Please do not copy without permission. Minors should skip this one. The celebrity in this story is not meant to be any one real person but is more accurately a “type.”
And What Do YOU Do For a Living?
By, MichelleLoveTo
What do I do for a living? I usually refer to myself as an image consultant slash lifestyle coach but what I really am is an expert in mind control. Oh, I know what you’re thinking and it doesn’t exactly take a mind for mind control to see it either. “Either the bitch is crazy or she is seriously screwing with me.” I might be crazy but I am not so crazy that I expected you to actually believe me ... quite yet. Give me a little credit here.
So ok, I am screwing with you if that’s what you need to believe. I am sitting here with a straight face to show why I never, ever lose at poker. Pretty good, huh? Yeah, I thought so.
But just humor me for a while. I know you will because you really want to get me into bed. Again, I have the poker face, you do not! You think that I have to be at least half in the bag to even try to convince you of this. And what is half in the bag, if not half way to the sack. So I guess that means you are buying me another drink.
Waitress? Another one please!
Do you like my voice?... Yeah, most people do I am told. Sort of like a more feminine Demi Moore. Been told that a lot. It is one of my best assets in terms of my job. Don’t smirk—how are you going to put people under your “thrall” if you sound like The Nanny? Anyhow, you’re still listening to it, aren’t you?
I actually try to be very thorough in what I do. I take pride in doing it right. You have to get people in the right frame of mind to begin with, built up their trust in order to lower their defenses. At least the way I go about it. Getting their trust is a lot of the fun anyhow.
It doesn’t hurt that even in a business suit I look like The Girl Next Door. Maybe freckles across the bridge of my nose and the big blue eyes. Eyes are very important in my line of work too. Especially eyes that look like they have nothing to hide.
I think the reason I’m so successful is all the stars lined up right. The sky was clear—remarkably clear—and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. Thomas Hardy, I was a lit major.
Where was I? The stars aligned just right to make me very good at what I do. That’s not ego either. I take no credit for inheriting a face that people want to trust, or a voice that draws people in, but I do take credit for using these things to my advantage.
These assets would be useless in what I do if I didn’t have the psychological make-up for it. And still that would not be enough if I did not have a certain passion for the job. So my mind, body, and spirit all make me very good at what I do.
Still it would not have been enough if circumstances did not lead me to the opportunity to uncover my destiny. What are the chances really that a woman will be in the right place at the right time to discover that she has a knack for hypnosis of all things?
What I like to refer to as “my fateful moment” came in college. A friend of mine was coming over to my dorm room. Cassie. I had a huge crush on that girl. She took the college girl look very seriously to great effect. She never wore make-up but just had this flawlessly perfect, pale skin. Big blue eyes that could not even be hidden by nerdy glasses with big black frames. She liked to wear her chestnut hair in two long braids but it really worked for her somehow, you know?
Every once in a while we would do something outdoors and she would wear a sundress or a T-shirt and shorts and it was just hell not staring. The girl was hiding a really hot little body under all the loose clothes. She had these really full, mouthwatering tits that you never would have guessed existed just seeing her around school. I am not the only person whose jaw dropped the first time they saw what she was hiding.
Maybe the best part about her was her voice. A little girl’s voice. Any higher or belonging to another girl and it would have been annoying. But it suited her. She had the inflections of just what she was—a girl from Minnesota. Yah You Betcha!
She called me Honey all the time. She called everyone she liked Honey actually. An almost maternal word from someone that sounded like a young teen at best. She made it work though.
Cassie walked into my room wearing loose sky blue overalls with a white T-shirt underneath. You couldn’t make out a lot of her body but I remembered the details from before so it was alright.
We talked for a few minutes and she was the one that brought up hypnosis. Cassie had a really intelligent mind and loved exploring new ideas. She had been reading a book on the topic, spurred on by a chapter in her psych book. It really intrigued her I guess. Really ironic how that worked out for her.
She suggested we try it and I figured, why not? And to top it all off it played into a little kink of mine. Hypnosis and the idea of someone losing freewill seemed like a hot little idea and definitely pushed some buttons for me. It goes back to what I said earlier about being ideally suited for what I do.
So we sit down on the bed, and Cassie takes my hands and she begins to put into practice everything she has read ... and it is an utter and complete failure.
Several minutes went by and it was clear that it was just not working. And Cassie looked all upset in this really cute little girl way as in, Oh, Honey, are you sure you are really trying?”
And I wanted to say to her—but could put into words—the simple truth that trying too hard defeats the goal of letting go. And I want to tell her that part of the failure is my own because I cannot seem to give up that control.
