Chapter 2: The Main Event Begins
The house lights dimmed, plunging the convention hall into a murmur of anticipation. A single, lavender-tinted spotlight cut through the dust motes to center stage, illuminating the velvet armchair. From the shadows, she emerged.
Vivienne Sinclair moved with a silence that seemed to swallow the distant chatter. She wore a tailored pantsuit the color of midnight, the jacket open over a sheer black top that hinted at the curves beneath. Her platinum hair was a sleek waterfall against the dark fabric. She didn’t smile. She surveyed the crowd with those piercing green eyes, a predator considering a field of grazing prey.
“Good evening,” her voice purred through the speakers, smooth and intimate, as if she spoke to each person individually. “I am Madame Mystique. You’ve come to see illusions. To witness the impossible. But the greatest illusion of all…” She paused, letting the silence stretch taut. “…is the lie you tell yourselves about being in control.”
A nervous ripple of laughter went through the audience.
“I need someone truly resistant,” she continued, pacing the edge of the light. “A skeptic. A rationalist. Someone whose mind is a fortress of ‘no.’” Her gaze swept over the front rows, seemingly random, but it was a calculated search. It landed, with unerring accuracy, on a familiar face nursing a beer near the aisle. Jared Miller, watching with a forced look of bored contempt, his earlier bravado from the bar now tempered by a low, throbbing confusion in his gut. Her fingers had left a phantom brand on his crotch.
“You,” she said, pointing a manicured finger. “The handsome brooder in the gray shirt. You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?”
All eyes turned to him. Jared’s face heated. He set his beer down with a clink. “It’s theatrical trickery. Muscle reading, cold reading. Yeah, I’ve read the articles.”
“Articles,” Vivienne echoed, smiling now. It was a sharp, dangerous smile. “Come up here. Prove those articles right. Be my volunteer. Show everyone how it’s done.”
His pride, that stubborn, wounded thing, flared. Leo’s mocking voice echoed in his head. Good experience, kid. He stood up, his movements slightly stiff. The walk to the stage felt miles long. He could feel the audience’s expectant stare, see the glint of amusement in Vivienne’s eyes. He ascended the steps, the plywood creaking under his feet.
“What’s your name?” she asked, guiding him to the armchair.
“Jared.” His voice sounded thin in the microphone.
“Jared. A strong name. A sensible name. Sit, Jared. Make yourself comfortable.” Her hand on his shoulder pressed down, not forcefully, but with an undeniable authority. He sank into the plush velvet. It was still warm.
She stood before him, blocking the audience from his view. All he could see was her. The subtle scent of her perfume, something like vanilla and sharp ozone, filled his space. “Look at me, Jared. Not at them. At me.”
He met her eyes. The green was incredible, flecked with gold under the stage lights. He braced himself, mentally reciting facts about suggestion, about the ideomotor effect.
“You’re already trying to analyze,” she said softly, her voice a intimate caress even through the PA system. “You’re thinking about peer-reviewed studies. Your mind is racing. I want you to focus on just one thing. My voice. Let everything else… soften.” She snapped her fingers once, a clean, sharp sound.
A strange heaviness descended on his limbs. It wasn’t unpleasant. It felt like sinking into a warm bath after a long day. His critical thoughts began to blur at the edges, like ink in water.
“That’s it. Your arms are so heavy. Nailed to the chair. Your legs are weights. You cannot stand. Try.”
He tried to lift his arm. A feeble twitch was all he could manage. A dart of panic, sharp and clean, shot through the fog. What the hell?
“Good. Now, Jared, I want you to feel something silly. A sensation. When I count to three, you will feel a tiny, fuzzy caterpillar crawling up your inner leg. It’s ticklish. It’s making its way toward your… thigh. One… two… three.”
He gasped. The feeling was unmistakable. A delicate, bristly tickle began just above his knee, inching upward. He squirmed in the chair, a helpless giggle bursting from his lips. “Oh, shit, get it off!”
