by Isaac Byrne
Find an assertive male and get him to fuck me.
Those first few days weren’t proud, and I’d definitely given in to urges I regretted yielding to in hindsight. I probably could have just thanked the man who picked me up on the side of the road; I didn’t have to climb in the backseat and fuck him. Same with the thrift store clerk who gave me some clothes; the handjob I gave a bus driver for letting me sleep on the bus overnight; the tit-fuck I volunteered for a guy for giving me $50.
Technically I guess it wasn’t really “giving” if I repaid it like that. Though to be fair, he gave first, and then I offered independently. My breasts had felt under-utilized at the time, I’m not proud to say.
Before long though, I got it out of my system. Back in the real world, acting that way was strange. Upsetting even, to some people. Even if I no longer understood shame or modesty, I still wanted to be normal, fit in, be a person with a life. I just commanded myself, daily, sometimes hourly, not to act like a sex slave.
Don’t fuck that guy, came my own command countless times. It worked. Don’t be a slut. Keep your legs together. Walk away before you say yes. Swallow before you drool. As long as I thought of myself as an autonomous person with her own authority, I could order myself around as well as the next guy.
It was that easy. The two days after Dr. Kovacs briefly turned me back into a sex slave, a lot of my commands were… friendlier.
Get naked.
Shave your pussy.
Twist your nipples. Harder. No, harder I said.
Lick that up now, Harmony.
I was awfully friendly with myself.
Still, life had to go on. I let that stuff cloud my head for almost two whole days, and on the third decided it was time to start behaving again. I had work in the morning, errands to run after, and sex slaves didn’t have jobs or pay bills or return sweaters that didn’t fit right. That was something free women did, and I was a free woman. Not a sex slave. Not any more.
I practiced that day, getting myself back into behavior mode. I went for a jog. Wear sweatpants and a jacket, not short shorts and a tank top. I did some grooming. Wash that makeup off. Free women don’t wear makeup to sit around the house. I tidied up around the house. Bend at the knees, not the waist. No one’s looking anyway.
It was productive, and I worked up an appetite, and after two days diddling myself around the house, I’d run low on food. I ordered Chinese, telling myself it would be good for me to bloat a little bit. It felt like it reminded me I didn’t need to be so preoccupied with looking sexy. I hopped onto the website for a local place I’d heard good things about and sent out for more food than any single woman should eat. I was excited. This was normal, and normal would be good.
The outside buzzer sounded a half hour later as the delivery guy arrived. Don’t check yourself in the mirror, Harmony. It doesn’t matter. There. I went to the speaker box and told him to come on up, third floor. I grabbed an extra couple bucks from my purse to add to the tips for the trouble. I held the button to unlock the entrance to the apartment building.
Only instead of a sixty-second delay and a knock at my door, someone immediately spoke to me over the intercom. A man’s voice. I heard the words, and I understood them. Now I couldn’t tell you what they were, what they’d mean to anyone else, whether it was English or Mandarin or Klingon or just plain gibberish. I just knew what they meant to me, and I immediately took them to heart.
One of my triggers. The combination of sounds that transformed me into a horny, pliant plaything, each trigger a different kink. And someone had just spoken one.
I hadn’t gotten naked so fast in almost a year. Even the day two months ago at my secretary job when I’d been walking a sick kid to the nurse’s office and he barfed all over my pants, I hadn’t stripped so fast. I didn’t have long, so I sprinted to my closet, hands guided by raw instinct to an outfit I’d forgotten I owned. Master’s training animated my hands as I ran to the bathroom for a 20-second lipstick and eyeliner job, shaking my hair up into a little more volume as I darted back to the door.
I was just in time. He was knocking even as I returned.
“Well howdy! Come on in, come in!” I said warmly, leaning out to kiss him on either cheek. I’d adopted a very mild southern accent to complement the persona. The man, a lean guy around my age grinned bashfully and stepped inside, setting down his box of Chinese food just inside the door next to the jeans and panties I’d been wearing before he triggered me. If I had to guess I’d say he was Thai rather than Chinese, but I’m not really an expert on those things.
