Tori had trouble making decisions. All it took was someone to ask her if she wanted Coke or Pepsi to leave her paralysed and unable to say anything at all. It had been hell throughout her schooling, and now that she was out of school it was killing her employment prospects. She’d flubbed interviews for four different dream jobs, paralysed by the interviewer’s questions, and had ended up having to take work as a supermarket checkout girl while she worked out what to do next.
She ended up blushingly explaining the problem to her favourite uncle. He offered her a solution – hypnosis. He knew a hypnotherapist that could help with inhibitions like this, and was willing to pay for an appointment.
So Tori headed off to the hypnotist, let him lead her into a trance, and had him implant one simple thought in her head, to make her more decisive:
“When you’re offered a choice, you will immediately pick one of the options, and commit to it.”
It worked. When the session was over, the receptionist asked her, “Do you want to pay now, or receive a bill?”
“I’ll pay now!” said Tori immediately, and then did.
She caught a taxi home. “Do you want the radio on, miss,” asked the taxi driver. “Or would you prefer to chat?”
Tori frowned. She actually would prefer just silence – but she immediately said, “Chat is fine!” and then spent the rest of the trip discussing the traffic with the driver. It bothered her that she hadn’t been able to choose an option that she hadn’t been given – but she was too excited by her new decisiveness to really worry.
The next day she turned up to work at the supermarket, put on her supermarket-branded apron, and began scanning groceries for customers.
She still felt a little spacey from the hypnotism yesterday, and she wasn’t as efficient as she could have been. Around lunchtime, her slow work collided with a particularly irritable client – a redheaded, bearded man in his 30s – who ended up getting increasingly frustrated as she slowly tried to remember the unique codes for all the fresh vegetables he was buying.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed eventually. “Were you born stupid, or do you just finger your cunt every day until your brain turns off?”
Tori opened her mouth – and froze. She had to choose one. She had to. She didn’t want to. She had to make a choice, and choose one of the options.
I *wasn’t* born stupid, she heard herself think angrily, and then….
“I just finger my cunt every day until my brain turns off,” she heard herself say. Her face immediately went bright red.
The customer looked shocked – and then gave a little surprised laugh. “Are you serious?” he asked. “Or do you just like sounding like a slut?”
She heard herself make a little inaudible whimper, as she was caught by the choice again. She *wasn’t* serious, so…
“I just like sounding like a slut,” she said brightly, her face crimson with shame.
“Are you making fun of me?” asked the customer. “Or are you literally unable to avoid picking one of the options when I give you a choice?”
“I have to pick an option when you give me a choice,” she blurted out – and then, on the verge of tears, she abandoned her register, and ran off to the break room, leaving the customer’s shopping half-scanned and the till unattended.
Management yelled at her, of course. The customer had been very honest, and stolen neither his shopping, nor the contents of the till, and had not filed a complaint. But if she ever did anything like that again, she was warned, she would be fired, AND she would be liable for any theft or losses that resulted.
That night she tried to make another appointment with the hypnotist to get her hypnotic conditioning fixed – but the receptionist said that an appointment would cost money that Tori didn’t have, and Tori’s uncle seemed unwilling to pay for another appointment, and Tori was a little too embarrassed to explain what the problem was, anyway.
So she went back to work the next day.
And, to her despair, her second customer was the same redheaded man from yesterday.
“So,” he asked her, as he set his groceries down, “do you want to stay at your register until I say I’m done, this time? Or do you want me to tell the world about your embarrassing little condition?”
She blushed, and said, “I’ll stay at my register.”
He paused, thinking, and said, “There’s something missing from that answer. A note of respect. Tell me, from now on, would you prefer to call me “sir”, or “master”?”
Tori’s eyes bulged. She wanted to run away again – but she’d committed to staying at the register. She tried to scan his groceries quickly, so he would be done. “I’d prefer to call you ‘sir’, sir,” she said.
“Good girl,” said the man. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re respectful. And you can’t be making much money in this job. I tell you what, I’ll help you out by buying your underwear off you.” He pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet. “You’ll have to take it off and give it to me right here and now, though. Would you like to sell me your bra, or your panties?”
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to sell him *any* of her clothes! But….
“My panties, sir,” she whispered.
“Go on then,” he said, waving the money at her.
She had picked the panties because they would be easier to remove without drawing attention. Sure, she could get her bra off without removing her shirt, but it was so much easier to look around briefly to see if anyone was watching, then lift her skirt, hook the waistband of her panties, and quickly pull them down her legs and step out of them. Which she did, and then placed them on the checkout, blushing.
They were pink and lacy – and a little wet at the crotch. Her blush deepened as she realised that, yes, her pussy *was* wet. God, was she the kind of slut who got *aroused* from this kind of abuse? She hated herself, and she hated her traitorous pussy more.
“Good girl,” said the man. “Go on, pack them into my shopping bags.”
Tori had almost finished scanning the man’s shopping. She gratefully tucked her panties into one of his plastic shopping bags.
He paid for his groceries, and then gave her the fifty dollar note. “This one’s for you, not the cash register,” he said. “But – oh no! You don’t have any pockets on that uniform! You’ll have to keep it somewhere else. Tell me – are you going to stuff it up your pussy, or your asshole?”
She looked at him, in pleading despair. Surely he didn’t expect her to… but she had to make a choice.
“I’ll stuff it up my pussy, sir,” she whispered – and she did, lifting her skirt and cramming the fifty-dollar bill into her (very wet) fuckhole. She felt like a dirty whore. She wished the man would leave.
He smiled and said, “Well, it’s time for me to go. But I’d like to see you again. Are you going to tell me your name, or do you just prefer to be called ‘slut’?”
“My name is Tori, sir,” she said, quickly.
“Good girl, Tori,” said the man. “I’m James. Here’s my business card.” It was black, with silver writing, and it provided his phone number and email but no clue as to what his job was.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, intending to throw the card away at the first opportunity.
“So how are we going to meet up, Tori?” James asked. “Are you going to truthfully text me your work shifts from now on, so I can come and visit you here? Or are you going to tell me your home address and give me a key to your front door?”
She wanted to cry, or at least a little bit. She had thought he was about to leave, and she could escape – but both of these options would let him see her again. And, worse, she would be cooperating in that. She would be *inviting* him to see her again.
But the hypnosis was ironclad.
“I’ll send you my shifts, sir,” she said.
“Good girl, Tori,” he said. “And thank you for your panties.” And then he left.
Tori blushed all the way through the rest of her shift, sure that someone would notice she wasn’t wearing panties. She didn’t take the money out of her pussy – James was right, she had nowhere to put it – and then when it was time to go home, she actually forgot it was in there, so that it was not until she got home that she suddenly remembered and fished the cunt-soaked bill out of her snatch.
As she looked at the wet, disgusting thing, she felt like she was going to cry – but she didn’t. Instead, her hand went back to her pussy, and she started to rub her clit – softly at first, then harder and harder, until suddenly she was shaking with a powerful orgasm, trying not to scream.
What was happening to her? Why was she acting like such a whore? When she had recovered from her orgasm, she actually slapped her pussy a couple of times, and pinched her clit, trying to punish them into behaving – but it just made her want to masturbate again. Blushing, she jerked her hands away from her cunt.
She thought about trying to go back to the psychologist.
But instead, she got out James’ card, looked at the number – and began to text him her work shifts for the next week….