The audience roared. His face burned with humiliation, but the sensation was so vivid, so real. He swatted at his thigh, hitting only denim.
“It’s gone,” Vivienne said, and the sensation vanished instantly. She leaned close, her lips near his ear. Her whisper was a hot, private promise. “See? Not so tricky now, is it? That’s just the warm-up, sweetheart.”
She straightened, addressing the crowd. “Our skeptic is wonderfully responsive! But let’s see how deep that skepticism goes.” She turned back to Jared, her gaze locking onto his. The playful glint was gone, replaced by something absolute and domineering. “Deeper now, Jared. Down you go. A slow, smooth drop into perfect, obedient stillness. My voice is the only thing that exists. You follow it. You crave it. Down.”
His last coherent thought was a desperate This isn’t real, but it was swept away by a wave of profound, empty calm. His expression went slack, his eyes staring past her, glassy and unseeing. A string of drolet gathered at the corner of his mouth.
Vivienne chuckled, a low, husky sound. She used her thumb to gently wipe the saliva from his lip, the gesture oddly intimate. “So blank. So pretty.” She turned to the audience. “Now, the real fun begins.”
For the next ten minutes, she played with him. She had him believe his hand was stuck to his forehead, and he tugged at it with comical, grunting effort. She told him he was a world-class opera singer, and he belted out a tone-deaf, bawdy rendition of a pop song, much to the crowd’s delight. Each time, a sliver of Jared’s consciousness screamed in protest, but the scream was muffled, buried under layers of pleasing fog. He was a puppet, and her voice was the only set of strings that mattered.
She finally let him rest, sitting limp in the chair. She knelt before him, bringing her face level with his. The crowd leaned forward.
“Listen very carefully, Jared,” she murmured, her words meant only for him, though the microphone picked up every syllable. “I am going to give you a gift. A little… playtime. When I say the words ‘Bimbo Playtime,’ a new part of you will wake up. It will last for four hours. Four delicious, messy hours.”
She traced a finger along his jawline. “During this time, you will believe, with every fiber of your being, that you are changing. Transforming. Your chest… your pecs are softening, swelling. They are becoming large, round, heavy tits. Beautiful, fuckable tits that ache to be touched, to be sucked, to be seen. You love them. You are proud of them.”
A soft, unbidden moan escaped Jared’s lips. In the blank void of his mind, a phantom weight began to bloom on his chest.
“And your mind,” Vivienne continued, her voice dropping to a sensual whisper, “it’s simplifying. Thoughts of articles, of logic, of pride… they’re melting away. Leaving only pink, sparkly, hungry thoughts. You’re becoming hungry. For attention. For touch. For cock. You want to be a dumb, horny little toy. A bimbo. Your biggest worry is what color to paint your nails and how to get your pretty mouth around a nice, thick dick.”
Behind the glassy eyes, a storm of terror raged. Jared’s true self clawed at the walls of this prison, screaming denial.
“But here’s the best part,” Vivienne grinned. “The old you, the Jared who is so stubborn, so sure… he doesn’t go away. He gets to watch. He gets to feel it all. And he gets to fight. He will protest. He will scream. And he will lose. Every single time. The bimbo is in charge now. She wants what she wants. And all he can do is beg as she takes it. Do you understand?”
Jared, from the depths of his trance, gave a slow, nod.
“Excellent.” Vivienne stood up, towering over him. She addressed the crowd with a theatrical flourish. “For my final demonstration… a transformation in real time. Witness the power of pure suggestion.”
She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. She breathed the trigger.
“Bimbo Playtime.”
Jared’s body jerked as if electrocuted. The glassy emptiness in his eyes shattered, replaced first by wild, panicked confusion, then by a dawning, horrifying sensation. His hands flew to his chest.
“What… what is…” His voice was his own, tight with fear. Then it hiccupped, smoothing out, rising in pitch. “Oh… oh wow. They’re… they’re getting so big.” His fingers kneaded the fabric of his shirt, plumping imaginary flesh. A dreamy, vacant smile touched his lips. “So heavy.”
