I could stop. Any time I want to, I could p-pull down my skirt, push his hand away from my pussy, stand up and w-walk a… away. I’m not–not helpless, not bound or restrained or, or trapped by pleasure, no matter what he says. I could just leave, ignore his soft whispers and go hide in a restroom or something and play with myself until I stop feeling so, so f-fucking horny, oh fuck, until I can, can think straight again. That’s probably the smart thing to do. Just stop listening to him, stop letting him touch me, stop looking into his deep blue eyes and nodding at the end of every sentence. I should do that. I should do that right now.
But oh, ohhhh god, his fingers feel so good through my panties. Just rubbing and rubbing in those slow, lazy circles, putting exactly the right pressure on my c-clit, hitting the perfect rhythm to make my, my pussy so wet. It’s like his touch switches off my sense of time, like something in my brain is telling me that I’ll get up in a second, in a minute, in some ‘just a moment’ moment that never quite comes. I’m not quite cumming either. I keep getting closer and closer, the heat between my legs so good and right and wonderful that I know I’m going to have the biggest climax in the whole damn world… but if I wait, he promises, it’ll be even better. Even better if I keep drifting and staring and relaxing and waiting for permission to cum. And like an idiot, I nod in agreement again.
How did I wind up giving away so much power to him? How did I wind up sitting on his couch, skirt up, legs splayed, his fingers rubbing my pussy into a sticky mess while I look helplessly into those deep blue eyes and nod like a puppet on a string at everything he says? I can’t quite remember. I remember coming into his office, I remember sitting down to talk to him, but… but there are these patches of haze in my memory. Stretches of time that just fade into soft, slick pleasure and the warm, peaceful sound of his voice in my ears. I don’t remember words, just the feeling of, of listening and relaxing and accepting very simple, very obvious things. Until ‘yes’ became a habit all its own. Until I lost track of what I was agreeing with. Until… oh fuck. Oh fuck that feels nice. Yes. Yes, Master. Yes.
I don’t know where ‘Master’ came from, b-but it feels so good on my lips and in my brain and down between my legs that I want to repeat it again. Yes Master. Yes Master. Y-yes, oh god, yes Master. I can hear myself panting, my promise to him the only thing between me and a brain-melting climax the size of a tidal wave, but his fingers keep moving at the same speed, the same maddening teasing rhythm. I want to cum so badly, I need to cum so badly now, I, I’ll do anything if it just lets me cum for Master. I hear myself agreeing again, my foggy brain forgetting the words I’m accepting into the back of my mind faster and faster with each swirling caress on my clit, and I know I’m being hypnotized. Brainwashed. P-programmed to obey. I don’t care. Not if it lets me cum.
I don’t remember what the final trigger is, whether I agree to be his slave or forget my instructions or return to him for more programming tomorrow. All I know is that suddenly he presses just a little harder on the little nub of flesh between my legs, and the tiny extra sensation is enough to make me squeal in a climax so big it forces my whole damn brain out through my cunt. I gush all over his fingers, soaking my panties with my juices, and I don’t even notice that I’m whimpering and moaning and begging him to fuck my mind all over again. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but pleasure. Nothing matters but getting more of this. Please. Yes. Please.
As I sag back onto the couch, I hear him beginning to program my dazed and sleepy brain some more. But I’m already forgetting what he’s saying. My mind is too deep to think, my body too drowsy to move. I can’t stop him… but then again, I realize, I never really could.
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