Note from All These Roadworks: The following post is the complete first chapter of “Hypno Submission Training” by Bimbo Blackwood, reproduced here with the consent of the author.
If you like what you read, then you can buy the complete Hypno Submission Training in the ATR store for only $7.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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“I—I can’t do this,” I stammer, red-faced.
My dad huffs at me. “It’s not a big deal, Sadie. You always wanted to be a model, and now I’ve gotten you a contract. You should be grateful.”
Grateful? For this shit?
I shake the papers in my hand, wailing, “But this is—it’s porn daddy!”
“Natural Submission is not a porn studio. It’s art,” he insists. “Your work could be featured in galleries and museums! Besides, I told you that you need to help me out now that you’re an adult. Rent and food aren’t cheap. We need the money.”
It is a lot of money, I can’t help but notice, staring down at the bolded red number of $500 per shoot, with a minimum of three sessions per week. Six grand a month is more money than I know of anyone my age making (having just turned eighteen two months ago)—it’s likely more money than any of the parents in this town are making, too. There’s not a lot of job opportunities in this shitty area.
“It says that I’ll be expected to pose nude sometimes . . . you can’t really want me to do that….” I whine, still horrified by the idea, even if it is a lot of money.
My dad gives a short, dismissive laugh. “Nudity isn’t porn—the human figure is a work of art. Don’t be a spoilt brat. I would have killed for a job offer like this at your age. Hell, I’d kill for it now. All you’ll do is go get photographed for a couple of hours a few days a week. Yeah, sometimes you might not have clothes on, but you’ll probably be wearing something artistic like body paint. That’s modeling. That’s what you wanted to do!”
“It still seems demeaning,” I mutter stubbornly.
“Well, sweetheart, your other option is to find some wealthy guy to marry you—because I can’t support you forever, and you’ve already rejected all the other job offers in town.”
There weren’t many, and I don’t think waitressing for the local trucker dive or scrubbing toilets at the hardware store (where my dad works) would have gotten me very far. Working at minimum wage would barely cover the portion of bills my dad now expects me to pay, and I wouldn’t be able to save up extra money to get out of here one day.
And it’s not like there’s any rich bachelors in this hellhole, I think bitterly. So that idea is worthless….
I know I should just agree to the contract so that I can bank my excess cash. Then I could afford a decent car (and the insurance that goes along with it). I might even be able to float an apartment for a few months in Portsville or Sahoma after working at the not-porn studio a while. The bigger cities will have more options—both dating and career wise—but I’ll still need a significant amount to live off of while I figure things out.
I hesitate for a long moment, eyeing the papers with distaste, before finally whispering, “Fine, I’ll try it out.”
I frown as my dad grins in satisfaction, while pulling a pen from his pocket. “Sign the dotted line, kiddo. You’ll start tomorrow and be on a trial period for the first week. That means either you or Natural Submission can terminate the contract for any reason. So, no loss if you don’t like it, right?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, quickly signing the paperwork before I can get too flustered over it.
I only have to show up the once, really, and if I absolutely hate it then maybe waitressing for old, horny truckers (or scrubbing stinky toilets) won’t seem so bad.
It says you’ll be wearing a bikini for the first shoot—and that’s really not so horrible, is it? I console myself as I hand the signed contract to my dad. What’s the worst thing that could happen?
***
Nervous tremors go through me as my dad drives to the very outskirts of town, where a looming grey warehouse greets us. I have a little red bikini on under my t-shirt and jeans, and with each bump in the road I swear I can feel the fabric tighten around my breasts and pussy—almost in warning. Like we’re approaching a rape factory.
Stop being ridiculous, I chide myself.
I’ve always been overly anxious and pessimistic, but I still can’t stop the whir of frantic thoughts from overcoming me as dad parks the truck, killing the engine.
This is a huge mistake. Tell him you’ll work with him—tell him you’ll waitress for truckers—tell him you’ll do anything but this!
