Flashes of envy, bright burning and scorching hot, flared within Francesca. She wanted that cum. And she was so much fucking hotter than Ginger. Why wasn’t she sucking Mister Stout’s cock? Didn’t she deserve it? Hadn’t she earned it with how beautifully fucking hot she was all the time? She had to wear tinier skirts. Hotter tops. Taller heels. She had to make sure his cock was so so hard that—
Oh fuck. Oh fuck he was bucking and groaning and she could smell his seed spilling out and he was cumming.
And so Ginger was cumming, and Francesca came too, her hips grinding forward, pushing her pussy into the door frame. She gasped and bit the door frame, her body vibrating as orgasmic pleasure again powered through her body.
“Good girl,” said Mister Stout. “What a good girl, cumming like that. Cumming for Daddy. Cumming for Master.”
Francesca’s eyes unfocused, focused, and then focused again. She staggered away from the door.
Every time she came, she had these moments of clarity—that her life wasn’t supposed to be like this, that she was supposed to have something else, something better, that all of this was insane. But also when she came, she felt more deeply trapped than ever before. Like she was spiraling down a pretty pink storm, and the closer she was tugged into its nucleus, there were shafts of sunlight that broke through the surrounding clouds.
Panties wet, blouse pulled halfway off her body, Francesca set her jaw. She had to leave.
She needed to get out of here. There was something...something deeply wrong. She shouldn’t be so aroused by all of this. She shouldn’t be so fucking turned on all the time. It was this place’s fault, somehow.
She had to...had to...
The clock dinged.
“Ladies!” Mandy called, smiling brightly. “Please pay attention. It’s time for a message from our Sir. Attend your computers and pay very close attention.” Mandy caught Francesca’s eye. “Like a good girl.”
She had to watch it. Had to be a good girl. That was so fucking important. A low whine exited her mouth, equal parts tension and arousal, and her cunt felt wetter than ever as she dropped down to her knees in front of her computer and watched the pretty spirals start their dance again.
* * * * *
Francesca skipped the next two days of work. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. Harder than going a month without booze, harder than the most fastidious diet she had ever been on.
What she should have done—what she knew she was supposed to do, was go to work looking hotter than ever. She would finger herself silly and barely even get any of that useless paperwork done.
And then, when she was totally helpless, watching those pretty spirals make their entrancing shapes over and over again, she would finally meet Mister Stout one-on-one and he would show her what God felt like as he entered her needy cunt.
He would fill her totally, impregnating her immediately, and she would become a happy pregnant slutty cockslave like all those other gorgeous beauties in the office.
And what she was trying to do instead—what some other, less equal but very vocal part of her insisted that she do—was to call the police. Call home. Call her boyfriend, Coleman. Call anyone, anyone at all, just ask for help and try to save herself for god’s sake. She was drowning in erotic quicksand and there didn’t seem to be any way out.
So, instead, she spent all day fingering her pussy and moaning Mister Stout’s name into a pillow. So long as she didn’t say it aloud, into the open space of her apartment, she could pretend that she wasn’t truly obsessed with him. That she wouldn’t come running the second she heard his voice.
But a part of her knew that was true. A part of her wanted it to be true. It felt so right and good to kneel, to be a good girl, to be a sexy little thing with a mind full of fuckmush. It was difficult to know which opposing part was the invader. Had she always been a good, happy, kneeling fuckdoll, just now plagued with rationality? Or had she been an arrogant beauty who was slowly becoming a willless, obedient pet?
There was no real way to know. Everything she did in the house just turned her on. When she wasn’t fingering her cunt, she was sleeping and dreaming of fingering her cunt—or being fucked.
Coleman kept calling her. He went to voicemail every time. She couldn’t bear the sound of his voice. It grated on her, filled her with a deep, irrational rage. Who the fuck was he to think that she wanted to talk to him? Who the fuck did he think he was, trying to insert himself so unjustifiably into her life? What an oaf. What a buffoon.
