by Isaac Byrne
My exultant laugh echoed out into the night. This was a fun show, only this wasn’t what he wanted. Not yet. He wanted to watch me get off. With a quick glance around, as if to make sure no one was watching, I prepared to give him just that. Sort of.
It was the sort of scene that, if he was recording it (which I both hoped and suspected he was), he’d have to watch in slow-mo to have a chance to see what he was after. With a thumb tucked into each side of my boxers at the hips, I wriggle side to side, easing them down – then just as they would reveal my pussy right above the top of the railing, I spun around and perched on top of it. The metal was ice cold on my bare ass, but knowing how hot it must look, how bitter it must feel to be cheated out of the sight of my exposed cunt.
Then, I began to play with myself.
I’d been horny all day – hell, I’d been horny all week – but this, this was on a new level. Spreading my lips and slipping a finger in was easy, wet as I was. A second one joined it, and my thumb went after my clit like a button that dispensed pleasure when it was pushed. I eased my thighs as far apart as I could while keeping my feet on the ground and lost myself in the shlick, shlick of my play.
That and the distant droning of traffic were all I could hear.
Little by little, I leaned back as far as I dared, holding the railing with my free hand for balance. I imagined what my watchers would see, a sexy girl with her shorts around her ankles, ample breasts just visible over her shoulders as she arched her back in bliss. He’d be jerking himself off by now, breath coming in little gasps as he watched me play, just like he’d told me to. His fantasy girl, untouched and untouchable but by her own hands.
With a howl, I came. My expertly trained pussy massaged my own fingers just like it was supposed to. I wished I could convey that it was doing that somehow.
Still, it was time to stop being a tease.
I regained my breath, giggling to myself in a giddy tone that the wall of my apartment reflected outward with excellent acoustic effect. On shaky legs, I stumbled a couple steps to one of the chairs, hampered by my boxers still bunched around my ankles. I kicked them off, watching with a grin as they fluttered down to land on someone’s dashboard. I had no doubt they wouldn’t be there when I woke up; somewhere, some stranger would be inhaling my musk as I donned fresh panties to grace them with the same.
I settled into the chair and smiled out at the night, pleased with my own self-pleasing. Then it was as if I suddenly remembered something important: I still have tits.
When I was younger, before anyone had done anything to my brain, I masturbated much the same way. It always started with my breasts, a little teasing and tweaking at the nipples before moving on down below. I sometimes mixed the two, though I’d lacked the coordination that years of practice and rigorous training have since given me. In hindsight, it really was an awkward and clumsy act, a horny girl attacking her body’s pleasure centers as if to take her orgasm as a ransom.
It was that memory that inspired my play that night. Even gone, Master had still managed to find a piece of my mind that could be taken and molded into something whorish, useful for providing men pleasure. With each new position, I had a millisecond of a memory of practicing it in Master’s training chamber, Master’s serum coursing through me dizzyingly, Master’s voice correcting me into ever-sexier positions.
With my ankles on the railing, I diddled myself silly. Before that phone call, I’d already lost count of my orgasms that day, but after, it would have required an actuary to estimate. Even as I humped my hand, grunting and thrusting into the morning, I wondered when I would ever be able to stop. Normally I stopped when the man I was with left, but tonight, there was no man. Just a former sex-slave and anyone in the neighborhood who cared to watch her frig herself like a woman possessed. When would it feel like enough?
I masturbated in the chair, against the wall, upright with one foot up on the railing, on hands and knees with my ass pointed out, hands and knees sideways, kneeling in the chair, leaning face-first against the glass door and humping my fingers. Every time I came, I brainstormed a new position and tried it. He might still be watching. I had to put on a show.
The sky was just beginning to fade from black to purple when suddenly, the headlights turned on in one car in the lot. It peeled away quickly, tires squealing on the cold pavement. I hadn’t seen anyone moving in the parking lot, so I guessed it must be the man who’d put me up to this.
My watcher had gotten his show, and was gone. OK, Harmony. You can go stop now. If you want. It was as firm as I could be with myself right now.
With an aching forearm and trembling thighs, I made my way back inside, thrilling at the warmth and throwing my aching body down on my couch. I was asleep when my head hit the pillow.
Chapter Six
I woke up well past time to notify my principal that I wasn’t coming in, but I honestly didn’t care. My first task when I picked myself up off the couch was to check on the number that had made the call, but there was no trace of it. The last call in my history had been the night before last, Miguel calling to tell me he and Justin were on their way to pick me up. I knew it was possible to erase a call from my history, and worse, I knew it had been possible for Master to erase memories from my head. Such forgetfulness had never been part of one of my triggers that I had noticed, but if someone knew all that Master had known, maybe they could do that too.
As I took a long, cold shower to scrub the dirt from my balcony off of me, all I could think was that I was no longer safe anywhere. It had been bad before, having already had someone come into my home, yet now I realized I was vulnerable anywhere and everywhere. They could reach me over the phone, which meant I either could have it with me and just dodge my calls, or I could leave it behind and be unable to reach anyone.
For now, I kept it in my purse, but left it turned off.
