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When Alison got on the train the next morning, Ciaran knew at a glance that his program of conditioning was working. He knew it by the haunted look in her eyes; by her insecure, embarrassed body language; and by the embarrassed flush in her cheeks. And he could guess what had happened.

It was not yet the morning on which Alison would first molest another woman. But it was the first time Ciaran had been on the same train as Alison. He normally chose to drive, but the data he had access to through Alison’s compromised watch suggested that she was using public transport to travel from her house to the office each morning, and Ciaran had decided to shift his own routine to have more opportunity to observe her.

He pictured the events of last night, starting with Alison’s shock, outrage and mortified humiliation as she realised that Ciaran had been fully aware of her raised skirt, her exposed panties, and her wet, drooling pussy. 

She had gone home in a haze of shame and embarrassment – but with her pussy still wet. At home she had stripped naked, eager to be out of clothes that had absorbed a whole day’s worth of sweat and arousal. And then she had been unable to help herself any longer, and begun to masturbate – maybe in her lounge room, maybe on her bed, but in any case with a desperate, slutty urgency that couldn’t be denied.

The voices from the hypnotic program on the Q-Star would have echoed through her head as she frantically fingered her cunt. “Dumb big-titted baby.” “Perverted little slut.” She might have even started to cry as she masturbated, unable to escape the feelings of guilt and shame arising from her behaviour during the day.

But eventually she would realise that she couldn’t cum – couldn’t find release – without the ideas that she had spent the day becoming sexually fixated upon. She would begin to think about women being sexually harassed – molested – raped – and her pussy would get wetter, and her orgasm would grow closer. And finally she would realise that she wanted – *needed* – to see the video again, of a non-consenting Ella being violently raped. She would access it on her phone, and stare at it, and rub urgently at her clit while breathing in slutty, heavy gasps, and finally, as Nathan Horrocks ejaculated into the sobbing girl’s anus, Alison would find her own powerful, shameful, orgasm, and be reminded with every shuddering wave of pleasure what a disgusting traitor to her own gender she had inexplicably become.

He couldn’t be sure what had happened after that. Maybe she had fallen directly asleep. Maybe she had slapped at her own tits and pussy, trying to hurt them, trying to punish herself for what she had done. Maybe she had lain awake with her own shame running through her head.

But when her sleep had come, it had been full of dreams – nightmares – of rape, and degradation, and shame. And when it sensed her sleeping, her Q-Star watch resumed its quiet white noise, whispering its messages into her mind over and over as she dreamed. “You can’t do it.” “You need a man. “Girls deserve rape.”

Maybe she had awoken in the middle of the night, needing to masturbate again. Maybe she had slept through, and it wasn’t until the morning that she realised her pussy was once again wet and needing attention.

But she had still been horny, and guilty, and insecure at the time she had dressed, and when the time came for her to select her underwear, Ciaran’s words had been in her mind.

“Those white panties you’re wearing are very sexy,” he had said. “But I like red or pink better.”

She had stood, looking at her underwear drawer, aware that she was blushing, aware that her blush was growing deeper with each second. No one was going to see her underwear at work, least of all Ciaran. She wasn’t going to be a slut. She was going to be professional. It was inappropriate that Ciaran had remarked on her underwear at all. It was an example of the very culture she was supposed to be eliminating.

And yet, there was that voice in her mind. “Pleasing men feels good.” It had been so long since a man told her she was sexy. What would it hurt to do as she was told? And didn’t it feel *good*, to do as she was told? Didn’t she enjoy those very words – “do as she was told”?

She had never felt so embarrassed and humiliated in the privacy of her own home as she did when she took her red lace panties out of the drawer and slowly pulled them up her legs to snug into place over her pussy.

She wasn’t doing it because a man had told her to. She just wanted to wear them, that’s all. It didn’t matter if it pleased a man – even if pleasing men *did* feel good – so very good.

Anyway, she hoped nobody *did* see them. Because her cunt was throbbing so hard she could barely concentrate on anything else, and it was wet – so very wet – and it felt like she had soaked through the crotch of the red panties even before she had left the house.

So now here she was, standing in the centre aisle of the train, one hand raised to grip the handhold loop above her head, and Ciaran was watching her from the other end of the carriage. She hadn’t seen him. She didn’t know he was there.

The train was packed, as it was most days, and Ciaran was about to perform an experiment. A homeless man was standing near Alison. He had gotten on at the same station as Ciaran, and Ciaran had offered him a hundred dollar note to do something when Alison boarded the train.

For the last minute, the man had been working his way up to stand behind Alison. Now he slipped one hand under Alison’s skirt, and squeezed her ass.