“No!” The word exploded from him, the smile vanishing. His eyes flashed with raw, familiar fury. “Stop it! This isn’t happening! It’s a trick!” He tried to stand, but his body refused, staying seated, his hands still groping at his chest.
The vacant smile returned, blissful. “Mmm, but they feel so good. So sensitive.” His thumbs circled over his nipples, pressing through the cotton. He arched his back with a soft sigh.
“Don’t touch them!” Jared snarled at his own hands, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. “Vivienne, you bitch, undo this!”
“Vivienne?” the bimbo persona cooed, the voice a parody of flirtation. “She’s so pretty. I bet she has amazing tits. I wanna see.” Then the voice hardened, gritted. “I’m going to expose you! This is assault!”
“I’m getting all warm between my legs,” the bimbo voice interrupted, breathy and excited. Jared’s hips gave a small, involuntary roll in the chair. A visible bulge strained against his jeans. “I’m so empty. I need… I need something big to fill me up.”
“Shut up! SHUT UP!” Jared roared, his face contorted in anguish. He clawed at his own hair, trying to physically rip the invading presence from his skull.
Vivienne watched, enraptured. This was the masterpiece. The civil war made visible. She stepped closer. “Does the pretty bimbo want to feel good?”
“Yes!” Jared’s body answered immediately, his head nodding with eager enthusiasm.
“NO!” his protest followed, a split-second later, choked and desperate.
“Then stand up,” Vivienne commanded.
He stood. It was a clumsy, elegant motion. His posture shifted, one hand going to his hip, the other still idly fondling his chest. He swayed slightly.
“Come here.”
He walked to her, each step a conflict. A deliberate, sashaying step followed by a clumsy, resistant stagger. He stopped before her, panting. The scent of his sweat and arousal was palpable.
“You want to thank me, don’t you?” Vivienne asked, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “For making you so pretty and so horny.”
“Fuck you,” Jared spat, his body trembling.
“Thank you, Mistress,” the bimbo voice sighed, nuzzling into her hand. Jared tried to wrench his head away, but it stayed put, rubbing against her palm like a cat.
“On your knees,” Vivienne said, her voice leaving no room for the battle within him.
A strangled sob of protest was cut off as his body folded, knees hitting the stage floor with a thud. He looked up at her, tears streaming down his cheeks even as his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
“You look so good there,” Vivienne murmured. She unbuttoned her pantsuit jacket, then the waistband of her trousers. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. A neatly trimmed strip of pale blonde hair led the eye downward. She hooked her thumbs in the fabric of her trousers and underwear, pushing them down just past her hips, revealing the soft, pink folds of her cunt.
The audience was dead silent, breathless.
“Kiss me,” Vivienne ordered. “Right there. Show me how grateful your new, dumb little mind is.”
“I will not! You can’t make me—” Jared’s defiance was fierce, raw.
His head lunged forward. His mouth found her. His tongue, operated by a will that was not his own, licked a long, slow stripe up her slit.
“Oh, God…” he moaned, the vibration against her flesh. The sound was one of utter defeat and perverse pleasure.
“No! No, no, no!” he chanted between licks, his words muffled by her flesh. But his tongue kept working, probing, lapping at her with a desperate hunger. He could taste her—musky, clean, utterly female—and the horror of his own arousal, the way his cock throbbed in his jeans, was a nausea-inducing ecstasy.
Vivienne let out a soft, contented sigh, carding her fingers through his hair, not gently, but with possession. “Good boy. Such a good, hungry little slut.”
He redoubled his efforts, his protests now reduced to garbled, sobbing curses as his nose pressed into her, as his tongue circled her clit with building expertise. His own hips were grinding against empty air, his dick straining painfully against his zipper. The humiliation was absolute, scalding. He was servicing her on stage, in front of hundreds, and his body was fucking loving it.