“Well, here we are,” my dad says cheerfully, patting my knee. “Since you’re an adult, it’d be weird if I went in with you.”
“I—I don’t,” I stammer, nearly choking on my quickening breath. “I want—”
“Sadie,” my dad says sternly. “Don’t panic. I’ll pick you up in two hours.”
He hops out of the truck and comes around to my side, opening the door and pulling me out. Then he leads me up to the front doors, which are tall metal structures that look like something from a medieval prison.
I’m never going to make it out of here, my frantic thoughts scream.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” my dad says, pulling open the door with one hand and patting my back with the other. “See?”
Inside it’s bright and airy, with a large reception desk covered in potted plants. A smiling lady beckons me inside, her fiery red hair curled around her friendly face, and her lipstick and glasses both the same cheerful crimson.
“Welcome, Miss Turner—Mister Turner! Please come in and take a seat.”
“I’m just dropping her off,” my dad says with a wave. “I’ll be back for her later.”
“Of course!” The beaming lady agrees; her nametag says ‘Joy’ with little red hearts around it, and I start to feel silly for acting so neurotic.
I take a seat in one of the cushy, white chairs, nodding as Joy tells me that someone will be out for me shortly, and then I look around at the walls, where hundreds of pictures adorn the waiting room. Most look fairly normal. Young women pose with their arms behind their backs, their eyes demurely to the side, in various outfits from swimsuits to frilly dresses to dark body paint. Some of the girls are on their knees, their heads bowed, their eyes closed. A couple of the pictures are more risqué, depicting nude women in strange poses; one slender blonde is on her belly, her legs curled behind her to where she’s grasping both ankles with her hands, lifting up her nearly flat chest—and one dark-skinned girl is only in high heels, her long legs straight as she stands but her upper body dropping down, so that her long hair pools on the floor, her hands also gripping both ankles.
I try to reason with myself, even though I feel creeped out, because the pictures are artsy in some way, but I’m nearly squirming as my eyes trace over the blank, demure faces and nubile, toned bodies illustrated around me.
This submissive shit is weird—and I’m not sure I’m that flexible….
“Does everyone have to pose like that?” I ask Joy, who types merrily away at her computer, still smiling.
When she doesn’t answer, I try again. “It’s just—I’ve never been that good at yoga or anything….”
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” she says primly, and honestly a little snippily and coldly, unless I’m imagining things. “Jean Paul will be out to do your shoot in a moment. Please be patient.”
I think about trying to defend myself, confused at her sudden shift in demeanor and suddenly worried that I’m coming across all wrong. It’s not that I won’t try my best, I want to tell her, it’s just that some of those pictures look uncomfortable and difficult to pull off.
Not to mention they’re kind of sleazy and gross.
Luckily an older, grey-faced man appears before I can talk myself into a downward spiral (and insult the entire studio in the process).
“Sadie Turner?” he asks, and before I can even nod, he spins around. “Right this way.”
I follow him out of the reception area and down a long hall lined with tall, prison-like, metal doors. There are probably other girls here, and other shoots going on, I realize. I wonder how many photographers there are—and I wonder how much content they put out—and who it’s for. I’m too nervous to ask any of that though, with the imposing and confident way Jean Paul strides off before me. He’s tall and slim with slicked back silvery hair, and if he wasn’t at least forty years older than me, I might consider him a handsome man. But he seems aloof and cold, like Joy turned out to be.
This isn’t the type of guy I want to work with, my brain screams.
It makes me think that my boundaries won’t be respected—because he’ll push me into doing things I’m totally uncomfortable with. Like I’m just a young body to him, a commodity to strip down and poster up.
“Today’s shoot will be an initiation into our processes and procedures. Nothing crazy,” he says with a slight French accent and a small smile. He opens one of the doors and gestures inside, where a single, reclining beach chair sits in the middle of the large, empty room. “You’ll lay on the chair in your bikini. Sip a tropical drink,” he pauses as Joy comes up behind us with a frothy white drink; she pushes it into my hands, smiling, as Jean Paul murmurs, “Ah, there we go, merci.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, gripping the stem of the icy cold drink; it looks yummy, and it even has a couple cherries on top—but I can’t help but worry that there might be alcohol or something in it.
