Old Habits

by Isaac Byrne

Not that I was nervous. I was never, ever nervous. Six hours earlier a man almost three times my weight had mounted my face and fucked my throat like it was a second cunt. The fat jerk came so hard he almost passed out, and I nearly suffocated before he roused himself to get off of me. Even then I hadn’t been nervous. I’d been doing as I’d been programmed; what else could matter?

  Daddy smiled at me, a smug smile of a gloating victor. “You know, you’re a very pretty girl, Harmony. Like your mother, but… still so youthful. Lovely.”

  Seeing where this was going, but determined that this private shame would not compare to the public humiliation my loss of stature would cause me at school, I smiled back at him. I made sure he could tell it was a fake smile; he wouldn’t want me to want it. He would want me to act like I wanted it.

  So act I did. “Thank you, Daddy. Is that what being a good girl is? Showing you how pretty I am?”

  “It’s a good start. I tell you what – let’s do some bargaining. You show me you’re willing to do for me, and I’ll do for you. How does that sound?”

  My chink sunk to my chest for a moment before I caught myself, then looked back up to him. “Yes! Thank you Daddy!”

  I began by undoing the buttons on my blouse, hands trembling theatrically. “Like this? This is good, right?”

  He watched me shuck off my top, then shyly drop it on the floor. Only desperation to get my phone turned back on kept me from concealing my impressive breasts. Master was particular about what slaves were allowed in the ranch; I was precisely the sort of girl you’d think an anonymous brainwasher would take. Gorgeous face, large big teardrop breasts, slender waist over wide hips and a curvaceous rear end, long thick legs that nonetheless had a thigh gap. Long sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes.

  I wasn’t arrogant about my appearance; I simply knew what I was and used it to fulfill my programming.

  “That’s a good girl, Harmony. That’s a girl who’s this close to getting her TV privileges back,” he said with a gesture.

  I knew from prior meetings he liked seeing the matching bra and panties, so rather than undo my bra clasp, I reached for the one on my skirt, lifting my hips just enough to slide it down and kick it off.

  “Look at you,” he said, gesturing for me to stand, then twirl. I blushed – another programmed response, as I was no more capable of shame than of nervousness – and obeyed, letting him inspect the way I filled out my bra, the way my butt stretched panties just slightly too small for it.

  I was wet, of course; Daddy had to know how he turned me on, even if I was programmed to act too shy to admit it.

  “And there you have it. TV privileges restored.”

  I brightened. “Thank you, Daddy. Um, what about my car…?”

  “Your cable box costs me thirty dollars a month. Do you know how much that little sports car of yours costs?”

  “Could I… could I take off my bra and panties for you? Please?” I asked hopefully, betraying just a hint of shame at having to be hopeful to strip for my mother’s husband.

  “Why don’t you do so, then we’ll decide what that’s worth.” He folded his arms across his chest smugly.

  I was programmed to strip in many different ways – with a dance that could drag on for twenty minutes, with an urgency to get naked for fucking, like nobody was watching, like I wished nobody was watching. Today, I stripped like I was showing off a commodity, a salesperson after a mark.

  I was one of Master’s younger slaves, and often serviced men who sought that attribute. They were always pleased to find I kept myself shaved completely bare. Nevermind that even if I were seventeen I’d have had pubic hair for going on half my life; men still seemed to associate it with youth and innocence. Daddy was no exception, and he couldn’t resist a wolf whistle at the sight of my nakedness. Beet red, I grinned. I think I even secretly loved that I had the power to turn on my mother’s lover. It meant I was a woman.

  “I think that earns you the tanning appointments. You certainly seem to need them,” Daddy joked, grinning at my fair complexion.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” I clasped my hands in front of my pussy, then realized I was obstructing the view he’d just paid for and instead clasped them behind my back, twisting back and forth anxiously on one leg.

  “You don’t mind if I play with them a little, do you Punkin?” he said, directing the question to my chest.

  “You… you mean my boobies? I, um, I mean my breasts?”