I have one of those really active minds. It’s like the expression—work smarter, not harder. My mind works harder, whether it also works smarter I suppose is up for debate.
I am the type of person that likes to pick things apart. And now I pick minds apart. Hmmm, never thought of that. A new something to think about at three am.
But the point is that while she is trying to put me under I am thinking how cool it is. And how cool it would be if it worked. And how I always loved hypnosis in movies. And what would Cassie do to me if she really could do anything...
And I am thinking about her tits and how I would love to get my hands on them but how it would completely freak her out. And how I would lose her as a friend. And how she would tell everyone. But what if she was cool with it? And she is right there next to me, on the bed, and how it would be sooooo easy...And then I thought, God, maybe she will hypno me to breast feed off of her (minus the lactation). THEN I am wondering where that came from ‘cause who knew that was even a fantasy for me? And I wondered if her pussy was hairy or if she trimmed it. Are you getting why this was not working?
But it was more than that. It was Cassie’s voice. As sexy as I found the little girl thing is was not relaxing or soothing or guiding. It was not a voice suited for the task at hand.
Then it hit me. My voice. People were always talking about how I could do voice-over work and how compelling and soothing and sexy my voice was. A lot of the people were guys trying to get me into bed but you hear it enough times you know there must be some truth there.
I had a couple friends that would call me when they could not sleep. (They swore my voice could relax them like nothing else. Something about not just the hint of whiskey roughness but the slightly slower cadence.) And people tended to take my advice, even if it was the same piece of advice they ignored when ten other people gave it to them.
When I was fifteen my parents sat down with me and told me they were getting a divorce. My dad said it was “a long time coming” and my mom just nodded in this really weary way. They seemed so determined but somehow I persuaded them to give it another try. They split up anyhow right after I went away to college. We were all tired by that point, nobody was fighting for that marriage anymore. Anyhow, where was I?
I just seemed to able to get people to do things they never would normally attempt. In high school it led to us getting into trouble a lot and my friends telling their parents that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
I told Cassie I was sorry and that it was all my fault. (There was no way I was about to tell her that a voice straight out of Fargo was not going to put anybody under!) Then I asked her if I could have a few days to read up on it and give it a try on her. She smirked a little and looked skeptical but in the end said, Honey, suuuuure you can!
I looked at it as an interesting experiment and a hot little fantasy. I knew it probably would not work but it would keep my pussy wet in the meantime—no harm, no foul.
But I also knew something else—if it did work I was going to have some fun with those big sexy tits of hers. And that was incentive enough to study hard for this little test.
I also knew that some people would be appalled that I could even think of betraying my friend. I knew she trusted me and I knew she was, by all indications straight. I knew she was in a committed relationship—even if the guy was a real weenie And I knew if I had a shot at getting my hands on her I was going to do it.
And I knew it was not just some fantasy bullshit. You know what I’m talking about. Where you’re playing with yourself and thinking how if you only had the chance you would ... and you think of your most wicked fantasy or desire. I am talking about the really premium stuff that you tell nobody about! But you know it’s ok because there is no way you would really do it. But pretending you would just makes the cum ten times better. It was not like that at all. There was no game of, I will make Cassie my little sex poodle, all the while just thinking that only because it made me extra wet or got me off extra hard. It was the real deal for me. It was also me running toward my destiny.
It reminds me of a quote.“Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.” Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—yeah, the Sherlock Holmes guy. Only at that moment I didn’t know it was fate yet and really didn’t care if it was for good or ill. How do I sound to you? Fanatical? Egotistical? Delusional? Criminal? All of the above? Or am I starting to make sense to you?
So I crammed—and I don’t mean just my vibrator although there was a little of that, too. I studied books and went on the ‘net and gathered up all the information that I could. Every spare moment was devoted to this. If I would have worked that hard in my classes ... but I was discovering my calling. I even blew off chances to hang out with Cassie. Ironic but necessary.
I talked to some people who swore they knew what they were doing and had put people under. Most of them were full of shit, I saw that even then. But a couple people gave me valuable tips and told me that they thought it was possible, if done right, to take people past all limits. A couple of them tried to put me under and I think they walked away impressed that they couldn’t. I can only imagine where I would be now if they succeeded.
I had asked Cassie for a few days but in the end it was probably closer to six weeks. If she ever gave our conversation another thought she never mentioned it. Time spent with Cassie was usually time spent watching her read anyhow, so unless you got her started on a topic she didn’t exactly volunteer information.