A buffoon who, not very long ago, she had been entertaining the thought of marrying. He was handsome, and he had lots of cash.
Why then this sudden change of opinion? Her mush-addled mind struggled to comprehend. All she could imagine was that somehow Coleman had wronged her, but she could think of no real ways in which he had.
Outside of not having a cock as perfectly shaped and wonderfully formed as Mister Stout, of course.
B-but it couldn’t be that, could it? Francesca didn’t care about Mister Stout. She didn’t need to kneel for him constantly, didn’t ache to have her mouth wrapped around his cock until the end of time, didn’t burn with the need to be filled with his seed, to carry his young into this world and be his breeding bitch forever.
She didn’t. Really, she didn’t.
On the third day, Friday, she felt well enough to go back into work. She only thought about fucking every five minutes or so, and her thoughts in between felt ordered and organized.
She remembered how to read all those texts coming in on her phone. Coleman was mad at her, then worried, then mad again, then worried. She knew she ought to text him back, but something stopped her. First, before anything else, she wanted to cancel this madness with NewLife.
And so she would go back to NewLife, yes. But not to work, oh no. She wanted to cancel her contract and demand her answers from the evil, vile man.
That vile, horrible, perfectly sexy man who she was genuinely afraid of meeting because she was almost certain that doing so would mean her brain would be irreversibly turned into a cockloving fuckslave-adoring pile of erotic mush forever.
Afraid...and so fucking turned on.
She did her honest best to dress conservatively, knowing that she would have a face-to-face with the Man Himself. Her honest best ended up being a pleated knee-length skirt. She knew it was showing off too much leg, and so she had put on skintight brown leather boots that fit snug on her graceful gams to cover up some skin. Afraid that the effect was sexier than she would have liked, she put on a pale green sweater, but the top buttons kept coming undone, showing off the healthy expanse of her bountiful young cleavage as it bounced in her tiny, lacy bra.
The bra was skimpier than Francesca would have liked. Visible from the open expanses exposed by the constantly-unbuttoning sweater. But every other bra she had made her itch furiously. Lace and silk were just so comfortable lately...
She wandered back into the office, taking slow steps, standing slowly next to each and every doorway on the way in, trying to steel herself. The further she entered, the more sedate and turned-on she felt. This, in turn, made her more nervous and jittery. It was an uncomfortable juxtaposition for her body to maintain, feeling sleepily hyper-aware.
As with every time she had entered, she noted the veritable harem of mini-skirted beauties happily attending their work. The work itself seemed to have changed somewhat in character. In one corner, she saw a young woman wearing little more than a painter's apron and high heels thoughtfully painting a representation of an enormous phallus surrounded by a bevy of kneeling beauties. Francesca licked her lips, shuddering slightly as she saw it.
Mandy saw her from across the aisle, waving cheerfully and approaching. A tight red minidress clung to her spectacular body, chunky black ankle boots on her feet.
Francesca gulped as she saw the beautiful blond. There was a bulge in Mandy’s belly.
“Are you...are you pregnant, Mandy?”
“Oh, yes. I finally s
tarted showing this morning. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I...but you...who's the father?”
Mandy smiled knowingly. “Come now, dear. You know perfectly well who the only father of a child of mine could be. Don't you? You came here to see him today, after all.”
With that, Mandy took Francesca into her arms and gave her a long hug. Her scent, heady and delicious, made Francesca's world spin, and the embrace ended with a warm kiss from Mandy on her cheek. Not saying another word, Mandy strutted away, gently correcting another co-worker about the “shamefully short” height of her heels.
Francesca gulped, feeling much more turned on than she hoped. She tried to gather herself, approaching Mister Stout's office, breathing in deep and hoping to think of anything but sex, sex, sex, and more beautiful sexy sex sex. For some reason, even though she had been painfully attracted to Mandy just now, all that arousal was spiking not merely thoughts of a lesbian nature—pleasing Mandy, or Mandy pleasing her—but rather the two of them serving together...on their knees before the biggest, most bestest cock in the whole wide world...