“My but aren’t you a sweet mug of sun tea! I’m so glad you’re here. My name’s Harmony, and I’ll be your hostess tonight. Why don’t you take off your shoes? And are you thirsty? Can I get you anything? Oh what am I saying, I haven’t even let you sit down yet and here I am trying to get you tipsy!” I giggled, the mild Southern belle accent coming automatically from Master-only-knows what sort of training.
“Thank you, Miss,” the man said, looking around at my studio apartment. “I wasn’t actually planning on staying that long…”
“Nonsense – I insist! What kind of hostess would I be if I just sent you right back out in the cold, hmm? Now you take those shoes off and plop yourself down any old place. The couch is comfier than the chair, but the bed’s softer than both if you’d rather kick up your heels for a spell – or iffin’ you’d rather I kick up mine!” I winked, then scurried away to the kitchen with a merry titter.
Hostess. It wasn’t a trigger Master had used often on me; it’s not really much of a fetish, and I suspect most people who are looking for a woman to wait on them hand and foot either go more for the classic slutty maid, or want someone a bit milfier than myself fulfilling the role. Still, Master had liked to prepare for every contingency (or maybe just enjoyed the process of reprogramming us so much that he over-did it), so when I heard the trigger, I became what I’d been programmed to become. The portrait of absolute southern hospitality.
Right now, I was making him a martini. I didn’t even know I knew how to make a martini, but Hostess Harmony knew what she needed to. She was also secretly hoping he’d choose the bed, but she could be plenty patient if needs be.
He’d chosen the couch. Damn.
I took the private moment to check over my appearance, since I hadn’t had time before welcoming my… whatever he was. Not Master, nor even really a lower-case master. Stranger who knew one of my trigger words. Guy who was going to make my dinner go cold before I got to eat it.
My guest deserved 110% of my attention and hospitality.
I didn’t have a mirror, but the window served to show me my reflection. I dabbed a bit at my bright red lipstick, and tugged at my dress. It was a bright red house dress that was practically out of the 1950’s, white polka dots and all. The only difference was that this one flared out a good deal more, and was shorter to begin with. The ruffles underneath only hid so much; it was a sure bet that if I turned too quickly, it would whip up and show everything I had.
Which I made sure to do after handing the man his martini and then whisking back to watch him sip it to make sure he enjoyed my providence. He was staring at my legs when I turned again, so I was sure he’d noticed.
“How is it?”
“Mmm, it’s good,” he said.
“You haven’t tried it yet,” I pointed out.
With obvious effort, he looked up from my thighs to my face. “What? Oh, right.” Then a sip, then an assurance it was indeed good.
“Good, I’m glad, Mister… I’m sorry, I suppose I don’t know your name. Or would you rather sir? Or master, if that’s more to your likin’.”
“Well hi there, handsome!” I gushed. I was blindfolded, and restrained. “Aren’t you just a sweet mug of sun tea? Now you tell me, would y’all rather I call you by the name your mama gave ya, or is sir more to your likin’? Or how about massuh?”
A jolt. It was painful, but I’d been jolted so many times I only registere
d it as a lesson, not a punishment. “You’re a hostess, not a plantation field slave. Don’t go so thick.” Master’s voice, somewhere nearby.
I tried again. Because I always tried again. “Now why don’t you have yourself a seat and tell me your name so I know how you like to be called? Or would you rather sir? Or master, if that’s more to your likin’.”
What the hell had just happened? I’d never had a flashback to my training before. Not once. I didn’t have time to process because I was still triggered, and the man who had triggered me was speaking.
“Um… sir? Sir is fine,” he said, grinning broadly. I could tell he wasn’t used to this kind of flattery. He seemed to like it, and I had a whole volume of behaviors I brought to bear for the ones who liked to be sirred and flattered.
“Well then, sir. Why don’t you tell me what else I can do to make you feel at home? Would you care for a foot massage? I do a fine foot massage. Or… the way your eyes are wandering, I’m almost wondering if you’d rather have something a little more relaxing!” My eyes sparkled.
