The Women’s Role Model of the Year awards were run by a feminist lobby organisation, mostly as a fundraiser. They would select a pretty young girlboss to celebrate – someone who was attractive, successful, and loudly feminist – and charge hundreds of dollars a seat to the awards dinner, and the night would climax with the winner receiving a gold statuette in the shape of an empowered woman (named “the Emily”, after the award’s founder).
This year the winner was Amanda Iverns, who ran a successful women’s clothing line, and who had written the bestselling book “Men – Do We Really Need Them”? She was pretty blonde, and barely 23, and she beamed and gushed on stage as she received her award statuette.
What Amanda didn’t know was that she had been chosen by Justin as the test subject for his new hypnotic process – a process that would soon transform and ruin her life.
In the week following the award ceremony, Justin posed as a reporter, hoping to interview Amanda for a fictitious women’s magazine. Amanda fell for the ruse, and attended his “offices” in a largely deserted building – whereupon Justin promptly held a chloroformed napkin against her mouth until she passed out, and then transferred her to his soundproof basement for processing.
While she was unconscious, Justin stripped Amanda nude, and took the liberty of raping her a few times in her sleep. Her cunt needed lubrication, but she was otherwise a good fuck, and he had a vague hope that the rapes might put a baby inside her. He filmed the rapes, with his face obscured, so that Amanda would have a record of the moment of her impregnation, in the event that Justin’s seed took.
Then he put her in the chair in the processing room, and allowed her to wake up.
The processing room was simple. Amanda was strapped to a chair, facing a screen that was larger than her range of vision. There was a vibrating dildo between her legs, with a thick phallus stuffed up her fuckhole, and a buzzing external arm that rested against her clit. There was no escape, no way to turn away – and no way to shut out the sounds and noises.
The screen blasted her with bright, high-speed static and images, and the speakers in the room roared noise at her, at volumes that left her unable to think. And through it all, the vibrator buzzed away.
Justin had discovered that there was a combination of light and sound that bypassed the female brain – a backdoor, of a sort, that let you reprogram their minds. He could have used this discovery for good, to end addictions, to cure trauma, to remove insecurity. But instead he wanted to use it to torture pretty young feminists.
He kept her there for three days. She was nourished through an IV. She was allowed to wet herself exactly where she sat. There was no escape from the process.
When it was done, she cried with gratitude for him turning off the sound and lights. He told her if she was really grateful she could suck his cock, or else he’d turn them back on, and in her broken state she slobbered with pathetic eagerness to extract his dick from his pants, and bring him orgasm in her mouth.
He hosed her down with a high pressure hose, and then kept her for a further day, to make sure there were no unexpected after-effects of the process. At the end of the day, he raped her cunt again. She had recovered enough to protest, and struggle, and that honestly made it much more enjoyable for him than when she had been sleeping.
And then he set her loose, returning her to her home, and let her hypnotic programming do the rest.
First and most importantly, it stopped her talking about what had happened to her, or discussing him or his treatment of her. But that was a stopgap measure. Over the next few days, her memory of him progressively faded, until she had no recollection of ever being abducted and brainwashed – and from that point on, she came to believe that every twisted thing she did was her own fault, her own idea, and her own perverted fetish.
The first change was that she found misogyny now left her uncontrollably aroused. When she heard a story about a woman being raped or sexually harassed, her cunt grew suddenly and distractingly wet. When a man called her “sweetie” or “dearie” or “honey” she felt a tingle in her pussy – and if he called her “slut” or “bitch” the tingle grew into a warm, wet need to masturbate. If she noticed a man was staring at her tits, or her ass, or her pussy, she grew flushed with desire. And once, when she felt the hand of a stranger casually caress her ass on a crowded train, it was all she could do to resist the urge to bend over and raise her skirt to give him better access.
She didn’t understand these changes, or how they could possibly sit squarely with her feminist beliefs, and as a result her slutty reaction to these demeaning events left her embarrassed and ashamed and insecure. In her mind, she berated herself for being a slut and a whore and a traitor to her gender, but the more she did this, the more she began to believe that these things were true.
To make matters worse, she found she could only masturbate in public, If she tried to touch her pussy when no one could possibly see her, she found that she just couldn’t do it – and it seemed to her that it would not be satisfying even if she could. She was only able to touch her cunt if there was a possibility of someone noticing – and so she found herself furtively masturbating at her desk at work, hoping no one would look in her direction. Or she would fingerfuck herself in a public alleyway, hoping no one chose that moment to take a shortcut off the main road. Or she would sit on the back seat of the bus and surreptitiously slip her hand inside her panties to pleasure her fuckhole.
