if he wants to squeeze my tits, she thought.
And the next time I reject someone, I have to make a rule permanent.
She saw Chaz’s crestfallen reaction to her rejection, but her new rule was already taking effect. “But you can squeeze my tits if you like,” she told him.
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really,” she was compelled to say.
She wished this wasn’t happening. She certainly wished it wasn’t happening in the aisle of a busy public supermarket.
Chaz reached out, put a hand on her left breast, and squeezed. Alyssa moaned softly. With the vibrator up her cunt, the stimulation of her boobs actually felt good. Then Chaz used his other hand to grab her right breast, and squeezed that too.
Alyssa suspected the boy had never touched a breast before. He started off reverently enough, squeezing lightly—but then when she moaned like a slut, and didn’t stop him, he squeezed harder—hard enough to hurt. He crushed each of her fuckbags in his hand as if they were squeeze-toys, and Alyssa—hypnotically prevented from telling him to stop—just moaned louder, and let him.
Another man entered the aisle—a customer, a bespectacled dad-type in his late 30s. “What are you doing to that woman?” he asked.
“It’s Alyssa, from the movies,” said Chaz. “She said I could! She asked me to!”
The man came closer—and Alyssa realised that he was taking an interest in her. Her rules took control. “Would you like to squeeze my tits too?” she heard herself ask him.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, go for it!” she replied, wishing she could say anything else at all.
Chaz released Alyssa’s right tit, and the man took hold of it, squeezing it as if checking a fruit for defects. Chaz, meanwhile, changed his grip on Alyssa’s other breast, holding it in both hands as if it were a hamburger, and squeezing cruelly. Alyssa whimpered, and moaned.
A third man, pushing a trolley, entered the aisle, and stared at what he saw. Taking an interest.
“Would you like to squeeze my tits after one of these men is done?” called out Alyssa.
The man headed towards her.
No, no, no, shrieked Alyssa, inside her mind. This was getting out of control. She had to get out of here. How could she get out of here?
Avoiding rape, warned her mind—and she went blank. “Hold on a minute, guys,” she said, and when they took their hands off her tits, she unbuttoned her blouse, shrugged it off her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor, revealing her white lace bra and giving them more direct access to her tits.
A fourth man entered the aisle, and she invited him to squeeze her tits too. A woman followed behind him, stared at her, and then backed out of the aisle, disgusted.
The men were crowding around her now, jostling to get a grip on her tits, each of them squeezing harder than the one before, with no concern for her comfort at all. As more people passed near the aisle and stared, she invited a fifth man to squeeze her tits, then a sixth, then a seventh. There were men all around her. She felt herself pulled back and forth a little by her tits. At one point two men were each pulling her tits in opposite directions, and she squealed.
She was going to be raped. She was going to be raped right here, in a supermarket. Her cunt was so wet she could feel her fuck-juices drooling down her inner thighs.
She had to get out of here. How could she get out of here?
Avoiding rape, warned her mind again—and now she was trying to take off her bra. When the men saw what she was doing, they helped, and soon she was completely topless in the middle of a ring of horny men, each competing to squeeze her breasts as she moaned and writhed.
She felt a hand on her ass, beginning to lift up her skirt, exposing her cunt, and instinctively, without thinking, she slapped it away.
It was only after the hand jerked back that she realised she had just rejected a sexual advance. She needed a new rule. Another new rule.
I’m such a slut, she thought. Am I really doing all this to myself? Am I really just a whore who wants to cocktease men into raping me? Do I really have such a need to make men’s cocks hard?
I do, her mind replied. That’s my new rule. If I’m with a man and I don’t know that his cock’s hard, it makes me anxious and insecure.
At least she knew the men around her had hard cocks. She could feel many of them grinding up against her.
But it was worse. That was her fourth rejection since her “permanency” rule. She had to make a rule permanent—whichever rule she hated most.
There was no question. The rule that prevented her from thinking about avoiding rape. And just like that, it was permanent.
Inside, she screamed. The rule wasn’t just humiliating her—it was changing her. She was scared of it—of what it might turn her into.
But it was done. She was stuck with it. And she was still here, in the middle of a crowd of men who were enthusiastically molesting her fuckballoons.
People had their mobile phones out. Men were taking photos of her. Men were filming her.
Suddenly there was a firm hand in her hair, pulling her away from the men.
“Okay, fun’s over, slut,” said a voice. A woman’s voice. Alyssa looked up, and saw that she was being gripped by a large female security guard.
“I’m sorry,” said Alyssa, but the woman ignored her.
“You can’t just come in here and treat it like a brothel,” said the woman. “You’re out of the store. And you’re banned. Don’t come back.” She began walking towards the store exit, and Alyssa had no choice but to follow, as the woman still had a handful of her hair. She was dragged to the store entrance—and then thrown bodily onto the ground outside.
“Fuck off, you skank,” said the guard. “And take these with you.” She threw two pieces of cloth at Alyssa—her blouse and her bra.
But of course Alyssa couldn’t take them. She had to leave them behind.
She staggered away, shuffling across the parking lot, the vibrator still jammed in her pussy, trying to cover her exposed tits with her hands. She got to her car, got inside, and locked the doors—and then she could take it no longer.
She knew people might follow her. She knew people might look in the windows of her car.
She didn’t care. She spread her legs, hiked up her skirt, and then began to desperately fuck the vibrator in and out of her cunt.
With her free hand, she grabbed her left breast, and squeezed, and twisted, trying to bring back the sensation of being treated like an object by the crowd of men.
She orgasmed very, very quickly.
And then she waited there, in her car, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her tits and cunt on display. She was hoping someone might follow her. That someone might peek in the window of the car—Chaz, maybe, or the man with the spectacles—and she might beg that man to fuck her, either right here and now, or back at her house. And then she might be able to have another orgasm—and get rid of some rules, although she wasn’t clear in her own mind which of those two rewards were more important to her.
So she waited, hoping someone would see her, on display, legs spread like a whore.
But no-one did.
And the fact that that left her feeling disappointed was the most humiliating thing of all.