“That’s enough,” Vivienne said after a few minutes, her voice taut with her own restrained pleasure. She pushed his head back. He looked up at her, her wetness glistening on his chin and lips, his eyes twin pools of torment and want.
“Stand. Take off your pants.”
He stood, fumbling with his belt. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please, don’t.”
His hands worked the buckle, the button, the zipper. He shoved his jeans and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free, fully erect, flushed and leaking. A collective gasp went through the crowd.
“Look at you,” Vivienne purred. “So desperate. So hard. Your little bimbo brain can’t think of anything but coming, can it?”
“I hate you,” Jared whispered, full of venom.
“I need to come,” the other voice whined pitifully. His hand snaked toward his shaft.
“Ah-ah,” Vivienne tsked, catching his wrist. “Not yet. Turn around. Bend over. Hold onto the chair.”
The conflict played out in a series of rigid, shuddering movements. He turned. He bent, presenting his ass, his cock dangling beneath him. He gripped the velvet arms of the chair, his knuckles white.
Vivienne stepped close behind him. She spat into her hand, the sound crude and explicit in the quiet hall. She slicked her palm, then gripped his cock. He cried out—a yelp of violation that morphed into a guttural groan.
“You’re going to fuck my hand, slut,” she whispered in his ear, her other hand digging into his hip. “You’re going to fuck it like it’s the tight little bimbo cunt you dream about. And you’re going to scream when you come.”
She began to stroke him, a tight, rough rhythm. His body took over, thrusting back into her fist. His protests became broken, shattered things.
“I’m—this isn’t—oh, fuck—stop it, you fucking witch—right there, yes, harder—NO!—please, God, just let me come—I’ll kill you for this—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
His back arched. His entire body went taut as a bowstring. A raw, ragged shout was torn from his throat, a sound that held both the peak of agonizing pleasure and the bottomless depth of his humiliation. He came in violent, pumping spurts, jetting onto the stage floor beneath the chair, his legs shaking uncontrollably.
Vivienne held him through it, working him until he was soft and spent. Then she let go. He collapsed forward over the armchair, sobbing openly, gasping for air, his come cooling on his thighs and the floor.
She addressed the stunned audience, her voice calm, triumphant. “The mind is the most malleable thing of all. Thank you, and goodnight.”
The curtain began to close. As the velvet swished across the stage, the last thing visible was Vivienne leaning over the wreckage of Jared Miller. She gently, almost kindly, tucked
As the velvet swished across the stage, the last thing visible was Vivienne leaning over the wreckage of Jared Miller. She gently, almost kindly, tucked his soft, spent cock back into his underwear, her fingers lingering against the warm, damp skin. His whole body shuddered at the touch, a fresh sob catching in his throat. “Shhh,” she murmured, the sound lost under the rising applause beyond the curtain, a wave of noise that felt like it was crashing against the back of his skull.
The stagehands moved in the shadows, ignoring them, rolling cables and killing lights with practiced indifference. The lavender spotlight died, plunging the immediate world into a deep, velvet gloom. Jared tried to move, to push her away, but his limbs were liquid, his mind a shattered pane of glass with two distinct reflections screaming at each other. One reflection was pure, animal humiliation, curled tight around a nucleus of rage. The other was a buzzing, pleased emptiness, already twitching with renewed interest between his legs.
“Up,” Vivienne said, not unkindly, hooking her hands under his armpits. Her strength was surprising; she hauled him to his feet like he was a child, his jeans still tangled around his ankles. He stumbled, and she held him upright, his face pressed into the midnight silk of her jacket. He inhaled the scent of her perfume, vanilla and ozone, now mixed with the salty, musky evidence of what he’d just done. Of what she’d made him do.
“Walk,” she commanded, and his legs obeyed before his protest could form. He shuffled, hobbled by the denim at his feet, through a gap in the heavy drapes and into the organized chaos of the backstage area. It was a maze of black curtains, scaffolding, and equipment cases, lit by harsh, unshaded work bulbs. The applause was muffled here, replaced by the thump of bass from another hall and the casual chatter of crew.