  He chuckled. “No, I think ‘boobies’ is a better term for ones this cute. Well?”

  “Um… for my credit card?” I cupped them in my hands, lifting them up invitingly. Salesmanship was important if I was going to earn back my privileges.

  He nodded. “For the credit card.”

  I did the math in my head while Daddy slobbered all over my ‘boobies’. A customer had once bragged to me that he’d paid four thousand dollars for my attentions. (I don’t know why he told me; maybe he thought some portion of that went to me, and I’d be grateful?) That man had stayed for just over three hours. That meant an hourly rate of $1,333. By that metric, the ten minutes Daddy spent tweaking my nipples and squeezing my tits like they were playdough was worth over two hundred dollars.

  It took me three whole nights of babysitting to earn that in my old life. Except then, I got to keep it. Now, I just whimpered and moaned with a trained professional’s capacity to inflect a shift from feigning it for his amusement to trying to sound like I was merely feigning it to conceal my shame at enjoying it. All the while, I thanked Daddy while Master laughed all the way to the bank.

  Still, even on a top quality rack like mine, a man only wanted to play so long. Inwardly, I was a bit surprised he hadn’t so much as taken his pants off yet, but per my programming, I was just a bratty girl doing what she had to do to maintain her lifestyle.

  “Now. Maybe you’re learning to start behaving, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still need a little punishing,” he said, settling down onto the couch.

  “I… oh!” I exclaimed, comprehension dawning. “You… you want me to…”

  He shrugged. “You don’t have to. It’s entirely up to you whether you ever want to drive that car again.”

  I debated with myself for a few minutes. Could this be worth it? That was one hell of a car – even my richest friends were jealous of it. It was a status symbol, even aside from being a bad-ass mode of transportation.

  But then… to let him do that…

  “I’m sorry Daddy. I’ll be a good girl.” Shoulders slumped in defeat – he’d like that, seeing me go from enjoying the power my tits had over him to dreading what he’d do to my ass – I knelt beside him on the couch, then dropped to all fours. His hand was on my butt before I even lowered myself down onto his lap.

  I’d been spanked so many times by so many men that the sensation could never truly surprise me, but surprise was my programmed response, a yip of pain and a shiver of embarrassment as I got my broad rear end was smacked like the indolent brat I was.

  “What’s wrong, Punkin? Did you skip so many math classes you forgot how to count?” Daddy teased.

  “Sorry!” I stammered quickly. “One!”

  “Good girl,” he said, and in spite of my programmed humiliation, his praise hit me right in the pussy. I hoped he couldn’t see how turned on I was by him. Yet I also hoped he could.

  “Two!” Daddy smacked my other cheek this time.

  “Three!” The left again.

  “Four!” I stopped caring where he touched me. Just count, and try not to leak onto his pants.

  “Ungh, five! Six! Seven – ow, Daddy, that one really stung! Eight! Nine! I’ll be good, Daddy, such a good girl for you! Ten! Oh pleeeeease, Daddy!”

  “Ms. Reed!” interjected Dr. Kovacs. “Harmony, snap out of it!”

  My brain took a few seconds to realize where I was, what was happening. That I’d bent myself over the arm of his plush chair, one hand frantically rubbing at my pussy through my jeans while the othe
r cracked down on my bottom with each number.

  I couldn’t remember it getting that far out of hand before. I took a few deep breaths to steady my voice and settled back into the chair. “I’m sorry, Dr. Kovacs.”

  “Are you… are you all right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m OK. I just got carried away. That’s actually kind of what I was talking about, about why I’m here. You see… the triggers made me behave in certain ways, but on the inside, in my head, the programming never changed.”

  “You mean you were still… you? Even as that awful man abused you as such?”

  I wondered how Dr. Kovacs would feel if he knew “Daddy” had been a state senator, that his real stepdaughter was only now turning nineteen, that he campaigned on a family values platform. Amazing what you could learn on the internet.

  (I’d voted for the other guy.)

