Hypno Submission Training 2
* * *“The project is going viral,” Joy gushes at me and my father. “Your shoot is especially moving, Miss Turner! The heartbreak and tears—the raw torture in your pose and expression—it’s going to be featured on the news and in magazines!”
I blink at her in shock, especially when she holds up her phone and shows my dad a short clip of me completely nude except for the tiger body paint. On the small screen, I wail loudly and pull at the metal binds securing my wrists to the floor, my back arched and my teenaged breasts jiggling obscenely. My nipples are painted white, but pointed and obvious. Artsy, but very creepy and slutty, too….
I can’t believe she’s showing my dad this, I think as hot humiliation rolls through me. I wish I could crawl into a hole and die….
“They can’t put that on TV,” I rasp. “How did anyone get this footage? I thought Jean Paul was only taking still shots of me!”
“Mr. Blanc films every session,” Joy corrects me sternly. “The recording devices are embedded throughout the studio, and it’s all in your contract. You do know how to read?”
“Of course I know how—” I start angrily, but then my dad interrupts my outburst by squeezing my shoulder, hard.
“Sadie’s grateful for this opportunity,” he says loudly over my pained, “Ow!” but then his tone softens, turning silken, “Especially with how much it’s helping endangered species and how lucrative it must be….”
My stomach knots up as Joy and my dad smile at each other knowingly, and then I frown as she passes him a check and his eyes light up with all the numbers he’s seeing.
“And that’s only the start of her bonus, Mr. Turner.”
I want to throw a fit and argue. I want to say it’s not fair that I’m going to be humiliated on TV—even if it is for a good cause, like helping animals. I want to say that this isn’t what I agreed to, because a video is much, much different than a carefully edited photograph.
And I think she’s lying about this being in the contract, my mind whispers.
But I don’t have it anymore, because my dad turned it in after I signed it, and I have a sinking feeling that no one is going to let me review it now. I’ve only been employed by Natural Submission Studio for a few days, but it feels like a lifetime, especially with how much they’ve bullied and manipulated me every step of the way. It’s either gushing praise or getting screamed at for any little mistake. I’m starting to feel like I’m going insane. Especially with the weird holes in my memory—and a nagging feeling that horrible things are being done to me behind the scenes.
My dad sighs happily, then stuffs the check into his pocket as he turns to leave. “I’ll deposit this into our joint account.”
What joint account? I want to yell after him. I never agreed to a joint account!
But I don’t say anything, because the sounds of my own screaming and crying snap my frazzled attention back to Joy, who sits at her desk watching the video clip of me again, smiling creepily.
“You have such natural talent,” she murmurs.
“Look,” I sputter. “Look—I just can’t—I can’t have that video publicized by the media. The whole town will see it! I’ll be a laughing stock! It could even put me in danger!”
I can only imagine the harassment I might face if our small, close-minded town caught wind of what I’ve been doing here. For some reason I’d envisioned that my pictures might be featured in high-end museums or art shows way far away—like in the bigger towns; I hadn’t thought that my struggling, naked body would be put on TV, especially in the local news, where everyone from my father’s extended family to our pastor might see it.
“What danger? You’re going to be a star!” Jean Paul’s accented voice calls out, and I wince as he strides into the reception area, suddenly nervous to see him.
He’s part of the danger I feel swirling around in my gut. Like I might be molested or something, even though I can’t remember him actually doing anything more than shouting insults at me.
“Unless you’re scared of drowning in money,” he says with a little laugh. “Or of saving animals….”
I flush at the hint of accusation in his voice, like I’m backing out of volunteering for the greater good. He winks at Joy and then motions for me to follow him. I hate that I do, but I really don’t have a choice, do I?
“It’ll be an easier shoot today, ma chérie. No body paint. No binds. Nothing but your fresh face and natural beauty, combined with my artistic touch to really make you shine….”
I’m not sure I believe that this time will be easier than my last two shoots—and I’m not surprised when Joy comes in with a tropical drink and headphones. Before I can stop myself, I reach out for the drink, almost as if I need it, because I’m eager for the cool, calming taste of coconut and pineapple.