A stagehand with a headset glanced over, his eyes sliding from Vivienne’s disheveled elegance to Jared’s tear-streaked, vacant face, his open fly. The man’s expression didn’t change. He gave Vivienne a nod. “Knocked ‘em dead, Mystique. That was new.”
“It always is,” Vivienne replied, her voice smooth and professional, as if she weren’t guiding a mentally dismantled man by the elbow. Jared’s bimbo persona giggled, a high, silly sound. “He was sooooo good.”
“Shut up,” Jared rasped, but it lacked force. His own voice felt foreign.
Vivienne steered him down a narrow corridor lined with numbered doors—green rooms. She stopped at one marked ‘MM’, produced a key, and unlocked it. The room inside was small, utilitarian: a stained couch, a lit mirror bordered with bulbs, a mini-fridge humming in the corner. It smelled of old coffee and powder foundation. She pushed him inside and closed the door, cutting off the backstage noise. The sudden silence was a physical pressure.
Jared stood swaying, looking at his reflection in the mirror. His short brown hair was matted with sweat. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale. The gray shirt was wrinkled, damp under the arms. He looked like a man who had been violently ill. The reflection smirked. His hand lifted without his consent, cupping his pec through the fabric. “They really do feel bigger, you know.”
He snarled, slapping his own hand down. The impact stung. “It’s suggestion! Physiology! It’s not real!”
“But the want is real,” Vivienne said, leaning against the door. She watched him, those green eyes missing nothing. She shrugged out of her jacket, draped it over a chair. The sheer top beneath clung to her skin. “The need is real. I didn’t implant anything. I just… unlocked it. Pulled it to the front. That hunger was always in there, Jared. Skeptics are always the hungriest. You just bury it under anger and footnotes.”
“You’re a monster,” he breathed, the words trembling.
“And you’re a mess.” She walked to the mini-fridge, pulled out a bottle of water. Unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. “Drink. You’re dehydrated from crying.”
He wanted to throw it in her face. His hand took the bottle. He drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. The bimbo voice purred, “Thank you, Mistress.”
He choked, coughed. “Stop saying that!”
“Or what?” Vivienne asked, genuinely curious. She stepped closer, within arm’s reach. He could see the faint smear of his saliva, dried on her lower abdomen where her trousers were still unbuttoned. The memory of taste flooded his mouth, oily and shameful. His cock, defeated and soft, gave a pathetic twitch.
“Or I’ll wake up. This will end. And I will ruin you.” He tried to muster his journalistic fury, the ambition that had been fueled by resentment at low-tier assignments. It felt like trying to light a match in a hurricane.
“You have three hours and forty-seven minutes left, approximately,” she said, checking a slim silver watch on her wrist. “The ‘Bimbo Playtime’ protocol. And the old you is welcome to try to ruin me. Fight it. It’s more fun for me when you fight.”
She reached out and traced a line down his chest with a single fingernail. He flinched, but didn’t move away. A traitorous part of him arched into the touch. “See? Your body knows who’s in charge. Your mind is just… noisy.”
The conflict was exhausting. The cognitive dissonance was a physical pain, a nausea in his soul. One moment he was plotting the article he’d write—exposé on predatory mentalists, abuse of power, maybe even criminal assault—and the next, he was wondering if she had any pink lipstick he could borrow. The thoughts overlapped, blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut. “What do you want?”
“Right now?” she said. Her voice dropped, took on a casual, conversational tone that was more terrifying than her stage persona. “I want to see how far it goes. The theory is solid, but live testing is rare. You’re a perfect subject. Intelligent enough to have a complex sense of self to dismantle. Arrogant enough to deserve it. And pretty enough to be entertaining.”
She walked to the couch and sat, crossing her legs. She patted the space beside her. “Sit.”
“Go to hell.”
His legs carried him to the couch. He sat, rigid, as far from her as the two-seater allowed.