Something that lowers your inhibitions, my mind warns.
“I’ll call out some basic stuff for you to do—hand to mouth, legs crossed or not, pout then smile—you know, simplistic poses to get a feel for how you take direction. Now strip down and let’s start.”
I glance around for where the cameras are positioned, but don’t see any as I nervously make my way to the white beach chair. It’s going to be weird stripping off my clothes in front of a strange man that I’ve only just met (and don’t trust), and for a moment I think about asking him for some privacy, but then I realize he’s left without a sound.
Thank God.
Hastily, I strip off my t-shirt, jeans, and shoes, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with them, when I notice a pouch on the back of the beach chair that has bold-faced type printed across it: ‘CLOTHES’.
That’s convenient, I think, stuffing my things into the pouch before nervously sitting down and reaching for my drink.
My mouth is really dry, and so I take a quick sip—bracing myself for the bitterness of rum—but am pleasantly surprised when I don’t taste anything but the fruity concoction of coconut and pineapple. Jean Paul comes back into the room with a large camera fastened around his neck, and instantly he starts barking orders.
“Look cute and coy while you sip your drink. One knee up, head tilted to the side!”
I scramble to obey him, blushing as he yells, “Not like that! Poutier! More demure!”
Nothing I do seems to make him happy. I’m so flustered by his screaming at me that I’m sweating and shaking only ten minutes into our shoot, and I think I’ve pulled something in my neck when he hisses, “Guess you need a break. I’m not sure you’re a good fit, Miss Turner. Finish your drink and when I get back, I expect you’ll actually have something for me to work with.”
Tears well up in my eyes as he storms out and slams the door behind him. Even though I didn’t really want this job, now that I’m here and it actually does feel like modeling instead of porn, I’m ashamed that I’m not doing well. I know I’m pretty enough for the gig, with my slender, teenaged body, long, dark hair, and exotic green eyes—but I’m starting to think that I’m not talented enough. No matter what I do, Jean Paul seems to hate it, and I’m starting to wonder if my cute face photographs poorly, or if I can even move right without looking clumsy and awkward.
Luckily, the tropical drink seems to calm me every time I take a sip. I’m not sure if it’s just the relaxing, fruity flavor, or the cool swallow soothing my overheated body, but I focus on breathing deeply and sucking it down.
This is nice, I tell myself, my shakes starting to fade. I can do better for Jean Paul. I will figure it out and do my very best….
A gentle wave of confidence goes through me as I finish my drink. Joy comes in a moment later to grab the empty glass, but she doesn’t smile or speak to me, noisily chewing gum as she drops a pair of headphones into my lap.
She probably doesn’t think I’m good enough to be here either, I realize, holding up the headphones to examine them.
I don’t have time to wonder what they’re for, because Jean Paul bursts into the room and tells me, “Put the prop on. Then roll onto your belly. Maybe your ass will photograph better than your face.”
My cheeks burn as I force myself to listen. It’s pretty demeaning and I don’t really want to, but at least I have a bikini on.
“Raise your hips, thrust your rounded ass into the air,” Jean Paul yells. “Rounder! Arch that back!”
The fabric of my bikini bottoms seems to cling to my pussy and wedge straight up my butt. I want to fix it, but I know if I move my arms without being told to, that Jean Paul is going to fly into a screaming rage.
“That’s it,” he calls out, and a weird burst of pleasure goes through me at the small praise. “Arch a little more. Nice….”
This is so humiliating, I think nervously. He’s probably oogling your camel toe….
But I’m so strung out from being yelled at that I can’t help but latch onto Jean Paul’s softening tone, or the way he slips in compliments (“Very good,” and, “More of this, yes!”) as I listen to his demands of getting on my hands and knees and spreading my legs for the camera.