Then I focused on banishing those lingering fantasies about what I’d done last night. Damn, I bet I’d looked sexy as hell, I kept thinking. What the hell was wrong with me, fantasizing about being someone’s fantasy? I was objectifying myself in my own head, a victim of my own making.
What the hell could I do? The answers were no different than they had been yesterday. I was powerless to confront the men who’d used me, just as powerless as I had been to stop them from using me in the first place. The theories hadn’t changed, except the vague evidence of the car I’d seen leaving this morning. I didn’t get anything as specific as make and model, much less a license plate, but I was pretty sure Dr. Kovacs wouldn’t drive such a beat-up old car. Not that that exculpated him by itself. If it had even truly been the trigger man’s vehicle and not just some neighbor who’d made it out to their car while I was blinded by the thrill of giving myself the shocker.
I needed help. Only the last time I’d tried to get help, I’d let a hypnotherapist put me under, then woke up with his dick in my mouth. Who could I turn to? There was only a very short list of people I trusted under the best of circumstances, but right now, my friends had to be livid with me. Besides which, even if I could get them to forgive me, I didn’t want them to know what I had once been. If there was a thought that threatened to put real fear into me, it was that.
So should I just do nothing? There was a small (but loud) part of me that wanted exactly that. To relive the wild, torrid, exciting, toe-curling escapades of yesteryear, to let my life become as it had been. I could just be a sex slave to the world, not worrying about Master’s edicts but only pleasing my controller of the day.
That was no solution though. I could only maintain my jobs for so long behaving this way, especially my school job. Hell, that could land me in jail if I was unlucky. (Unluckier than I’d already been, that is.) I could be evicted from my apartment. Lose all my friends. Wind up in a cage in someone’s basement. Whether or not I enjoyed some part of this, the cost of not resisting simply wasn’t worth the thrill of the journey.
So far, I’d had my home violated, potentially los
t all my friends, become a hostage to my own cell phone, and made one hell of a violation of public nudity laws. Had it turned me on? Yes. I could admit that. But these dalliances weren’t just risque; they were dangerous. Something had to be done.
All day long I thought round and around in circles, in search of courage as much as ideas. Finally, at 4:41, I got in my car and drove to Dr Kovacs’ office, leaving my note behind in my apartment in case things ended badly, along with a note explaining where I was last headed. Not my final destination, I hoped, but in the event anyone saw that note it probably would be.
I tried not to let the thought that this could be my final mistake be consoling. I should be terrified, but was instead vaguely contented with the idea of being my shrink’s permanent sex slave.
Upon arrival, I took a few deep breaths and tried to the door to the waiting room. Unlocked. Inside, his secretary was already gone for the day, but the door to his office was ajar. A light was on, and I could hear classical music playing softly. Perfect. I turned the bolt on the waiting room door to make sure we weren’t disturbed. Or that I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t sure which.
I stepped quietly into the office, and standing at his filing cabinet flipping through folders was Dr. Kovacs. The bland decoration no longer felt so non-threatening, nor did the fuzzy pink sweater he wore. It featured little yellow ducklings.
He’s dangerous, I reminded myself. Do what you came to do.
He cried out at the feel of the thin metal cylinder against the back of his head. “Don’t move. Don’t say one fucking word. Understand?”
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Look, take whatever you want, my wallet’s in—”
I pressed down harder against his head, and he stopped immediately. “What did I just say? No moving. No. Talking. Now, do you understand? Think carefully how you answer.”
He just froze for a moment, then remembered he could nod. I reached around and put a roll of duct tape in his hands. “Good. Now let’s get you nice and secure, make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
I was impressed with how calm I remained as I watched him place a strip over his mouth and then bind himself to his desk chair. I kept behind him the whole time, wary that he’d realize who he was dealing with and realize how easily he could turn the tables on me. I may not have had a plan, but I could at least be careful with my bluff. So far I was impressed with myself for making it this far with bluster and clichés from crime dramas.
“All right, Dr. Kovacs. David. I’m going to put away my gun, so you don’t panic on me.” I came around in front of him at last. He looked positively terrified, though I couldn’t tell for sure if it intensified when he saw me or not. I felt awful. While some victims of kidnapping might react by becoming protectionists, my response was to become a pacifist through and through. Even if this man had taken advantage of me, I hated using fear and violence. For all Master’s moral shortcomings, there had never been any of that. Brainwashing and compulsion, yes, but we’d been made to enjoy it, at least. Probably too much; hence my current predicament.
There were less fortunate sex slaves in the world, I knew.
I glared down at my prisoner. “Miss me? I suppose you wouldn’t, active as you’ve been in my life lately. I think it’s high time we get to the bottom of it, figure out what you’ve been up to and how you’ve been doing it. So since we can’t trust you to use your mouth, let’s just go with nods and shakes, shall we?”
Sweat trickled down his round face from his balding scalp. “So let’s cut right to the chase. Have you been giving people my trigger phrases?”
His eyes widened, then he shook his head vehemently.
“Don’t bullshit me, Doctor. Someone’s been following me around and fucking with my life, and it all started with you and your little hypnotism routine. So I’ll ask again – have you been giving out my triggers?”
Another shake.