She entered Mister Stout’s office with what she wanted to be an authoritative bang. Instead, she softly slid the door open, looking down at her shoes until he finally noticed her. He sat behind his desk, hard at work (of course he was hard at work, he was a Man, after all) on his computer.
Finally, he looked up, leering at her perfectly arranged form.
“Yes, Francesca?”
Oh fuck.
Of fuck, he knows my name oh fuck!
“I-I want to talk to you,” she said, trying to sound angry, despite the heavy heat in her pussy. “I want to give you a piece of my mind.”
He smiled. It was the most handsome, perfect smile Francesca thought she had ever seen. He was so hot. God, she wanted to know how big his dick was for real, to see it for herself...
“I welcome input from all my employees, Francesca. You seem upset. I’d be happy to hear what’s on your mind and work with you to resolve the situation amicably.”
Fuck. He was using such big words. They were so hard to follow. He was so smart.
“It’s just there’s like...it’s so hard to think, and you have all these girls who look so pretty, and I’m so pretty, and you make it so hard to think straight, and I’m so horny all the time, and everyone here looks so good, and there’s this cumming all the time, and it’s just super weird, you know? It’s freaking me out!”
That hadn't come out the right way at all. It was more like senseless babbling than the cogent, highly-developed argument she had worked on for so many hours at home.
“I see,” he said.
He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. For a few spare, strangely hopeful moments, Francesca thought he was going to grab her and force her over the side of the table until her brains were so liquid they leaked right out of her ears.
“Right?” said Francesca. “I think you’re doing it. I think you’re...you’re changing us somehow. With your programs. Your computer messages, it has to be. And like, they’re so pretty and fun and amazing, but like, I get so horny afterward and it’s all I can do not to...not to...”
He didn’t seem to be listening. He was playing with his phone.
“A-are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am. Why don’t you kneel for me, Francesca?”
“Mmmph...”
She moaned, struggling not to obey. She knew the second she gave in, unmatched pleasure would flood through her body. She’d probably cum right away.
But still, she resisted. Her knees were bent, though, and her willpower was almost entirely gone—and all from one simple question. The stiletto heels on her boots buckled from the strange shifting of her weight. The outlook was not good.
He looked up from his phone now, raising an eyebrow at her resistance. “You think it’s unfair that everyone else is so pretty, but you’re pretty too. And despite being so very pretty, you’re not getting fucked like they are. I can fix that, Francesca. I can fix it right now.”
He unzipped his pants and tossed them to one side. Underwear too. It took only seconds. His cock was half-hard, leaking precum. Francesca’s face glazed over. Her arguments were forgotten, burned away from the sudden desire of seeing the most perfect cock in the world.
“C-cock...” she said, squeezing her healthy tits with exuberant need.
“That’s right. My cock. And if you want my cock, you’ll do as I say. Won’t you?”
“Y-yes, Sir.”
“Good girl. Now, bend over on the table there.”
Of course she obeyed. He had a cock. He had the cock. He rotated his computer screen around and pressed a few buttons on the keyboard. The screen flickered for a moment, flashing, and then the spirals began.
“Watch the screen closely, Francesca,” he said, ripping her pants off. Her panties went easily—they were mostly just wet paper at that point.
His cock trailed around her ass, her thighs. She could, distantly, feel him squeezing the generously developed flesh of her ass and tits.
“Clos...ley...” she moaned.
And then his cock was inside her—
Relax
—and there was nothing else in the world—
Empty—
—nothing at all—
Serve
—nothing but obeying and pleasing, his cock so big and right—
Master is everything
—cumming so hard just like he told her, cumming and his cock so big—
Master is my one true Love
—nothing but obeying her Master forever.