The thin crotch of my silky bikini bottoms feels like it hardly covers anything at all, and my heart hammers in my chest as I keep reminding myself, Relax! This is art—not porn.
“Now straddle the chair,” Jean Paul calls out. “Push your chest up and squeeze your tiny, little titties together.”
I nearly hesitate at his rude comment about my chest size (because what kind of professional photographer says shit like that?)—especially because my breasts are B-cups, so he’s just being an asshole for the fun of it. But I’ve already come this far, so I listen with a tormented frown, feeling resigned until he tells me, “Push your pussy into the chair now. Hump slowly.”
“What?” I gasp, freezing.
“Hump—you know, hump!” Jean Paul yells, thrusting his hips back and forth. “Are you an idiot?”
I don’t want him to shout at me anymore, and so in complete horror I can’t help but listen, humiliation burning through my veins as Jean Paul immediately calls out, “Good! Like a naive virgin masturbating with her pillow! Keep humping! This is gold!”
I just want this shoot to be over, my mind screams and I grind my pussy into the rough weave of the beach chair. I can’t believe I’m doing this….
I also can’t believe that I’m getting wet from it. I’m not sure if something was in that drink, but my lower parts have been tingling slightly ever since I finished it, and now that tingle is a full blown ache, my clit swelling up as I press it into the beach recliner, while I act like a total whore.
“Such a good girl,” a whispery voice from the headphones tells me—and then before I can react, staticky white noise begins to hum in my ears, clouding up my brain. “Good girls make the best models. Good girls put on a show for men. Good girls know that their pussies are for a man’s pleasure.”
There’s no time to rip the headphones from my ears as my mind turns to mush. I fall limp into the chair, my eyes fluttering closed and my mouth opening as I mindlessly hump the beach chair and listen to the hypnotizing reel. It all feels so good; the warmth pulsing through my brain, the heated thrumming going through my entire body, and my horny pussy getting wetter and wetter.
“Good girls love being filmed and photographed,” the whispering voice tells me. “Good girls always listen to directions without complaint.”
“Sadie, pull down your bikini bottoms,” I hear Jean Paul say loudly, even over the staticky humming of my headphones. “Keep humping until you cum.”
I mindlessly push down the silky, red bottoms and expose my rounded ass and smooth, shaved pussy. It’s so wet that girl-fluids leak all down my thighs, and soon there’s a pool under me as I continue to hump the chair, my pleasure growing and growing until I feel on the edge of something big.
“Good girls love to be mindless sex dolls. Good girls are made to be raped. Good girls are quiet and demure—a good girl would never, ever tell. ALWAYS BE A GOOD GIRL!”
I squeal as climax crashes over me, my body twisting against the chair as my legs spasm out. Quick gushes of hot fluid squirt out of my clenching pussy, and I cry out, delirious and panting, as the staticky noises grow louder and louder inside my aching brain.
I am a good girl, I realize happily, drowning in pleasure. Such a good, good girl….
When the golden aftershocks of my orgasm fade away, and the headphones fall silent, I suddenly realize what I’ve just done.
Oh my fucking God, my frazzled brain whirs, and I yank my bikini bottoms back up, twisting around to glare at Jean Paul.
But there’s no one there. I blink stupidly at the open space, and then I get the craziest feeling. Maybe Jean Paul hasn’t come back yet. Maybe I imagined the entire thing. Maybe something’s not right in my head.
The door bursts open and Jean Paul strides in, “Did you have a nice break? Are you ready to show me something I can work with?”
“I—I—you just made me,” I stammer, a frazzled blankness in my mind shifting around and expanding so that I can’t form words right.
“What are you rambling on about?” Jean Paul barks, slapping his hands angrily to his sides; he shakes his head in exasperation as Joy walks in with another frothy, tropical drink. “Merci. Perhaps this time she’ll put that face of hers to good use, but I have my doubts….”