This stuff is kinda addictive, I think as I sip at my drink. I don’t want anything to do with those headphones though….
I glare at the black earpieces while Joy and Jean Paul have a hushed conversation, wondering why she always brings in these exact two things. The drink kind of makes sense; I’ve seen movies where wealthy people get offered champagne in casinos or when they’re shopping in fancy stores . . . so this is probably kind of like that—but the headphones give me anxiety, and yet I can’t remember doing much more than wearing them briefly, like they’re a weird prop that Jean Paul sticks with for branding or something….
They both ignore me, whispering among themselves, for so long that I finish my drink. Usually I’d feel awkward just standing around, but after the drink my muscles are loose and my head feels breezy.
“What’s in this anyway?” I ask softly, expecting to be ignored as I eye my empty glass.
Joy glances at me, and then dismissively says, “Just a little sedative. You’re always so amped up—”
“Nonsense,” Jean Paul interrupts with a frown. “Joy’s being facetious and it’s time for her to leave. Are we ready to learn some natural submission today?”
Joy gives me a wink as I half shrug and half nod. “Our little celebrity in the making,” she whispers as she takes my glass and passes me to leave.
I’m not sure what to think about Joy’s “joke”, but I am kind of glad that I don’t feel so nervous at the moment, until Jean Paul asks me what underwear I’ve got on under my jeans.
“Uh, it’s just a yellow smiley-face set,” I say, having to turn around to take a peek down my pants. “You didn’t tell me what you expected me to wear….”
Jean Paul tsks, tapping his fingers to his mouth. “Something more innocent for this shoot . . . we want to capture something raw and youthful.” He pulls out a plastic bag from inside his designer jacket, handing it to me. “Strip down and wear this.”
Inside is a tiny, white training bra and simple, white panties. They look like something someone much younger than I would wear, and they look quite small, too. I must be making a face, because Jean Paul turns around and says, “Unless you’d like to pose completely nude instead?”
“No,” I whisper to his back, quickly pulling off my blouse and yellow bra before attempting to pull on the tight, elastic fabric of the training bra.
It squeezes my breasts together awkwardly, making my cleavage spill over the top, and cuts harshly into my skin. My face burns as I look down at myself. Is this really better than going completely nude? For some reason it feels much more obscene, and it takes Jean Paul’s impatient cough for me to quickly toe off my shoes and peel off my jeans. I don’t want him to turn around and watch me. It’s uncomfortable enough having him stand there and listen to me undress.
“A-almost done,” I stammer, yanking up the new, white panties.
The new “innocent” underwear is much thinner and tighter than my comfortable smiley-face ones. I can see my pink clit poking out, and my face flushes in shame as I realize I’m getting these “little-girl” underwear wet. Why I’m always low-grade aroused doing these shoots, I’m not sure—but it’s awful and embarrassing.
“Marvelous,” Jean Paul drawls as he turns back around to lazily kick the clothing I’ve shed away. “You look . . . very sweet.”
I blush furiously as his eyes sweep over my scantily clad body, feeling even worse than when I was painted up like a tiger or photographed in a little red bikini. It’s awful wearing such childish things that don’t fit me right. And for some reason, I’m certain that it’s on purpose, to infantilize me….
Don’t argue. Get done, I tell myself shakily.
“First we’ll take some shots of you lying on the floor.”
I look down at the hardwood, scowling. It looks cold and uninviting, but I don’t want to be yelled at, so I sink down, eyeing Jean Paul for direction as I try to decide if he’d rather I be on my side or my back.
“Side first, eyes down, cup your face with one hand and hide your tender, young pussy with the other.”
I inhale sharply, blinking at him, but do it anyway, afraid to argue or hesitate, since I just want this embarrassing fiasco to be over. Why did I expect this shoot to be easier and less embarrassing than the others? Just because Jean Paul told me so? God, I’m an idiot.
“Bite your lip. Good, good….”