He almost spit out a mouthful of martini. “Wow. Um, I didn’t mean to… sorry if I…”
“Sorry? Why, whatever for?”
“You know, if I was… wandering.” This time, he gulped rather than sipped.
“Oh that’s all right!” I reassured him, setting myself down beside him on the couch, placing a comforting hand on his thigh and crossing my legs to reveal as much of them as possible. “Do you honestly think I’d wear a dress like this if I minded you looking at it? Heck, I take it as a right compliment! As far as I’m concerned, everything in my home is there for you to use however you like anyways. So don’t you be bashful now.” I gave him a long wink.
His eyes flitted back down to my chest; even wearing a dress that covered it cleavage and all, it was obvious I had plenty to hide. “Oh… I mean, if you’re offering, you could maybe show me… your, um…”
Must be a first-timer. I’d seen men who I believed full well had been with plenty of women who still got shy their first time with a sex slave. I could empathize, even. The difference between authentic human interaction, a give and take, putting on airs and trying to impress, versus saying and doing whatever you wanted and still being guaranteed to seal the deal… it was heady.
Or so I would imagine. I wouldn’t know.
“You mean these, sir?” I suggested, running my hands over them. It really was a bit obscene, not just the way the dress clung to my bare skin, nipples protruding, but on my end the omission of a bra was utterly out of character for my hostess. She was supposed to be a thing of deeply ingrained elegance and class, but equally ingrained submission and eagerness to please. The fact that the clothes I’d been wearing pre-trigger were lying scattered around the living room didn’t help my satisfaction with the illusion I was creating.
The man didn’t seem to notice. His eyes, brimming with delight, were riveted on the sight of the woman in front of him. I turned away from him. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help a lady with some buttons, would you?”
I could have gotten them myself fairly easily – I was damn flexible and had been trained exhaustively on any skill remotely related to getting in and out of clothing – but I wanted him to feel comfortable touching me. Not just that, really, but comfortable feeling like I was a gift for him to unwrap.
It took him a minute but soon the dress was unbuttoned all the way, slowly revealing the skin across my back. When he didn’t do it of his own volition, I prompted him to “go ahead and give it a few tugs now, sugar” and then, it was down my arms and soon peeled to my waist.
I rolled my shoulders as if it was a weight off of them, knowing that from my angle he’d be able to glimpse just barely at some side boob but not much else. Anticipation, even only a few moments, could be everything. Merely introducing that element of impatience, that there was something to be had that you hadn’t yet been given, was enough to drive many men into throwing me on the floor and fucking me then and there.
Wherever and whenever then and there were, if I was triggered for it.
“Mind turning back around?” he said after a moment. Good, there was some of that assertiveness. He was seeing I’d do what he wanted, if he just communicated the desire.
“Happy to, sir,” I said, shifting back to him. Had I ever been the sort to suffer from self-esteem issues on account of my appearance, the look on his face would have cured it in a hot minute. (I’d found even many beautiful women do lack this confidence; some of my fellow slaves had needed much reassurance that they were pretty enough to serve well.) His eyes lit like Christmas morning and my breasts were his very own Red Rider BB gun.
I wanted to laugh at the notion of them being closer to DD guns, but it wasn’t in character. My thoughts had no bearing on what I was to show to the world.
“Wow, you’re stacked, lady!” he said, somewhat tactlessly.
I was well past immune to such crude remarks, however, even when I wasn’t triggered. “Thank you kindly, sir. And if you’d like to set a spell with ‘em, I’d be happy to oblige you. In fact, tell you what,” I said, shifting myself over into his lap, wriggling into a comfortable place for his burgeoning erection and taking his martini out an unresisting hand, “why don’t I hold that until y’all are ready for it?”
His hands were all over my breasts in an instant. He groped, hefted, squeezed, then dove right in and licked, sucked, chewed. It was heaven. This was what I had been made for. Remade for, anyway. I was pleasing a man. None of my enthusiasm was feigned – which was the whole point of having brainwashed me so. My pussy wasn’t starting to flood and gush right out onto this stranger’s lap out of some mental trick or quirk of biology. I was genuinely more turned on by this total stranger’s boob-play than I had been by days of nonstop self-stimulation.