Joy hands me the drink, taking the headphones with a sigh. “Remember to relax, dear. I’m rooting for you.”
I blink at her in confusion as she smiles warmly at me. What the hell is going on here? I feel like I’m lost in the twilight zone. My bikini bottoms are still wet from my fluids, and the chair is too, but neither Joy or Jean Paul seem to have noticed.
“Sip slowly with a coy smile,” Jean Paul yells—and then to my surprise, a moment later he murmurs, “That’s nice. Good….”
***
I don’t know what to tell my dad about my first day ‘modeling’ for Natural Submission Studio, so I don’t tell him anything other than it went fine, but by the time my next shoot rolls around, I’ve worked myself into a frenzy of apprehension.
“I think I want to quit,” I tell my dad the morning of my second session. “It was—uh, uncomfortable….”
“Nothing good comes easy, kiddo. What, did you get yelled at a time or two? Big name photographers are just like that.”
I’d definitely been yelled at—and insulted—but I’m fairly certain there was something else, too. Didn’t Jean Paul sexualize me somehow? I have niggling half-memories of pulling my bikini bottoms down. Horrifying snippets of grinding against the beach chair . . . until, until I—
I can’t quite remember. The memory seems almost there, but then it weirdly shifts away, and I just remember looking out into the blank space where Jean Paul was supposed to be. And then he’d come back, and we’d weirdly continued the shoot like normal. He’d even seemed to like the footage he’d gotten from me. In fact, he’d even mentioned that he planned to submit my photos to nightclubs and beach resorts all throughout the state.
“Ah, look who’s calling now,” my dad murmurs, tapping at his cellphone. “Good morning, Mr. Blanc. Yes, I can bring Sadie in early. She’s certainly excited to—”
I grasp my dad’s arm, shaking him slightly and mouthing, “No!”
“Here, then,” my dad says in irritation, handing the phone to me.
“I look forward to seeing her shortly,” Jean Paul tells me, just as I pipe up, “I’m really not feeling well today, Mr. Blanc….”
He laughs on the other end of the line, then purrs, “Always be a good girl….”
Something clicks in my mind. I hand my dad back the phone, a demure smile taking over my lips, and then I sweetly tell my father that I’m ready to go.
“That’s more like it,” my dad tells me, smiling proudly. “You’ll be making a lot of money if you stick with it.”
The car ride over seems to pass by in a warm blur. It’s not until I’m standing nude in the center of some room, my body being painted by Jean Paul, that I halfway realize what’s going on. And on afterthought, I realize that he’s snapped his fingers, twice (as though to bring my attention back to him).
“You’ve got a lovely ass, and your youthful tits are quite nice, too,” he murmurs at me, swiping black paint over my small, hardened nipples.
I look down in shock at the orange, white, and black paint covering me. It does look kind of artsy-fartsy, like I’m a tiger girl or something, but it also seems obscene that Jean Paul is the one doing the painting, all alone with me, a teenaged girl, naked and secluded together in a back room.
“I—I didn’t agree to all of this,” I stammer, pushing away his hand and rubbing at my aching head.
“What are you talking about?” he murmurs. “You most certainly did. This is a piece we’re doing to raise awareness and money about endangered species. You explicitly asked to be a part of it.”
I blink at him stupidly, trying to remember how I even got here. Did I agree to help African tigers? It does seem like the sort of feel-good activist thing I’d want to be a part of. But I don’t remember agreeing to any of it. Before I can become frantic about it, Joy comes in with a frothy, tropical drink and a pair of headphones, smiling at me.
“She’s looking the part, Mr. Blanc,” Joy gushes, handing him the headphones and me the drink. “We’ve got Amber all done up as a gazelle, and Laura as a lion—”
“That’s enough, Joy, merci,” he interrupts her, waving her away.
