Melissa didn’t *need* to waste time arguing with misogynists on the internet. She was pretty, educated, and famous. She had a devastatingly beautiful girlfriend, and she made good money touring universities to lecture on feminist theory.
But she couldn’t help herself. When “@onyourkneesbitch” accused her on Twitter of being a “lying feminist cunt”, she responded with a withering barrage of insults in response.
And of course, it happened in front of all her followers – and, for that matter, the entire internet – so when the troll replied by making her an offer, everyone saw it – and everyone would know if she turned it down.
“@melissa4real – You get hypnosis to compel you to only tell the truth in your lectures, and I’ll donate a million dollars to a women’s charity. I’ve donated $200,00 right now, to show I’m serious – and the rest will follow if you’re still able to say that women deserve respect after the hypnosis.”
It was a ridiculous proposal – but now that she had the world’s attention, if she refused it or ignored it, it would sound like an admission that she didn’t believe the things she lectured about.
So she reached out, and awkwardly found herself scheduled for a hypnosis appointment.
She remembered little of the actual hypnosis. The hypnotist appeared to be on the level – she’d made her own enquiries – and she was satisfied that the only suggestion she would receive was that she must tell only the truth in her lectures. She left the hypnotist’s office feeling good – relaxed, contented, happy.
Her next scheduled lecture was at an interstate university. She flew up with her girlfriend Bailey on an overnight flight, and stayed in a nearby hotel. Melissa slept on the plane, but Bailey couldn’t quite fall asleep, so by the time they checked into the hotel Bailey was a wreck.
“Go do your lecture, baby,” Bailey said. “I’ll take some sleeping tablets and knock myself out for a few hours. Then I’ll be rested by tonight, and we can go hit the town.”
The lecture hall at the university was packed. Melissa was a popular speaker, and tickets had sold out quickly. Most of the audience were young undergrad girls studying feminist courses. Some were male students. A small contingent, she knew, would be trolls, men who would show up to heckle and likely be escorted out by security.
The topic of her talk was “Motivation: Women Striving For Their Dreams”, and she was supposed to open it by talking about how she would let nothing – no man, no system, no preconception – stop her from reaching success.
She looked out across the sea of faces, and opened her mouth to begin.
“I’m lazy,” she heard herself say. “And I’m kind of a bitch. Whenever anything gets hard, I give up – because complaining about it will make a better lecture than actually putting in the work to fix it.”
There were gasps in the audience. Melissa’s eyes widened. What was she saying? Why was she saying this?
“And I’m actually kind of stupid,” she continued. “It’s better to quit early, and believe that I’m being oppressed, then try and realise I’m just failing because I’m not very smart.”
She giggled – a high-pitched, stupid sound. It was her real, natural laugh – the one she’d spent a decade trying to suppress because it made her sound like a bimbo.
“The last lecture I gave,” she said, “I went into the toilets before I started and masturbated, because my girlfriend had been licking my pussy but hadn’t finished me off. And I used this thick whiteboard marker to fuck my pussy with, until I came. Then I got to the lecture theatre, and realised I didn’t have anything to write on the board with – because it was still in my cunt. Can you believe that? And I had to give the whole lecture pretending there wasn’t office stationery stuffed up my fuckhole.”
She giggled again.
“Afterwards when I took it out of my pussy, I made myself lick it clean, licking all of my slut juices off with my tongue, because it was what I deserved for being such a slut.”
There were outraged sounds in the audience – and sniggering from the men. A couple of girls in the front row were leaving in disgust.
Melissa tried to make herself stop talking. Why was she saying this? She was supposed to be saying now smart women were, and how they deserved to take the top spots in society.
Except – she didn’t really believe that, did she? Did any person who could lose an entire whiteboard marker up their cunt deserve respect? She couldn’t quite convince herself that they did.
What she was saying was the truth. The *real* truth. About the stupid imposter slut that she knew she was.
And as she spoke, she felt her cunt wettening – and that just confirmed the reality of what was happening. Would the smart, capable women she lectured about get sopping wet from humiliating themselves in front of a crowd?
She didn’t think so.
“I don’t want to be saying any of this,” said Melissa. “It’s hypnosis that’s making me. But it’s hypnosis that makes me tell the truth. This is all real. This is all things I’ve really done, that I really believe. Did you know my cunt is wet right now?”
She giggled again.
“My girlfriend thinks I’m a lesbian,” she continued, “and she has no idea I’m bisexual. I fantasise about men all the time. That’s the kind of hypocrite I am. My girlfriend confided to me once that she was raped by a man in a nightclub. It was so traumatic for her – but you know? I fantasise about that every time I fuck her. I picture her getting raped by a man, and it makes me cum. And then sometimes I picture it’s *me* being raped, and I cum even harder.”
Stop talking, she begged herself. Just stop.
But every time she did, she couldn’t help but think of things that she really didn’t want to confess – and then she immediately had to confess them.
“I think if I was raped,” she said, “I’d thank my rapist. Because if I was raped, I’d cum. I’d cum so hard. And I know I should report it to the police, but I wouldn’t. That’s the truth. Because I deserve it. Whenever I cum from thinking about my girlfriend being raped, I know I deserve to be raped myself. That’s the kind of woman I am. That’s what women are.”
More people were leaving. The audience was now a mixture of shocked, betrayed girls – although some had a certain lustful excitement in their eyes – and leering, horny men.
“After this lecture,” she said, “I’m going to go to the toilets and masturbate. Because I’m so wet right now, I can’t help myself. And I’m going to do it in the *men’s* toilets, with the stall door open, because I know that’s what I deserve. You can follow me there, if you want.”
Oh god, she was going to get raped. She was going to get raped.
She was almost cumming, right now. If only she could squeeze her thighs tighter against her cunt, then maybe…
Inside, she was crying. On the outside, her face was a mask of stupid, slutty lust.
“And in case that’s not enough for you, here’s one extra little bit of truth,” she said. “Right now, my girlfriend is asleep in our hotel room. She’s taken drugs, so literally nothing will wake her up for the next four hours. We’re in room 316, and the code to open the door is 4357. She’s not on the pill, and this is the fertile part of her cycle.”
She moaned; an inhuman, whorish sound.
“Just, please,” she begged, “if you rape – and I want you to rape her *so bad* – please just film it, so I can see – so I can watch her being raped…”
And that was the truth.
She orgasmed then, an amazing hands-free experience that made her whole body shake, and her knees give way. She dropped to the floor and, her mind blank except for lust, she began trying to crawl out of the lecture theatre on all fours, to go to the toilets and masturbate.
She never even made it out of the lecture theatre. The first man raped her right there on the stage.
And, just as she had promised, she thanked him. And all the others.
If you enjoyed this story, then you’ll love the 24 stories collected in Wicked Thoughts – Stories of Hypnotic Humiliation, available as an e-book from my creator site for only $3.99 USD! Purchases fund the creation of new, free content. (Click here to view in store.)