The humiliation of doing this made her wetter, and jerking her hand away whenever she thought someone might look at her left her frustrated and desperately horny. She got into the habit of automatically reaching for her pussy whenever no one was actively looking at her, and became used to being on the edge of orgasm in public, surrounded by the smell of her wet cunt, with a glazed, desperate look in her eyes.
It was inevitable that she would get caught doing this, and it was no surprise that there were multiple occasions when someone saw her masturbating. At first she would snatch her hand away, blushing bright red, and pretend that she hadn’t just been finger-raping herself in public. But one time when she was masturbating in a darkened cinema, and realised that someone had seen her, she decided she didn’t know the man looking, and that he didn’t know her, and that the shame of being seen was less than the frustration of ceasing to masturbate.
So she kept rubbing her pussy as the man watched her, and she discovered that that was twice as satisfying as doing it in secret. After that, she frequently didn’t bother to stop masturbating when spotted, if the consequences were not immediate and severe.
But no matter how much she fingered her twat, the true frustration was that she just couldn’t orgasm. The release of cumming hovered just out of reach. It made her scream with annoyance and desperation. She needed to cum.
She focused on the experiences that made her wettest, in the hope that they were the key to orgasm. In her horniest moments, she thought about men staring at her tits, and about men calling her a “bitch” and a “cunt” and a “slut”. And so she began showing more cleavage at work, and wearing shorter skirts.
Shyly, she confessed to some co-workers that she actually liked being called “cunt” and “bitch”, and encouraged them to use those words instead of her name. She nervously told some of her friends that she had fantasies of being violently raped. She even leaked a video of herself naked to the men in the office, in the hope that they would respect her less, and look at her in that objectifying way that made her horny.
But as she did this, an idea was forming in her mind of how she might cum – a very specific scenario, implanted in Amanda’s mind during her brainwashing. It horrified her – and yet she found herself thinking about it again and again, until she couldn’t resist any longer. She had to do it. She had to cum.
She called a rideshare to her house that night, and left her phone and wallet and keys in the house before getting in the car. She directed the driver to take her to a brightly lit public park in a suburb nearly an hour away.
When she arrived, she got out, blushing bright red, and looked around. There was nobody here – and yet at least three nearby houses could see into this park from their windows.
Trembling with fear and shame, she undressed, until she was completely nude, and piled her clothes together. She squatted over them, naked, and urinated until all her clothes were soaked with piss. She picked up her panties, stuffed them in her mouth, and began to suck on them, blushing with degradation at the sour taste.
Then she took the only item she had brought with her – her golden award idol, the “Emily” – and began to work it into her cunt.
It felt amazing, fucking her twat in public with her feminism trophy. She moaned into her pissy panties, and fucked herself harder, forcing the gold statue in and out of her fuckhole. Soon she didn’t care who was looking. She was going to cum, going to orgasm from humiliating herself in public, going to…
Her whole body shook as the orgasm hit, and then she lost her balance, falling onto her pile of urine-soaked clothes.
It was, to be fair, the best orgasm of her life up to that point, and it would remain the best for at least another three hours, until she was raped while trying to make her way home. (And that orgasm would itself be superseded a week after that, amid the surge of shame and confusion and horror that came when Amanda discovered that she was pregnant with a rape baby, thinking it was somehow her recent rapist, and not knowing that the father was Justin.)
But shortly after her orgasm in the park was also the lowest moment in her life. She had been some level of horny for weeks leading up to this event, thinking more and more with her cunt, but in the aftermath of the orgasm, the sex hormones drained from her system, and she was suddenly stone-cold sober. She realised that she was alone, in a suburb she didn’t know, with no phone or money or keys, and that she was completely naked, unless she wanted to wear an outfit that she had just pissed on.
There was no way to get home without people seeing her. And that was in a best case scenario. The reality was that…
.. she was likely to be raped. (And, indeed, she would be.)
But there was a kind of comfort in that, because the moment she realised she was helpless to avoid being violated, her pussy began to get wet again.
Amanda didn’t know it, of course, but she wasn’t quite alone. One of the houses overlooking the park was Justin’s, and he had just watched her entire slutty show – and captured it on film. She had been programmed to give him the perfect view of her degradation. And even if this occasion wasn’t perfect, she would return to this park many times over coming months to repeat it, knowing it was the only way for her to cum.
The footage Justin had obtained would do very well. He had made a deal with a very particular website, who would love to publish pornographic footage that would humiliate a pretty young feminist.
Within a few days, anyone who wanted to would be able to see the video of Amanda pissing on her clothes and fucking her wet cunt with her award statue. And just to make sure, Justin would email links to Amanda’s family, friends and co-workers.
No one who knew Amanda would ever respect her again.
And of course, the headline for the footage was easy.
It would read “Women’s Role Model of the Year”.
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