For some reason my heart does an anxious flop as I watch Jean Paul play with the little black earpieces—and a shaky worry that I don’t want them anywhere near me takes hold. But the drink I do want, because I remember it being delicious and soothing. I sip at it greedily. The fruity concoction instantly calms me, making my tense muscles soften and my pulse even out.
It also makes me feel better that there are other girls here to help the cause for African wildlife. Maybe I’m just being a bit of a prude, I consider as I sip my drink and nod at Jean Paul when he asks if he can finish up painting.
I blush as he swipes a final black smear across my clit, and then squirm as he points down, telling me, “It’s time to lock you in the trap.”
The metal contraption looks monstrous, gleaming silver with jagged metal points and two wristlets that are attached to a short steel bar (so that the wearer is bound to the floor).
“It looks scarier than it is,” Jean Paul tells me. “It’s all for show—nothing will injure you. This is just shock art.”
“It still looks uncomfortable,” I whisper, hesitantly sinking to my knees as he gives an impatient huff.
My breasts feel heavy and exposed as Jean Paul pulls me into position, snapping each of my wrists into the device so that I’m kneeling with my arms locked down. It’s a very vulnerable position. But at least my bare pussy is hidden against the back of my legs, and at least Jean Paul lifts up my drink and lets me finish it before we get started.
I expect him to start barking orders at me (“Look like you’re about to cry” or “Pout miserably!”), but instead he pulls back my wavy, brunette hair and secures it back with the headphones. Then he straightens and walks out, silently carrying my empty glass with him.
“Mr. Blanc?” I cry out, tugging at my binds.
Panic flares through me as I realize I’ve just been left alone, helplessly bound to the floor. What if Jean Paul doesn’t come back for hours? What if I’m left here in this awkward position until my knees bruise purple and my face turns red from crying? What if that’s all the point—to make me feel just like a defenseless, endangered animal (so that he can get truly authentic shots of pain and misery)? It seems just like something Jean Paul would do.
I start to scream just as my headphones come alive, static sounds humming into my brain.
“Good girls are relaxed. Good girls are calm,” the whispery buzzing tells me. “Good girls make the best models.”
A deep sigh escapes me as my breathing slows down, and I get lost in the soothing warmth enveloping my mind, slowly turning my insides to mush. My eyes flutter closed, and I don’t know how long I listen to the staticky whisper of my headphones, or how long I’m lost, deep, deep down.
“Good girls know that their holes are made for men’s pleasure. Good girls exist to please men. Good girls use their mouths to suck. Good girls happily swallow.”
I gasp as something warm and blunt drags across my lower lip, but my mouth opens automatically, my mind thoughtless other than chanting: I am a good girl. I’ll always be a good girl….
The fleshy tube tastes salty as it slides against my tongue, twitching softly when it reaches the back of my throat. I almost choke, but the whispery static tells me, “Good girls relax deeply, good girls breathe through their nose to deepthroat….”, and then I just become an empty vessel as someone fucks my face with slow, measured thrusts. It feels so good to have a purpose, and my pussy grows wetter and wetter as the cock in my mouth swells, as the thrusts get deeper and jerky, as little bursts of excited pre-cum pool against the back of my tongue.
Through the staticky haze, I hear a man groaning deeply. It’s a nice sound. One that lets me know I’m fulfilling my duty as a good girl—since good girls only exist to please men. My pussy clenches as his strong hands grip the back of my head to pull me in tight, my face crushed into him as his cock lurches and shoots hot, bitter sperm straight down my throat. I swallow noisily and greedily, keening as my own climax hits me. Through the blinding pleasure, I barely notice the repetitive end sequence from yesterday, “Good girls love to be mindless sex dolls. Good girls are made to be raped. Good girls are quiet and demure—a good girl would never, ever tell. ALWAYS BE A GOOD GIRL!”
I am a good girl, my mind whirs as the whispery rush in the headphones grows louder and louder. Such a good, good girl….