I listen because I’m afraid to be screamed at, and because I don’t know what else to do. If I refuse and try to leave, my dad is miles away (and won’t be back for hours). Stupidly, a part of me also likes Jean Paul’s praise for some reason. It makes me all warm inside . . . and weirdly, a little horny, but I don’t like to think about that.
“Now roll onto your belly and grab your ankles….”
As soon as I do, my tits pop out over my training bra, but as I flinch to adjust them, Jean Paul screams, “Don’t fucking move!”
Tears roll down my cheeks as embarrassment floods through me. The bra cuts into my underboobs painfully, holding up my perky tits for inspection and accentuating my small, pink nipples. I feel helpless and alone, hogtied by my own hands gripping my ankles, hogtied by my fear of Jean Paul’s anger.
Natural submission, my brain blares with sudden clarity.
I’m so shocked by the revelation that I don’t even flinch as Jean Paul approaches me and puts the headphones over my ears.
“Perfection,” he whispers.
I nearly glow with his praise, my pussy growing wetter and wetter, especially when the staticky hum fills my ears, telling me: Natural submission is about giving in. Natural submission is about binding oneself to discomfort for the pleasure of another. Natural submission is about letting go of the self—and letting one’s body be used for a higher purpose.
My thoughts drift away into the pulsing warmth, and bursts of arousal go through me at knowing that I’m fulfilling my purpose, my eyes going glassy as Jean Paul photographs me and murmurs, “Good. So good….”
I don’t even mind as he kneels in front of me to open my lips with his fingers, feeding his cock into my warm, waiting mouth.
Sporadic thoughts go through my warm mind as he penetrates me slowly: Good girls love being filmed and photographed. Good girls always listen to directions without complaint.
“Submit to me,” he says. “Submit to Natural Submission Studio.”
The staticky buzz in my mind agrees with him: Good girls know that their holes are made for men’s pleasure. Good girls exist to please men. Good girls use their mouths to suck. Good girls happily swallow.
I tongue his shaft eagerly, swallowing around his cockhead as he groans. It’s so simple and beautiful—so pristine and relentless—my urge to suck and swallow him down completely. I don’t even gag as he hits the back of my throat, pushing so deeply into me that I can barely breathe, my body primed to use as his cocksleeve. My pussy aches and clenches around nothing, my tongue eager for the taste of him, and my ears barely cognizant of the gluck-gluck sound of him using my throat.
This is what I’m made for, every fiber of my being tells me.
It seems to go on for hours, the warm pulse of my thoughts throbbing with the warm pulse of his cock, and then he grunts and shoots his load into me, salty sperm bathing my tongue. The sensual taste of it sends me reeling, my body twisting and cumming as he holds my face tight against him. I have no expectation or thought when he finally releases me, my mind pure mush, and I don’t move as he calls out, “Your turn, Fredrico!”
If I were more cognizant, I might have realized that other photographers had joined in on our shoot—but instead I’m used by man after man, my mouth a cumdump for every male employee in the studio.
“Perfection,” Jean Paul laughingly says as he photographs and takes footage of it all, but I’m lost in a sea of mindlessness as I suck five different men off (and climax after each one).
“She’s a pretty one,” I hear after some time, once the headphones are ripped off me and my body aches from being held in such an unnatural position.
I blink blearily at the people with cameras surrounding me, my cheeks flushing. What just happened? Who are all these strange men? Why is my throat and mouth so sore? How come they’re all staring at me like this?
But I keep holding my ankles, even as my cheeks burn red, uncertain if I’m allowed to move.
“You can let go now,” Jean Paul says with a snotty chuckle.
I’m ashamed that I’ve waited for him to tell me it’s okay, but also weirdly proud, and I fall limp to the floor with a sigh. My mind feels fractured. Raw and strung-out. And I don’t know what to do with myself other than just lie still on the cold ground, wondering why I’m here and if I can ever leave.
“You did a fine job today, Miss Turner,” Jean Paul says soothingly. “Please redress and be ready for your father to pick you up.”