I invited her over, she said she’d bring the wine. When she showed up I took the bottle from her and told her we would drink it later because it was not exactly conducive to my plans to hypnotize her. (Alcohol can complicate things and I was a newbie then.) I watched as the memory of her promise came back to her and she hemmed and hawed for a few but then agreed to do it. Just like most people did—and do—when I want something badly enough.
I told her to just relax for a few minutes until I was ready. She sat on the bed and we talked and gossiped while I prepared. I wanted her to see me doing all this because I didn’t want it to occur to her how well I had thought this through. I wanted her to believe that it was all there in the open, that nothing was done in a secretive way. Nothin’ up my sleeves folks?
So I lit some candles and put on some music and made the place as cozy as I could. To this day I am a stickler about using everything to my advantage that I possibly can. There’s a scene in a movie where a cop is giving up all his weapons and he is pulling out guns, and knives, maybe a pair of brass knuckles, I don’t even know what all he had on him—and then the cop says, ... and if that doesn’t work I piss on them. I can relate, although not literally.
I knew that the conversation and it’s very ordinary nature had put her at ease, too. A nice evening with a friend and girl talk and silly games of hypnosis—maybe pull out the old Ouija Board too. What fun, huh?
She wore a skirt and top that looked vaguely vintage. That was one of Cassie’s things—vintage—although she liked vintage furs the best. She loved animals but she figured if the coat predated her birth that she was not directly responsible for the death. I actually could never argue that point too much.
Her clothes were not form fitting but I could make out the shape of her bra a little. It struck me as so erotic, because I knew that if all went well, I would be stripping away not just layers of clothing but layers of resistance.
I sat down on the bed and looked at her. I told her what a crazy idea I knew this all was and how I did not know where to start. I showed her a crystal and I told her that I had been planning on using it but that I wasn’t sure how to do it. I just kept talking about it casually, friend to friend. I remember saying to her, Isn’t it a pretty crystal though? Doesn’t it just catch the light so beautifully? And I remember she smiled. And nodded a little. And I smiled back and looked into her eyes.
Cassie, I said, I can almost see how this could work though. With the way the crystal pulls you in. It is almost as if there is a world contained in there. A safe little world where nothing can harm you. Away from school, and the problems with Jeff, and school, and any other worries or cares.
I saw it working. She was going under seamlessly. I had expected her to say at any second, Honey, I know what you are doing and you can’t slip it past me that easily. But she didn’t even think it because never saw me leading her. Because she trusted me that absolutely and because I was good at it. It was such a power trip! It still is in case you are wondering.
I continued until I knew she was deeply under. I told her to lean back against the pillows on the bed and I removed her glasses. Isn’t it funny how much more vulnerable a person seems with their glasses removed? I do not know if is just that they have one less layer on. Or because you are seeing how they look just before they fall asleep or awaken. Maybe it’s because one of their senses is somewhat blunted. Just something I think about sometimes.
Cassie is there and I am there. I watched her chest rise and fall with each breath she took.
Each breath ticked off moments of her life and her breathing became a timekeeper, counting off moments of her life. I am suddenly aware of my heartbeat. But I didn’t just feel it in my chest, I felt it in the throb of my pussy. In the aching desire that had made my nipples hard but then made itself truly at home between my legs.
And in this method of keeping time, time became meaningless somehow so that I cannot even tell you how much time went by—it could have been a minute or an hour.
I began to probe her mind a little. To find out what makes My Cassie tick. All her dirty little secrets and perceived sins. All her quirks and desires. And yes, she told me does think about girls, although she would not act on it. And yes, she has had thoughts about me, but would never act on that either.
And then I changed her. Made her what I wanted her to be. I wanted her to be someone that liked to show off her big tits so that is what she became. I wanted her to fuck girls so that’s what I made her—a sexy little bisexual treat. I wanted her to love to fuck me in particular so that when she “seduced” me a week later I was not at all surprised ... although I put on a hell of an act.
I wanted her to ditch the loser so they broke up—about an hour before she showed up to my room with wine and asked me had I ever thought of her in “that way.” If I hadn’t before the fact that she was wearing the same overalls as before—sans a blouse or bra—would have made me think about it then. Every time she moved the looseness of the overalls gave anybody that cared to look the most interesting view.
I found out that the changing her was nearly as hot as the sex for me, although I loved the sex when it happened. I decided that the first time we played I wanted her fully there but I made sure to find out what all those clothes had been hiding and it was just as good as I had imagined. (The memory of those tits even all these years later still gets to me.) Then I watched her finger herself to orgasm while she talked about how she could not wait to fuck girls and flash her tits all over town. That little girl voice was so hot saying all those nasty, sexy things.