“Do I need to get the gun out again, see how many holes it takes before you remember?” I reached into my coat pocket menacingly.
Dr. Kovacs’ eyes went wide. He frantically shook his head, squealing in panic beneath the duct tape gag. Then it sounded like he was trying to say something. It was far too garbled to be intelligible.
“What, you think you can trigger me through your gag? Well guess again, Doc. Keep trying, though, and pretty soon I’m going to take it personally. So I’d give it a rest if I were you.” Almost immediately he gave up. The office was silent again.
I took a moment to re-think. What exactly could I learn from him in simple yes-no’s? Too late, it dawned on me I might have fared better coming into this with a concrete plan of action. Dr. Kovacs was already denying his culpability, so I couldn’t see how to proceed when we lacked that basic agreement. Could I actually hurt him? One look at those fear-filled watery brown eyes of his and I knew I couldn’t.
It was time to take another risk.
A couple minutes later and I had successfully jury-rigged my idea into being. A pad of paper was secured in place at the end of the right arm of his chair, and a pen was in his hand. His handwriting would suffer, but he’d be able to communicate. Now I just had to hope I couldn’t be triggered via text. I never had been; then again, I’d ever been triggered before except by Master prior to last week.
“One more time now, David. Why are you doing this to me? And how did you learn all my triggers?”
He shook his head again and began writing. I watched him write, wary for any sign he was attempting a trigger. What that sign would look like I didn’t know, but I figured whatever they were, they couldn’t be common phrases. Master was methodical and insisted on absolute control over his harem. He wouldn’t allow even a chance of having one of us slaves escape if someone accidentally blurted a lucky phrase.
No triggers. Didn’t do anything. Please don’t hurt.
I folded my arms across my chest. “You’ve gotta do better than that. All of this started in your office when you put me under. Did you dig around in my subconscious and find out what they were? Then, what, you followed me around and gave them to those other guys? Some kind of sick game for you, pimping me out to strangers?”
He wrote as quickly as he could. Recording of session in file drawer. Listen.
“What kind of a moron do you take me for? You want me to listen to the tape, hear the trigger word you used on me and get another BJ, is that it?”
He was still for a long moment, then wrote a single word. When?
“Let’s see. There was last night, when some guy had me stripping and finger-banging myself for three hours on my patio.” He shook his head, then tapped his pen on the question. “I dunno, around two in the morning. The call woke me up, but I was forced to delete the record of it, I guess.”
He wrote, Other times? and tapped the question.
So I went down the list, and he listened closely. Was he trying to get inside my head somehow? Or just trying to get a firsthand account of the fruits of his labors? When I got to Curly – “two nights ago, around eight then for the rest of the evening” – he suddenly started writing in a flurry.
Text Charlie on my phone. Ask where I was. He looked down to his hip pocket. I didn’t think he was in a position to try to headbutt me or anything, so I figured I’d give him a shot. Could it be some kind of trap? It seemed pretty elaborate, if so. I scrolled down to find the name Charlie Geist in his contacts, and he nodded to confirm when I showed it to him.
Their history showed nothing immediately nefarious, just some back and forth about some fantasy football league thing. It looked like pretty standard dude banter to me, no red flags. I took a moment to compose a short message to Charlie, conscious that there was no way to do it without sounding conspicuous, so I abandoned pretense. Say, do you remember what we were doing two nights ago? I pressed Send.
There was an uncomfortable silence as we waited for a reply. I wonder if Dr. Kovacs was still worried I was going to shoot him. If he was thinking of a way to trigger me. If he was just worr
ied I was just plain crazy. In fairness, he was probably right to worry on that one. Even I didn’t know what I’d do if whatever this plan was didn’t pan out.
Luckily for us both, Charlie replied quickly. Trivia night at Fiesta’s, remember? No wonder we got our asses kicked, you don’t pay attention for shit lol
I showed the therapist his response. “So what? What is this supposed to mean to me?”
He started writing again. Trivia night. Phones = cheating.
“So?”
How give trigger if no phone?
Well shit.
I fell back onto that ultra-plush patient chair and started thinking it through. I’d been to some of those trivia things with my friends (Vivian was a beast at those things), and I knew full well there were no phones allowed if it was competitive. Even if he’d had access to a phone somehow, he’d have to have someone following me, watching for someone to give the trigger to, someone who wouldn’t just use it for themselves, and suddenly it was all a lot more far-fetched. Accusing a man of getting his kicks whoring me out to strangers was one thing; suspecting Dr. Kovacs in his pink sweater with duckies on it of orchestrating a criminal conspiracy, henchmen and all, was another.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, unable to stop tears of remorse from dripping down on him as I hastened to remove the duct tape restraints. He winced as I jerked it off his mouth, but stayed silent. And still. Even when I’d completely undone it, the only sound in the office was my quiet sobs as I fell to the floor.
After a moment, a box of tissues slid into my blurred field of vision, held in the hands of my erstwhile hostage. I took it, more out of the guilt I felt at the thought of rejecting his help than out of desire for it. I took a moment to dab at my tears and get my sniffles under control. I eventually summoned the courage to look up at him. He was looking right back, an inscrutable expression on his lightly lined face.