I don’t know why those words fill me with a strange sadness, like I’m not supposed to go anywhere (like I’m meant to stay right here and keep fulfilling my purpose). But I listen to him, stripping off the tight, childish underwear to pull on all my own things without complaint. I find myself left in the room alone, and later I find myself unable to tell my dad what’s happened when he picks me up.
I’m shocked and appalled at the local news media, because not only does it show videos of me struggling in my tiger shoot but there’s also a few creepy clips of me in my undersized bra and panties (as though I agreed to be displayed in such an obscene way), willingly hogtying myself with my own hands. The news doesn’t even completely blur out what they should; I can see my tiny pink nipples forced over the tight fabric of the white training bra, my eyes glassy, with me obediently gripping both of my slim ankles in my hands, like I’m made to be a decorative object for men’s pleasure. The overall message is to shut me and the studio down—because it seems to portray young girls being exploited (or acting whorish and ungodly, depending on who you ask)—and our townsfolk are furious.
It’s one thing to be screamed at by townswomen (like the pastor’s wife who tells me that I’m now damned to an eternity burning in hell), but a whole other ballgame when random men around town leer at me whenever I go out, whistling and hollering about what a slut I must be.
“Daddy,” I choke out, coming through the front door in tears, “Mr. Bryson tried to grab me.”
I fully expect my dad to be enraged that our neighbor came onto me so aggressively, but instead shame burns through me as he says, “Can you blame him? Look at the sort of reputation you’re building for yourself!”
“I thought—” I choke out, “I thought you said it was art!”
“It is sweetie,” he says soothingly, pulling me into a bearlike embrace. “But you can’t blame people for being confused when you have your tits out and when you look like you’re so willingly subjecting yourself in such a way….”
I squirm away from him, uncomfortable with the hardness of his body against mine, uncomfortable with the way he smells like a brewery, and uncomfortable with the vulgar words he’s used against me. “I want to quit. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t just quit when things get hard,” he murmurs. “Let me guide you. Always be a good girl.”
Something heavy and warm rolls over my mind, relaxing me completely, until I’m not even sure what I was upset about or even where I am. I listen to my dad as he tells me to strip off my clothes, because I don’t need them anymore, and because he wants to help teach me ‘natural submission’, to aid my progress with the studio.
“Mr. Blanc says the more I use this trick the more docile you’ll become. Naturally . . . over time,” my dad croons to me. “Get down on the floor, sweetheart. Hold your ankles.”
I hogtie myself mindlessly, knowing that this is what I’ve been trained to do—what I’m meant to do. I don’t even mind when my dad sinks to his knees in front of my face, or that he pulls out his stiff cock, because I’m lost so far, so deep down that everything feels brilliantly good. Warm. Blissful.
Perfect, I seem to hear Jean Paul say.
“You look so good like this,” my dad whispers, stroking his cock. “Your perky breasts and your plump, little ass flexed as you arch back . . . I never realized what a total hottie you’ve grown into. Even prettier than your mother.”
My mom’s been dead for years, but I don’t think of her as I obediently hold myself into position, only drowning in the praise. Drowning in the dizzying, deep warmth.
“You’ve always been such a stubborn brat,” he hisses, his hand flying on his cock faster, squeezing vigorously. “Not wanting me to date. Not wanting to help out with chores. Not wanting to find work. You’ve always left the entire shitshow to me, until now….”
He groans, his body stiffening, and I see his cock flex as hot bursts of semen splash all over my relaxed face. I’m left on the floor for hours, covered in his cum and hogtying myself obediently, my mind warm mush and my body aching.
It’s not until I’m in my bed, sometime later, that I hear the sound of fingers snapping, but I’m too tired to contemplate the blank spots in my memory (like why I feel so sore and used, my face sticky, or anything about what happened to me today). Instead, I fall into a dreamless sleep, my mind raw and fractured, yet unconcerned.
“Today’s a big day,” Joy gushes to me as I walk into the studio a few days later. “You and the other newer girls are going to compete to see how far your training has progressed!”