  “No, that’s not what I mean at all. You see… most of my personality, my brain, is still me. But Master changed just a few things so that I could better serve. For one, I’m basically always aroused. Even with the trigger that readies me to be actually raped, I still lubed up from it, no matter how I fought back.”

  “My god…”

  “That’s all the time, mind you. Not just when I’m triggered. And I should clarify that, because ‘aroused’ is misleading. In my head, I know ‘aroused’ means turned on, excited. Horny. That’s not quite how it is for me. Like you just saw, it can get really intense. Overwhelming. No matter what a man does to me, especially when I’m triggered, I can’t help but be turned on by it.”

  “Are you saying that even when your conditioning isn’t active, you’re still compelled to…?”

  “No, I can say no to someone. But my body doesn’t want me to. I say no because of propriety, because having sex with every guy my libido tells me to have sex with would wreck my life in a hot minute.”

  Dr. Kovacs was breathing heavily. I wondered if he was still picturing me bent over and spanking myself, or wondering how the rest of the story went. (It went like you’d expect; my virgin cunt had been the price of my phone, and I was put on an installment plan for all privileges.)

  “You said he changed a few things – what else, besides the, erm, arousal?”

  “Well, I don’t get embarrassed, or shy, or nervous, or anything like that. Some of the triggers make me act like it, but he took the real feelings from me. Like just now, I know I should be blushing. Hell, I probably should’ve run from your office in shame. But I don’t feel shame.”

  “I… was surprised you recovered so calmly,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Anything else?”

  “Probably some stuff I’m not even aware of,” I said with a shrug. “None of this is conscious, just things I’ve realized about myself through analysis, through memories of how I was, how people are supposed to be. The only other thing I’m sure of is that Master is Master.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean that I can’t even say Master’s name. I know it, but I can’t say it. I can’t even think it. I can’t even use a pronoun – Master felt they were disrespectful, treating Master like any other mere man. And the obedience that goes with it… I know Master is dead. I saw it with my own eyes. But I also know that if Master somehow walked into this room right now, I’d be on my knees before you could blink.”

  I paused, making myself stop fondling my breasts at the thought of Master, taking note that Dr. Kovacs had the decency to avert his gaze. “That obedience… it didn’t have to be triggered. The triggers changed me, made me useful, turned Master’s toy into something more amusing. But always, I obeyed. I am still Master’s slave in my heart.”

  Dr. Kovacs looked plainly afraid now, and it was his fear that let me finally begin to trust him. “And if someone learned your triggers, they could…”

  The bell rang. Our hour was up.

  “Well, I guess we’ll get further into it next time,” I said, a little disappointed.

  “Wait wait,” the doctor said hurriedly. “We didn’t even get to what you want to get out of our sessions. Tell me that, at least.”

  I shook my head, rising to my feet. “Sorry, but I really can’t afford more time. My insurance doesn’t cover any extra, and I don’t have much money.”

  “We’re off the clock, Harmony. Just tell me what you want.”

  I stopped at the door. “I want to be back in control of my body and my mind.”

  Had I known then the course my life would follow in the days ahead, I might have laughed at what would soon flower into the most ironic statement of my young life. Instead, I made an appointment for next week with his receptionist and went to wait for my bus in the rain.

  Chapter Two

  I found myself impatient all that following week. Now started down what would hopefully be a path to recovery, I wanted results. Nevermind that we’d barely had time to scratch the surface of my scrambled brain. Dr. David Kovacs was going to help me, and it frustrated me every minute I had to wait for him to do so.

  Of course, there are a lot of minutes in a week, and being anxious only drags them out. My friends occupied a good deal of my free time, thankfully, and on top of that I worked two jobs, which handily filled the rest. Days as a secretary at a local high school; evenings at a car wash. Neither was especially glamorous, but that was kind of the idea. I wanted to avoid even the remote possibility of encountering the kind of person who might recognize me from my slave days, and certainly nobody working at or attending a high school had the money or connections. The car wash was pretty isolating; I spent half my time standing around bored at the register, and the rest scrubbing down strangers’ cars with only the most token interaction.

