“Mindless Self Indulgence”
“Your fingers are drawing you back, Bianca,” Malcolm says. The words are casual, dropped into the middle of a conversation that’s already teetering on the edge of argument, but he knows exactly what it does to me to hear them. And I know too. My hand twitches reflexively, the words tickling an impulse at the back of my brain that promises to end all my frustrations and consternations in a slow, sweet descent into mindless bliss.
But I know all too well what happens when I give in and indulge that urge. It’s why I don’t have any panties on underneath my short skirt, why I’m wearing a bra that lets my stiff, puffy nipples show beneath the sheer top with the plunging neckline that exposes far too much of my lush, pale cleavage. Once I allow my fingers to dip down between my thighs and find my eager cunt... and it is eager, I can feel it beginning to surge already with liquid heat... it’s all too easy to drift away into that timeless pleasure. Too easy to stop thinking about anything except prolonging the warm, wonderful sensation, finding just the right place to rub to keep me wet and needy and blissfully aroused while Malcolm—
I realize that I’ve been standing there for almost thirty seconds, staring at his deceptively innocent expression with my lips parted and my fingers curling and uncurling without any conscious intention on my part. I blink heavily, knowing that he’s drinking in the sight with his deep brown eyes, and stammer out, “N-no. No, I, they’re not, Mal. You, you need to stop doing that, I’m trying to have a serious, a serious conversation here.” My words stumble over themselves, tripping on their way out of my mouth on the mental image of my labia already glistening with the evidence of my arousal. If I were to part my legs just a little, bend or sit or shift position just a tiny bit, the skirt would ride up and Malcolm would see...
But he already knows. I can see it on his face, the faint flush of excitement in his pink cheeks as he watches me with a deceptively calm air. “Oh, of course we are. We’re having a very serious conversation, and I’m very proud of you for trying so hard to think when your fingers keep drawing you back to your hungry little pussy like they always do.” I hiss out a soft gasp of arousal, unsure whether it’s his words or the tone of potent, confident condescension that turns me on so much. I know that it shouldn’t; I know that we’ve already come dangerously close to crossing lines I swore I wouldn’t cross. But my cunt wants what it wants. Nothing turns me on quite so much as when Malcolm treats me like the silly little girl I am.
Not. I’m not a silly little girl, I’m a grown woman. “I, I’m a grown woman,” I snap, unable to keep the words from coming out as a petulant pout. “I, you can’t just, just treat me like some... some stupid, horny, airheaded, um...” I shouldn’t use those words. They echo in my head, reverberating in Malcolm’s voice all the way down to my clit and making my cunt even more slick and soaking. I can feel a tiny droplet of my musk gathering on my pussy lips and it’s all I can do not to squirm and rub to try to get rid of it.
“It, it’s not a game anymore, Mal,” I plead, my voice filled with desperation. “You, you’re doing things. To my head. And I, I thought I could handle it, I thought it wouldn’t really affect me. I thought that it would just be...” I trail off again, trying to describe the slow, saturating euphoria that fills my mind and body every time I lose myself in mindless masturbation and tease myself to the edge of orgasm, again and again under Malcolm’s calm, confident direction. It’s too much for me. I feel myself squirming and squeezing my thighs together like a little girl who needs to use the bathroom, the surging heat in my pussy demanding attention too insistently to be denied.
“Fun,” I finish inadequately, my voice weak and uncertain. My fingers keep wandering toward my cunt, inscribing figure-eights in the air as my concentration wavers. I already know exactly how it will feel when I give in and let them go where they want, and the knowledge keeps me weak and distracted until my words come out as a helpless whimpering plea. “But it’s not a game anymore, Mal. It’s not a game anymore.”
He smiles and takes a seat on the couch, his legs splayed akimbo to give me a good look at the bulge in his trousers. “No. It’s not.” The hunger in his eyes is almost palpable now, as if I could feel his stare caressing my body all over. “It hasn’t been a game for a long while now, Bianca. I’ve been conditioning you for months now, teaching you how to turn off that fuzzy little mind of yours and let your cunt do all the thinking. And it’s worked so well, hasn’t it? You want to think with your cunt all the time, don’t you?”