I’m not sure what she means by that, but I let her take me by the hand and lead me down the winding hallway of the studio and then out the back door. It’s been a strange week for me, with vague memories of submitting to things I’d never thought I’d do—but everything is uncertain and grey, like I’m a robot going through programmed motions.
My eyes don’t even widen as I take in several tall, metal cages lined in a row outside in the dirt. I see several other nude, teenaged girls standing idly in them; a redhead with voluptuous breasts and curvy hips, a black girl with an hourglass figure, and a spindly blonde with a flat chest and a bubble butt.
“Laura, Amber, and Giselle are already ready, but you my dear, are a little late,” Joy says condescendingly. “Can you undress and get in the last cage by yourself?”
No, a tiny voice inside my mind shouts, but my mouth says, “Okay….”
I want to be a good girl—and I don’t want to cause a fuss and get into any trouble. Especially since all the other girls are already ready, and I don’t want them to outshine me. A hollow warmth lingers inside my brain, urging me to listen to authority, and urging me to earn money for my father (who keeps telling me how fat our bank account is getting). Supposedly, I’m on my way to earning five figures for the month, with how well my shoots have been going—but only if I keep pleasing Mr. Blanc and the studio.
No fruity drink is offered to me as I clumsily peel off my clothing, and I nearly stop before I hear Jean Paul call out, “About time, Miss Turner. Today we’ll all be practicing natural submission together. It’ll be our biggest shoot of the season—I do hope you’re ready to perform.”
The other girls stand up on their tip-toes and bow deep down, so that their upper body folds over their long, toned legs, and their hair drags against the dusty ground. One by one they grab their ankles obediently, getting into a pose I’ve seen plastered against the walls of the studio, but never performed before.
A tiny spark of fear goes through me: They all seem like they’ve already done this—what if I suck at it?
But I make my way into the empty cage, barely shaking as I take my place and take up the same position. My ass seems to bulge out obscenely, my pussy open and on display to the open air behind me, but at least my blushing face is hidden by my legs, my hair draped down to fan against the ground.
What am I doing? a cold thought rasps, but immediately another warmer thought answers: Natural submission….
It feels strangely good to hold myself like this, especially when Jean Paul comes close to my cage and murmurs, “Perfection. Your training is paying off, ma chérie.”
My frazzled mind buzzes with his praise, my pussy growing wet, and I wonder if the other girls look as good as I do, or if I’m the star of the show—the favorite and most well paid. I decide that I must be as Jean Paul whispers other sweet things to me, but then my body stiffens as I hear the sound of many heavy feet and murmuring people joining us.
“Welcome to the show!” Jean Paul cries out, and I can’t help but lift my head to see who he’s addressing, immediately shocked to find many of the townsmen who’ve been harassing me all week.
There’s my neighbor, Mr. Bryson, leering in the front of the crowd, and Pastor Peter, directly behind him, along with my dad’s mechanic and the grocery store owner—among many other men I can’t name. I immediately want to straighten and flee, but a pressing thought holds me in place: Natural submission is about binding oneself to discomfort for the pleasure of another. Natural submission is about letting go of the self—and letting one’s body be used for a higher purpose.
It would be unfair of me to back out, I suddenly realize, because obviously Jean Paul is trying to show the townsfolk that this is art—and not exploitation. I’m here of my own free will, aren’t I? It feels like it, because I’m not bound, and there’s no door on my cage, but yet somehow I feel tethered to the spot by expectation and compulsion.
It would be wrong to leave, a warm thought tremors in my brain.
I drop my head back down as Mr. Bryson winks at me, heat licking all up my throat and into my face. This is absolutely humiliating, even if I agree that it’s necessary, and even if I agree that I want to be here. The studio is important. The work here is for the greater good. I am lucky to get to be a part of all of it.
But are you? a niggling thought asks.
I stamp that resistance down when Jean Paul croons to me, in very hushed tones, that I’m being a good girl, and grip my ankles even harder, pushing my ass up further in pure obedience.