  I had dreams, sometimes, that someone would come to the car wash and recognize me. They’d speak my trigger word, something Master had always kept private but this customer must’ve been eavesdropping. I’d be on my hands and knees scrubbing at their wheel well, then suddenly ready to obey before I’d even seen his face.

  The sponge fell from my hand.

  “Welcome to Suds & Go. My name is Harmony, and I’ll be your car wash professional. Please tell me how I may fulfill all of your cleaning desires. Unless you desire something… dirty.”

  I remained kneeling. The customer looked down at me, grinning as he saw he hadn’t missed his guess, that I was the girl he thought I was.

  “Clean my cock, slut.”

  “I’d be delighted to,” I said in a sultry version of my salesperson voice, just a hint of smoke. I took my Suds & Go uniform shirt off. This man didn’t want to see an employee doing her job; he wanted to see Harmony the big-titted whore suck his dick. I crawled to him, eyes raised to look into his in perfect submission, my breasts swinging freely beneath me.

  “Not like that. Get on the car.”

  “You got it, sir,” I said, accepting his help standing. He pinched my ass through my khakis when I turned around, but it didn’t slow me down in the least. I was a professional, and I satisfied customers.

  “Like this?” I asked after I’d lain down on my tummy across the hood of his car. It was cold and wet, but that didn’t matter. I had a dick to suck. That was all that mattered, making him want to come back and buy me again.

  Not that this customer had paid money for me, but I mentally reckoned I was part of the price sticker on the deluxe wash he’d ordered.

  “No, like this,” he said, roughly flipping me over onto my back. For a moment I didn’t understand how this was to work – would he mount my face? The positioning was all wrong – but then he tugged me by my armpits until my head hung off the edge of the car.

  I opened my mouth, relaxed my throat, and got to work opening his pants.

  His cock was impressive, for sure, though thankfully more in girth than length. I say thankfully not because I can’t deep throat a man with ease, but because he was fucking my face so vigorously that a longer cock would have pushed my head harder into the side of his car. The last thing I wanted was to damage a custome
r’s vehicle. Mortifyingly unprofessional.

  I massaged his cock with my aching throat as I used the sponge, which had mysteriously returned to my hand as things happen in dreams, to lather up my tits.

  Sometimes this dream ended with the customer leaving me triggered and driving away with me to make me his slave all over again; other times they dicked and dashed, as my sister slaves and I used to call our quickie customers. Regardless of the particulars, it always lead to me waking up wishing I’d allow a man in my life, someone whose dick I could pleasure right then and there.

  I had no such dreams about the school job. Probably because the job itself fueled fantasies naturally. There are few environments outside the sex industry so brimming with sexual energy as a high school. Adolescents with bodies shrieking for attention, young people all too eager to grow up. I was flirted with constantly by students and staff alike, but I was good at deflecting the attention, or laying the smack down where someone crossed a line. Most students learned not to press beyond a meekly intoned “you look nice today, Ms. Reed.”

  All that week, whenever I wasn’t working I was trying to keep myself as busy as possible. I invented chores and errands, hit the gym more than was probably healthy, even a couple bar crawls. But through it all, all I could think of was Dr. Kovacs and the glimmer of hope.

  Not that my life was so bad. As I always tried to remind myself in low moments, many people had it much worse than I had. Sure, I’d given up years of my life to sexual servitude to a vain, greedy, sociopathic monster. Even so, I’d loved doing it – Master had made sure of it. Maybe I was too afraid of losing my freedom to let a man close to me, but hey, I was still young and healthy and attractive, gainfully employed and unencumbered by debt.

  Still, the fact that I was constantly horny, that I had to pad my bras to hide nipples that were too often erect, that I wore too much perfume to conceal the scent of my arousal, that every time someone paid me any sexual attention I couldn’t help but imagine granting them their every desire….

  Anyway, it was a long week.