I let her leave thinking she had just fallen asleep and I gave my suggestions time to work on her. But before she left I noticed her look at me in a slightly different way and I noticed that at some point—it must have been when she used the bathroom—she had slipped off her bra.
After she left that night I just sat there overwhelmed with the possibilities, the knowledge that my life had changed. There was no going back—I knew I had found something I was good at and that I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I used the contacts I had made during my research and starting building up a reputation. I felt I had a knack for it but when I saw people’s reactions I knew that I must really have something unique.
Letting them use Cassie didn’t hurt either. I just loved watching her getting it from behind and seeing her tits bounce and jiggle. I ended up selling Cassie to one of those guys—not that she ever knew that—I just had her fall in love with him. He actually seemed really decent and it was clear he had feelings for her. They made a really cute couple and he promised me he would take care of her and encourage her intelligence. She was my friend and I owed her that much.
At first my contacts helped me find jobs and I gave them a part of my profits but soon my reputation proceeded me. And the money rolled in. What would you pay to be able to make someone to lover of your dreams? Smooth out their rougher edges? Make them the ultimate fuck buddy?
It’s not like I am listed in the yellow pages. I worked then, and I work now, by discreet word of mouth. Discreet because I am the last person you want to piss off. What I have given I can take away—with interest. I do not mean to sound cold but a girl has to protect herself. I work strictly by referrals.
Your eyes widened when all the things I mentioned I could offer earlier were sexual. Oh, I can make people stop smoking or biting their nails or a million other things but people usually do not pay the really big bucks for that. Healthy lungs seem to be pretty secondary to giving them the slut or stud of their dreams. In fact some people actually have a smoking fetish and have me get their partners to begin smoking. Weird, huh?
Sometimes it is more about sex than other times but the sex is usually there. Had a guy come in, quiet, middle-aged, well-to-do but not flaunting it or anything. He wanted me to help his daughter improve her grades, apply herself, actually make her a little smarter if possible. And then he asks me quietly and politely if I could give her a taste for wearing little nighties and maybe have her like to walk around in a towel after her shower. Yeah, I can do that too.
Sometimes it strikes me that I am supposed to feel guilty. By society’s standards my choices should be: wracked by guilt, immoral so I get off on hurting people, or amoral where I just do not give a damn. I’ve never had guilt because I believe that what I do is what I am built to do. If a cat catches a mouse and does it well that is design, instinct, nature—they are built for it. Do you get mad at the cat?
As to immoral or amoral—also not me. Sure my job gets me off but people should enjoy what they do. I am a believer in fate. I believe people come to me for a reason and knowing that all the rest is easy. I am very happy that I can help my clients get what they want—an amoral person clearly would not feel that way.
I would never deliberately hurt someone but when you get down to it how do we ever know for sure what hurts another person? Say you have a woman whose husband loves her but is sick of the fact that she will not suck cock. I rearrange her mind a little and suddenly she is on her knees every chance she gets. And now hubby’s home more. You cannot convince me that anybody is damaged there.
Had a woman exec come in wanting me to “do” her personal assistant. It seems her assistant was heard telling some of the other girls that SHE should be the boss and my client should be the personal assistant. After a session with me the PA became fond of dressing trashy and eating out my client during conference calls, all the while being aware of how demeaning it all was but she also finds herself incredibly aroused. There was also a marked drop in her ambition level but then again, I just described her new ambitions. And is she hurt, really? She certainly isn’t causing as much discord in the office and most likely gets herself off every night thinking about her day at work. How many people can say that?
The best one? It happened about a month ago. A client called up and told me he had referred someone. He’s all close mouthed about the name of this person but he tells me I will get a real kick out of it. He sets up an appointment on their behalf and leaves me to wonder.
The next day an attractive middle aged man walked in with an attractive girl in her late teens. I looked at the girl and knew I knew her from somewhere and then it hit me exactly who she was! The first time I remembered seeing her she was in her early teens and playing the best friend of the star in some sitcom on one of those channels for teens. Wholesome, freckles across nose, long brunette hair, sexy little mouth that you were not supposed to focus on. This was the girl next door that gave the boy next door wet dreams that he then felt guilty about having.
While the sitcom was still on the girl put out a couple cds and they sold like hot cakes. By the third cd her sales started to fall because her fans were getting older. They bought her bubble gum at first because she was slightly older and dressed like they did only the clothes fit her curves a little better. But now these same girls are into the singers that are dressing trashy—they no longer care about a girl that dresses like them, they want a girl that dresses like they wish they could!