His words resonate inside me, evoking memories that feel more like waking dreams of bliss. “C-cunt, I... cunt,” I murmur, lost for a moment in a reverie of pure submissive joy as my thoughts float back through months and months of constant, wonderful teasing at Malcolm’s hands and by Malcolm’s will. It always seemed so easy to surrender to his control, to give in to his whispered suggestions and indulge the delicious ache between my thighs. Even when we were separated, I always made time to listen to his recordings, playing with my soaking pussy for hours and reciting along with his soft, seductive words. I was never alone. His voice was always with me, always reminding me to... to think with my cunt. The words bob to the surface of my mind like the tip of an iceberg, hiding overwhelming power deep below.
“That’s right, my pretty little slut,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. I can see the outline of his cock through the thin gray fabric of his suit, and it makes my cunt throb like a bass speaker at a rock concert. “Are you listening to your cunt right now? What is it telling you?”
My head swims for a moment, the pulse of my arousal pounding between my legs like a second heartbeat. “N-no, Mal,” I whimper, trying desperately to clear the fog of lust from my brain and focus on what I came here to tell him. “No, I, I need to... I just need to, to...” But it’s no good. Every time I try to stop thinking about masturbating, it means thinking about what I’m trying not to think about. Every time I tell myself I have to break free of his hold over me, it reminds me of all the other times I pretended to resist and he pretended to coax me back into mindless, helpless need.
He’s stopped pretending to pretend now. And I find that suddenly, I’m not pretending either.
“You need to rub your wet little cunt for me, slave.” His voice is firm without being harsh, not commanding me but simply describing the way the universe is going to work from now on. “You need to tease all those foolish thoughts out of that feeble little brain, play with your pussy until they drip out onto your fingers and your head is nice and empty for me. You want to be empty and obedient, don’t you slave?” he asks, his tone utterly remorseless.
“I, um, empty, I...” My thighs rub together, smearing the musk of my arousal all over my cunt until it practically shines. The smell of sex wafts up into my nostrils, sending my thoughts sliding down a slippery slope with only blank, blissful surrender at the bottom. Malcolm no longer needs to exert control over me, I realize. My body is so sensitized by months of teasing and my mind so primed by our sessions that all he needs to do is remind me of the reward that awaits and I’ll find the path to obedience all by myself. No matter how much I try to tell myself I don’t want this, my slick, dripping pussy knows the truth. And it’s doing all the thinking now.
“That’s right, slut. Your cunt is telling you to be empty and obedient.” There’s a tiny little damp patch on his trousers where the tip of his cock is leaking precum, dark gray and spreading against the lighter fabric. I can’t stop looking at it. My mouth waters just thinking about it. “And good little sluts always listen to their cunts, don’t they?”
Each question hits my willpower like a hammer blow, knocking away all my certainties and leaving me shaking and trembling with desire. I thought I wanted to be strong and independent, my submission only playing out in the shadows of Malcolm’s bedroom. I thought it was only a fantasy when I whimpered with arousal every time Malcolm called me a silly, brainless little girl who couldn’t resist her dripping, messy cunt. I thought I knew myself. But nobody knows me like my Master. “N, nuh...” The word simply won’t pass my lips anymore, not with the throb in my clit pounding away at my resistance like a battering ram.
The world around me seems to fade away, my eyes staring straight ahead unseeing as my mind retreats into pleasure. I can still hear Malcolm’s words echoing in my head, coaxing me deeper and deeper into vacant, thoughtless desire until all I can think about is how good it would feel to rub my pussy until my brain simply winks out like a guttering candle. “Listen... to my, my cunt...” I stammer, without really even hearing what I’m saying. I’m lost in my own arousal now, the memories of each session of mindless masturbation overlapping until they overwhelm my feeble senses.