Nothing else matters
* * * * *
Francesca sat in her apartment on Saturday evening, happily fingering her cunt beside a stack of packed boxes.
All around her, her home was empty. The furniture was gone. The pictures of her family and friends were burned. Silverware, tableware, Tupperware was all packed neatly away. All her books, all her movies, all her knick-knacks and souvenirs from traveling, all her blankets and pillows, all her bedding, all her life was neatly packed up in boxes.
Today they had taken away the furniture. Tomorrow, they would take away everything else. She was left her clothes, and even then, only the ones that made her look really hot.
Soon—hopefully by Monday—she would be completely moved in the NewLife dorm rooms where she would share a room with a fellow cockslave. They would have, naturally, just one bed. When Master was too busy fucking some other hot lucky cunt, Francesca would spoon and sleep with her roomie. They would lick each other’s pussies and whisper softly in each other’s ears about what good girl fuckdolls they were for Master, hoping for his attentions as soon as humanly possible.
Some days, he would walk through the dorm, room-by-room, delivering fuck-by-fuck. Other days, he would pull a number at random and take those girls out on the town. He almost never went out with just one girl—Master deserved at the least two adoring cockslaves slobbering all over his cock at all times.
So every night, after finishing work, every girl would make herself up as nice as possible, dress in as hot of an outfit as they could, and take pictures of their roomie. These pictures were uploaded to a database that Master could access from his phone. Then, he could scroll through each, seeing who looked the hottest, who deserved an up-close-and-personal look and who didn’t.
The girls not chosen never felt jealousy, though of course they were envious. If a girl was chosen more than once in a given week, she was seen as something special. If she was chosen more than twice, she was a new icon in the community of slaves. If she was chosen more than three times, she was a legend to be emulated, adored, and listened to by all other cockslaves.
No one had managed to earn the Master’s favor more than four times in a single week. Francesca was hoping to break that record—to shatter it, as a matter of fact. She knew she was hot, and she thought there was no reason why she couldn’t fuck him for an entire month. That was at
least six days, right?
So many parts of her brain had been erased by her Master’s trancing. That was fine by her. So many parts of her brain, then, were unneeded—because in truth, the only thing she really needed was a hot body to serve her Master with.
Francesca knew she had been tranced. She didn’t care.
Or rather, she cared, but only in the sense that she was happy about it. There was not a single iota of resentment or confusion or panic or fear in her at the fact of having her mind rewritten from the ground up.
From now on, she would be able to learn again. She would be able to understand however much her Master needed her to understand. To get to that part of her that was most obedient, to really rewrite who she was until it was something more appropriate to his wonderful uses, Francesca had required trancing and recoding. A complete hardware wipe.
It was that simple. He had burned away the layers of her brain that got in his way, replacing them with hot, easy, eager horniness and a need to submissively serve the one Strong True Male in her life—which, of course, was her Master.
How could it have ever been anyone else?
As Francesca considered all of this, she sat on her naked ass criss-cross applesauce, posture perfect, and fingered her bare pussy. There was a hot puddle on the floor between her legs. It was spreading underneath her asscheeks. Her juices delivered an easy, warm sensation that felt absolutely pleasant.
Her phone rang and she answered it.
“Is this Francesca?”
“This is she.”
“This is Mark, at the studio. We missed you today. I told my director all about what a beauty you are, and he was excited. Are we not going to put you on film?”
“You had an understudy, I’m assuming.”
“Well, sure, but she wasn’t you. Listen, if you can agree to come out tomorrow morning, like, early, we’ve got the camera lenses for another few hours and I think we can—”
“You’ll have to do your commercial without me, I’m afraid. I don’t care to be in show business anymore.”
Gone was the ideal from her head of being a star, of being on the big screen. Gone was the aspiration of being a celebrity, the only true dream she’d ever had in her entire life.
New Sexcretary (Fertile Pleasures Book 2) Page 3