The older guy is her manager and he wants me to help her change her image and feel better about her body so she can be a little more sexy. At least that is his cover story, what he is telling her. He asks her to step into the next room and once he is assured I am on the level and not opposed to most anything he tells me what he really wants.
He wants her to lose some serious impulse control. He wants her to get wasted at a couple clubs and make sure the paparazzi get it all on camera, beginning with the upskirt without panties as she exits the car. We are talking dancing on the table, letting fans grope her, and flashing her tits to the crowd.
Speaking of tits. Now that she is legal he wants her to get her tits done and for them to be just a little too big to be real. She will deny they’re implants and blame it on a last minute growth spurt but nobody will be fooled. She’ll love dressing to show them off. He wants all the little girls to want to dress like her even while they are telling all their other little friends how slutty they think she is.
He wants her to give a memorable performance at the next awards show (hell, kiss another skank if that is what it takes—with maybe a little grope for a new spin). He wants her to sing suggestive songs and have the dance moves to really sell them. And eventually he wants her to do Playboy, hell, maybe even Penthouse.
Actually he wants her to be on a lot of magazine covers. Both as the girl that men want to fuck (and no more guilt about thinking about her in that way) and as an example of child star gone bad. He wants panels of has been celebs talking about her on talk shows—the dangers of stardom too soon. About then the little girls will start to see her as misunderstood. She can dress anyway she likes and have fun and adults just do not get it...
He wants her to take turns courting the media and flipping them off. He wants her to make heartfelt pleas for privacy one week and then cause another scandal the next.
And most of all he wants to have control over her so when the time is right she will repent of her sins, enter rehab, take the tits down a notch, review her options, and give an exclusive interview to the highest bidder. More magazine covers to follow. And he wants her to attribute her recovery to her manager that stood by her in the rough times and who now is her beloved fiance.
Where before she was the “Don’t” on the fashions pages she will now be the “Do” as she strolls down the red carpet. The hookerware will be replaced by designer sexiness.
In short she will go from girl next door, to trashy slut, to classy and sexy—maybe give acting a try. But here is the punch line ... for the first two phases she will remain a virgin. He will pop her cherry on her wedding night. And while she is redeemed in the eyes of the public in private she will be the closet freak they always thought she was. Classic, huh?
Just read an interesting blind item in the paper this morning about rumors to the effect of a teen star being a little out of control. I didn’t buy the paper, it was delivered with the flowers that were not signed, but I knew exactly who sent them.
The only reason I do not reveal the star’s name is because it is fun to watch you try to figure it out. I think you have a couple possibilities and I am pretty sure one is right. It doesn’t matter—not if you guess, not if I tell you.
For that matter I could give you my full name, access to my files, my social security number, my mother’s maiden name, the passwords to my computer, my purse and all my keys and that would not matter either. And not because I trust you, although you do seem honest enough.
By the way, you believe me now. I saw the moment it happened. But that doesn’t matter either. Although right after you realized I was on the level you seemed to look more flushed—turned you on, huh? That I can appreciate.
But it was nice to see that we have this in common, this interest. Not just because it is great to connect to someone but because it really makes it easier and while I like a challenge I want it to be easier tonight.
The truth is that you have been staring at the crystal in my hand for the last several minutes, the way the light plays across it. Now why would you go and do that when I told you about Cassie? You don’t have to answer, we both know.
What you are going to do is signal the waitress to bring the bill which you will pay with an added generous tip. You will then tell her that we will be leaving in a few minutes and not to disturb us. Then you will stare at the crystal for a few more minutes because I need you to go deeper for me. You want that, don’t you? You are suggestible at this point, and to tell you the truth you could not stop this anymore even if you wanted to. But we both know you don’t want this to stop. However. I am taking you deeper still.
Are you one of those people that like to know ahead of time what’s going to happen or do you like to give up all control? Don’t worry, you’ll get both.
We will then go to your place and on the way there you will tell me your deepest desires, the stuff you tell nobody. But you will tell me and the more embarrassing, the more extreme the desire is the more you’ll be turned on. You will be more vulnerable than you have ever been in your whole life and it will be the hottest experience you’ve ever had.
When we get to you apartment or house or trailer—it does not matter—we are going to have a really good time. So good that the neighbors will probably complain. You may or may not know what they are talking about because I may or may not allow you to remember it.
But you will not really recall a whole lot of what happened before we left here. You may recall certain details if you ever come across someone that can use my unique services, or even if you might need them and can somehow afford me, but I am afraid that client confidentiality means most of what I told you will be a complete blank. Sorry.
Now, I do believe it’s time to signal the waitress ...