While he worked, even as much as we were each enjoying his efforts, I began to formulate next steps. This was something Master had always been firm on – I couldn’t just react, and I couldn’t just improvise. I was always to be thinking about the best course of action to follow.
I could straddle him while he played, remind him I existed below the waist so he didn’t forget his many options. In fact, there was no downside to this; I did it presently.
Should I kiss him? No, he’d hardly paid attention to my face since walking in. He might like a blowjob, but so far nothing he’d said or done indicated he wanted my mouth more than my body.
I could give offer a titty-fuck. He was definitely enjoying them, and seemed to have that childlike sort of glee of a man who would enjoy the novelty of it more than he would the more stimulating paths to an orgasm.
Yes. He wasn’t slowing down on my breasts; this was the right tactic for this man.
I considered trying to remain in character, telling him I had the worst itch between my breasts and would he kindly do a lady a favor and scratch it for her. Many men enjoyed the perversion of a character, this Dixieland hostess treating a man fucking her tits the way the authentic version might have regarded a guest helping her move a piece of furniture.
This man didn’t seem especially intrigued by the character so much as the body inhabiting it. I decided to be more direct.
“Why, you sure do seem to be enjoying Miss Harmony’s boobs, sir!” I exclaimed, cradling his mouth to my chest so he didn’t feel immediately compelled to reply. Some men liked to talk; some didn’t. Whether or not he responded when I stopped suffocating him with my nipple would tell me how to proceed.
“Seriously, lady, these are amazing fucking tits. Are these fake? I’ve never seen ones like this except, like, on porno chicks.”
There it was; no interest in the character, only in what he could do with her. Which was fine. I made a note to mellow out but not abandon my accent, and to focus on the experience rather than the situation.
“Bless your heart, sir, if you aren’t just the sweetest man to suck my titties in a dog’s age!” I gushed, granting him tacit permission to ca
ll my parts whatever he liked. “Now I don’t suppose you meant to sit around and suck ‘em all night? Not that I object, so long’s you don’t mind supper gettin’ cold,” I added.
“Seriously, I could sit here all day with these things.”
“Well don’t let me stop ya,” I said, pulling him back in. “You just let Miss Harmony know whenever you’d like to have her try something a little bit bolder with ‘em.”
“Mmmmrmmer?” he said. Muffled in tit-flesh as he was, I translated it as bolder?
“Sure! What kind of a hostess would I be if I didn’t at least make sure you was fully satisfied, top to bottom?” I squirmed my pussy against his cock; if he thought I meant to offer sex, fine, but mostly I just wanted to make sure he knew what I meant to satisfy.
“I can’t say as I’m one to turn down a nice tit-fuck – especially not from a hottie like you,” he said. I clapped my hands delightedly, hopping up off his lap with my dress still clinging to my hips. The man lifted his hips and I helped him off with his pants and boxers.
Like that, this stranger’s cock was in my mouth, and I was as happy as I’d been in months. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know him, that he hadn’t done much to tidy up first, or that this was all taking place right here in my own living room. I was triggered, and my brain was just satisfied to know that I was satisfying him.
“Damn lady, I thought I was gonna get to spend some time with your tits, but this is nice too.”
I wasn’t doing my best blowjob; in fact, it was about as unimpressive an effort as I ever allowed myself. However, this was only because the purpose here was more to get him wet than to get him off. If he’d wanted to come in my mouth, I’d be trying harder.
And I knew how to try hard.
“Don’t you fret, sugar, I was just making sure you was good and ready for the main course,” I reassured him, releasing him from my mouth and repositioning him between my tits.
More than most people, I have learned that the human brain is a remarkable thing. It’s capable of hearing sounds that aren’t there, fabricate entire memories while forgetting the name of someone you knew since grade school. You’ve no doubt heard some of those crazy stories about how it can misfire, someone who takes a blow to the head and suddenly can do calculus.