It’s not until I hear Malcolm say, “Good girl, keep going,” that I look down and see that my fingers have found their way between my slick, sopping labia to tease my soaking cunt. There’s an instant where I try to pull my hand away, shock and astonishment giving me a moment of inner strength... but it doesn’t last. I don’t even manage to free my index finger all the way from the hungry grasp of my wet pussy. And once it returns, I don’t seem to know how to stop it from rubbing my aching clit.
“See, pretty pet?” Malcolm asks, his voice thick with triumph. “See how easy it is to give in and think with your cunt again?” His cock is so hard now, twitching beneath his clothes and spilling precum in an ever-widening stain across the fabric. But I can see no sign of his arousal on his face, not a hint of the lust that saps my will and sends me slowly toppling to my knees in dreamy, decadent ecstasy. He’s so much stronger than me, so much more in control of his desire that it’s no wonder my resistance always crumbles in the face of his coaxing seduction. I am always weaker than my pussy. I know I’m only thinking that because he programmed me to, but isn’t that another sign of my weakness?
“That’s it, pretty slut,” he coos, beckoning me closer. “Back into the soft place in your mind, emptying out all those thoughts. Melting them onto your fingers. Drip and rub and stop that silly, fuzzy brain of yours for me now.” I crawl across the floor awkwardly, unable to move my fingers away from my sopping cunt. My hand moves in a slow, mechanical rhythm, never quite enough to bring me over the edge to climax but always filling me up with pleasure. More pleasure than I can withstand.
“You remember now, don’t you, pet.” Not even a question anymore, just a truth. “Cumming ends the pleasure, but girls who rub their thoughts away find a bliss that never stops.” I nod vacantly, no longer able to think about his words as anything more than the background to my self-indulgence. Tiny droplets of saliva drip down onto my breasts, my jaw hanging slack and vacant in astonishment at the sheer unyielding power of my masturbatory trance. All I want to do is keep playing with myself now. My fingers have found their home, and they never want to leave.
“A good girl is an empty girl,” Malcolm says, undoing his fly and pulling out his cock for me to suck. “An empty girl is a happy girl. And a happy girl is a good girl for Master.” My lips wrap around his shaft, bobbing up and down in the same mindless, mechanical rhythm my fingers have used to still my thoughts. I know that my Master wants to cum soon—the urgency with which his hips thrust up into my willing mouth tells me that—but I could suck for hours if he let me. Time has already ceased to have meaning in the depths of my blank, obedient trance.
“A g-good girl is an empty girl,” he growls, his lust finally beginning to overwhelm even his need for control. “An empty girl is a... hhhappy girl. And a huh, happy girl is a good girl. For Master.” I feel a sudden, powerful need for his semen, splashed against the back of my throat and spilled out of the corners of my mouth and dripped onto my heavy, tingling breasts. The woman who tried to confront her Master is gone now, erased into compliance by my own lust leaving only an empty, obedient slave. I want to be owned. I want to be owned forever by Master, and I can only think of his cum as a mark of his ownership. How can I not want to be covered with a tangible sign of Master’s desire for me?
I know it’s coming soon, and my head bobs up and down faster and faster as I urge him to climax with my lips. “A g-good girl is, is empty fuck yes FUCK!” he shouts, and all my dreams come true as I feel him gushing his release into my mouth and down my chin. He pulls me off of him, and I experience the perfect pleasure of total, mindless obedience as I stare deep into his eyes and drool his semen onto my chest. I know what I must look like to him right now. I know I’m a dripping, horny, empty mess. And I know nothing could make him happier.
“an empty girl is a happy girl,” I begin to recite, picking up the chant exactly where he left off. “a happy girl is a good girl... for Master.” My fingers continue to rub and stroke, keeping me perfectly balanced on the edge of climax. I know that it will be hours before they stop. At some point after that, I may wake up, the truth of my subjugation neatly tucked away inside a conscious mind that still believes itself to be free. Or maybe this is the day when Malcolm decides to claim what’s his, once and for all. It’s a decision, like all others, that I’m blissfully freed of the burden of making. I am mindless. I am obedient. I am owned. I am happy. And if I’m honest with myself, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.