My blissful high slowly fades away, and with it the headphones fall silent. I blink open my eyes, staring out into nothing, and try to collect my splintered thoughts. What just happened? Why do I have a funny taste in my mouth? Weirdly, my throat feels sore and my lips are slightly swollen and bruised.
A moment later Jean Paul bursts through the door, barking, “Are you finally ready for your shoot? I want to see your fear and pain!” He rips off my headphones and tosses them to the side. “Cry!”
I’m so confused that it doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to piece together what just happened to me. Did I imagine the entire thing? Or did Jean Paul rape my mouth while I was unable to think clearly? None of this makes any sense to me—and I cry harder and harder as I realize that something is very wrong with this entire situation.
“You are the perfect method actress,” Jean Paul tells me, grinning from ear to ear. “A true superstar! I’ve never had a model perform shock art as well as you! You’ll be our poster girl, for sure….”
My tears slow and I hiccup bashfully, extra confused that now I’m being praised for having a complete meltdown. Did I really do a good job for the shoot? Does he actually like seeing me like this? Will my tear-streaked face be the one that draws in the most money for helpless animals?
I can’t help but think so as Jean Paul continues to gush that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to Natural Submission Studio and for the endangered species cause. It nearly makes me forget that something awful might have happened to me (because that doesn’t really make any sense, does it?) and by the time my dad picks me up, I’m all smiles, telling him about all the bonus money that Jean Paul has promised me if my shoot goes as viral as he thinks it will.
***
I’m nearly asleep (hair damp and skin still stinging from my long shower; the body paint took forever to scrub off) when my dad stumbles into my room, slurring, “I saw some of your shoot.”
“What?” I ask groggily, peering through blurry eyes at him.
I can smell booze radiating off of him, which is weird for my normally sober dad, and I instantly feel embarrassed and ashamed that my work probably looked pretty slutty.
“Jean Paul told me about a little trick to use with you,” my dad mutters, coming close to my bed.
My heart thunders and I try to sit up as my dad whispers, “Always be a good girl….”
Instantly my mind sinks deep, deep down into a warm well of nothingness. It’s like a dream, except I’m still halfway aware of my dad’s hands on my face, pushing me down, smoothing back my long hair. My mouth falls open and slack, panting helplessly—and then suddenly there’s a warm, blunt cock filling it.
I don’t know who or what I am as my throat is used as a teenaged cocksleeve, my pussy dripping wet as a man groans deeply and pumps into me. It doesn’t last long, my mouth obediently sucking as a warm chant goes through me—Good girls love to be mindless sex dolls. Good girls know that their holes are made for men’s pleasure. Good girls exist to please men. Good girls use their mouths to suck. Good girls happily swallow—before hot gushes of salty sperm fill my throat.
It’s not until morning that I hear two finger-snapping sounds, and then I’m staring at my dad from across the kitchen table, where we’re apparently eating breakfast.
“Are you even listening to me, Sadie?” my dad asks. “Mr. Blanc would like you to go in later today. He’d like to book you all week.”
My heart drops as I look at him. “What?”
“Your shoot is going viral! He wants to do more with you, and he’s offering even more money”
I have the strangest feeling that something horrible happened between my dad and I last night, and that horrible things have been happening at my shoots, but something inside me insists that it’s all anxiety and fever dreams, so I nod slowly, confused beyond reason.
“Okay,” I whisper.
I don’t know what’s going on, or why my memory is more holey than Swiss cheese, but I do know that I’m about to be earning bank . . . and since I’m not certain anything is wrong-wrong, I can’t exactly speak up—can I?
No, I reason. Because you might be going crazy or something, and you don’t want to get locked away in an institution, do you?
That definitely wouldn’t help me in the long run. I need to keep my cool, and be calm and calculating, so that I can save up and get out of this place. What’s another week or two? I tell myself, robotically finishing my eggs and toast. It won’t take much longer, and then I’ll have a solid escape plan in place….
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Want more? Then buy the complete Hypno Submission Training by Bimbo Blackwood in the ATR store for only $7.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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