“Artwork is meant to be enjoyed!” he calls out. “Feel free to touch the pieces!”
I shiver but don’t move as men flood into my cage, my warm, sluggish thoughts going frantic as rough hands grope my ass and tits. Still, I don’t move, pulsing thoughts keeping me in place about being a good girl—about wanting to please—about being demure and calm. Tiny whimpers escape me as my nipples and clit are pinched, but Jean Paul yells at anyone who tries to do more than caress my open holes, so I begin to trust in the process, begin to warmly trust in him. Completely and utterly.
He’s such a good man, my mind hums.
After what feels like an eternity, my back aching and my head dizzy from the blood-rush of being held upside down, Jean Paul calls off the show, “That’s it, folks. Show’s over.”
I don’t move though, knowing that I’m not dismissed until he dismisses me. Instead, I listen to the grumbles of men being sent away, and I wonder if this demonstration proved anything to them.
Jean Paul seems to think so, by the way he loudly professes, “A wonderful success! Well done, girls! I bet most of them buy the special recordings we do here—and we’ll all have our pockets lined by even the loudest naysayers….”
I’m not quite sure what he means by that, but before I can worry about it, he enters my cage.
“You’re a shooting star, my little pet,” he croons to me, drawing close to stroke my hair. “So quick to rise to the top, but so soon to fall . . . people grow bored of the same face, the same nubile body, they always want new, new, new. Although I think they’ll be glad to pay for the footage of this….”
He gets behind me, and I hear the unbuckling of his belt, but I don’t react in time to dodge the firm grasp he takes of my hips, or the stab of his cock going inside my exposed, virgin pussy.
“Always be a good girl,” he rasps, stopping my struggling before it really starts, my mind blanking out and dropping low, low, low, vaguely aware of his next words, “With this you’ll be completely mine, Miss Turner. You won’t know why, but you’ll never resist another command I give you. You’ll live for me. You’ll die for me. Your sole purpose will be to please me.”
I shiver in bliss as he stretches out my tight, young pussy with his thick cock, penetrating me deep with slow, methodical thrusts. The other girls in the cages beside mine begin to shriek and moan, and my own warbling cry gets lost in theirs as we all lose our virginities together.
“But soon I won’t want you anymore,” he says with a laugh, pummeling me sharply with greedy thrusts. “Soon you’ll just be another discard, like the thousands of other beautiful teens before you….”
I can’t concentrate on the meaning of the sounds he’s making, only hearing my own panting breaths as pleasure rips through me. It should hurt, a tiny, buried thought whispers, and yet it doesn’t, my pussy eagerly clenching around him as he slams into me balls deep. I keep clutching my ankles, my fingers going tight and numb as I hold myself in position to be fucked.
“I think I might even teach you real natural submission,” he says with a groan, his fingers bruising my hips as he slams into me even harder. “In the purest form. I’ve already convinced your father to help me train you—but I bet I could convince him to go even further….”
I moan as he pulls me tight against him, his cock spasming inside my newly deflowered pussy as he unleashes burst after burst of hot cum. My hands fall off my ankles, my head nearly going into the ground except for Jean Paul’s hold on me as orgasm flutters through me, all warm and white and blank and glowing.
“But that’s for another day,” Jean Paul rasps, wrapping his arms around me tight—then pulling me up and into him, so that he’s embracing me from behind; his softening cock slips free, spilling warm, wet semen all down my legs. “We’ll see if you catch with my seed, first….”
He tells me that he likes to impregnate some of the prettiest ones, although I’m so woozy from climax and mind-addled that I have no idea what he’s saying. He tells me that maternity submission has a special market—but that incest breeding is the real money earner—and that I’ll earn a lot for him, either way.
It’s not until later that I’m getting into my dad’s truck that I hear the snap of fingers, but my mind is too foggy to contemplate the belts and buckles, so I gaze off distantly in the passenger’s seat as I’m buckled in and driven home, barely wondering why I’m so wet and sore between the legs—and completely unaware of Jean Paul’s great plan for me.