Alison jumped, and her face went white, and Ciaran saw in that moment a choice passed through her mind with perfect clarity. She could respond in one of two ways to this harassment. She could jerk away, and turn, and confront her accuser. She could have an argument right here in the train – one that she would be taking part in while her pussy was wet, and her mind was confused with thoughts of guilt and arousal. She might be late to work. She would cause a scene. Everyone would look at her and think she was being a difficult, unpleasant, bitch.

Or…

Pleasing men felt good. Girls deserved rape.

Her pussy was so wet. And no one knew this was happening (so far as she knew). What would it hurt?

And Ciaran watched as she blushed – and then pushed her ass backwards, towards the hand, to give it better access.

Ciaran had his phone out, and was discreetly filming. This was better than he had hoped. Only her second day of conditioning, and Alison was already letting a stranger molest her in public. He wanted this on film.

From where he was sitting, he couldn’t see the man he had hired to molest Alison, but he could see her reactions. From her initial blush, he suspected that the man was exploring Alison’s ass, running his hand over it, squeezing it, tugging teasingly at her panties. Then Alison squeaked, and jerked. Had the man done something? Moved her panties aside? Poked a finger into her anus?

And then Alison’s face went even redder – but at the same she arched her body ever so slightly, pushing her ass back towards her molester even further, and Ciaran knew that the man had slipped his fingers into Alison’s cunt, under her panties, and was beginning to slowly fingerfuck her. He watched as Alison’s face grew more flushed, her eyes unfocused, her breathing became heavier.

This continued until Alison’s stop, but the man didn’t let Alison cum. Ciaran didn’t want Alison to have that release before arriving at the office. At the last moment, when the train doors opened, the man pushed something into Alison’s twat – a $5 note, although it would not be until nearly an hour later that Alison would have the chance to pull it out and realise that she had been a whore, and an exceptionally cheap one at that.

And with that, Ciaran rose, and moved to Alison, and ushered her off the train, while acting like he had only just spotted her. “Alison! We catch the same train, apparently! So good to see you!”

Alison, confused, followed him obediently. Ciaran didn’t want her heading to a public toilet and masturbating, or otherwise curing her arousal. He wanted her to get used to walking with him in public while trapped in a state of slutty, delirious lust. He wanted her to understand that being so wet she couldn’t think straight was a normal state for her to be in, especially in public and especially when she was with him.

He passed her a sandwich as they walked through the city streets, heading for the office. “Here’s your breakfast,” he told her. “Eat up.” Once again, it was (unbeknownst to Alison) liberally flavoured with Ciaran’s sperm. Eating his cum in public was also something Alison should get used to, he thought, and indeed, Alison obediently munched at the sandwich as they walked.

“Are you all ready for your presentation?” he asked her.

“What presentation?” she replied, confused.

“You’re giving a general presentation on the plan for improving workplace culture,” he told her. “Don’t you remember? We discussed it yesterday.”

They had done no such thing – but he had correctly guessed that Alison had no real idea what she had or hadn’t discussed yesterday. The day was nothing but a slutty haze of hypnosis, rape porn and masturbation. She accepted without question that they had talked about this, and that she had forgotten it.

“Uh…” she said.

You can’t do this, said her mind. You can’t do this. You need a man.

“I’m not sure I’m prepared,” she said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Ciaran thrilled to hear her parroting back the words he had put in her mind.

“Of course you can,” he told her. “It will be fine. Anyway, you need to do this, to win the respect of the men in the firm. Otherwise they’ll never respect you.”

You can’t do this, her mind said. You need a man.

“Please,” she said, desperate. “Can you help?”

“You don’t want my help,” he said. “This is what we hired you for, right?”

She stopped, and looked at him with big, desperate eyes, on the verge of panic. 

She looked so damned sexy like that that he wanted to rape her right then and there. Her breasts were heaving. Her face was flushed with embarrassment and arousal. She smelled like sex, and there were little drops of his sperm on her lips from the sandwich. She looked vulnerable and rapeable in the most amazingly delicious way.

“Please,” she said. “Please help me with this. I need help with this presentation.”

He took a moment to reply. He wanted to look at that desperate, needy face a little longer – and every moment he waited increased her desperation.

Then, finally, he said, “Okay, I’ll help. But I don’t have time for argument. Are you going to do exactly as I say?”

“Yes,” she said – almost whispering – with some part of her mind cheering at the pleasant feeling of doing as she was told.

He smiled – a big, genuine, heartfelt smile. “Good,” he said. “I’m pleased.”

And though he had had an erection already, the look of genuine joy and affection that passed across her face at his pleasure made him so hard it was painful.

“Let’s head up to my office,” he said. “And then we can start on fixing your outfit…”

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