“You’re still hard-wired to obey direct commands. That’ll fade a little as the protocol runs, but the core impulses won’t. The bimbo is driver. You’re passenger. And passenger-Jared is going to have to watch as driver-Bimbo does what she wants.” She leaned back, studying him. “So what does she want right now? Besides cock, which is a given.”
He felt the persona surge forward, a warm, bubbly feeling in his gut. His posture changed, shoulders rolling back, chest pushing out. He giggled. “I want to feel pretty. I feel all sticky and icky.” The voice was lighter, airier. It made his skin crawl.
“Then get cleaned up,” Vivienne said, pointing to a small, attached bathroom. “There’s a shower. Try not to fall.”
The bimbo clapped her hands. “A shower! Yes!” Jared stood, but his true self seized a moment of control, a spike of pure defiance. He turned to Vivienne, locking eyes. “This isn’t over. I will remember every second. I will remember your face.”
Her smile was slow, approving. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He stumbled into the bathroom, locking the door. It was a closet-sized space, tiles cracked, a single bare bulb overhead. He braced himself on the sink, staring into the mirror. His reflection was a stranger. He turned on the tap, splashed cold water on his face. The shock helped, for a second. Then the other thoughts seeped in.
The soap smells like flowers. I like flowers. I should rub it all over my tits. They’d get all slippery.
“No!” he growled at the mirror. He stripped off his clothes, his movements jerky. His body in the mirror was his own—lean, wiry—but his perception of it was skewed. When he looked at his chest, his mind supplied a sensation of weight, of softness. He touched his pec. It felt like firm muscle. But the feeling was of something fuller, something that jiggled. It was maddening.
He stepped into the shower stall, turned the water as hot as he could stand. The spray needled his skin. He scrubbed at himself with a rough washcloth, trying to scour away the phantom sensations, the memory of her taste, the feel of her hand on him. But the soap did smell like flowers. A cheap, sweet lavender. His hands, of their own accord, slowed. They moved over his chest in slow, circular caresses. He moaned.
So good. So smooth. I wish someone was here to suck them.
“God, no,” he whispered, but his hips began to sway under the water. His cock, reinvigorated by the heat and the touch, thickened against his thigh. The shame was a live wire in his gut, but it was somehow knitting itself into the arousal. The humiliation was becoming part of the feed. He remembered the look on the stagehand’s face—the indifference. He remembered the applause. His hand drifted down from his chest, over his stomach, through the coarse hair, and wrapped around his hardening length.
I shouldn’t. I can’t. She’s winning.
But it feels so good. Just a quick one. A little touch.
He stroked himself, his breath hitching. The water beat down on his back. He imagined it was her hand, rough and demanding. He imagined her voice in his ear. Come for me, slut. His grip tightened. Pre-cum mixed with the shower stream. He was panting now, his forehead against the cool tile. This was worse than on stage. This was private. This was him, alone, giving in.
Fuck, I’m a bimbo. I’m jerking off in a shower thinking about my fake tits.
The thought, so absurd and devastating, pushed him over the edge. He came with a stifled cry, his semen washed down the drain instantly, leaving no evidence but the trembling in his legs. He slid down the wall, sitting on the shower floor, the water cooling around him. He wept, silently this time. The tears were for the last vestige of his control, now circling the drain with everything else.
When the water ran cold, he forced himself up. He dried off with a thin, scratchy towel. His clothes were a heap on the floor. He didn’t want to put them back on. The bimbo persona pouted. They’re yucky. And boring. He looked around. On a hook, he saw a silken robe, lavender, clearly Vivienne’s. Without thinking, he took it down. It smelled like her. He put it on. It was too big, but the fabric was sinfully soft against his skin. He tied the belt, looked in the mirror. The robe gaped open at the chest. He saw muscle. He felt curves.
He opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the green room.
Vivienne was on her phone, but she looked up. Her eyebrows rose. A genuine, amused smile touched her lips. “Well. Don’t you look comfortable.”
Jared hovered in the doorway. The robe felt like a surrender. It felt good. “My clothes are dirty,” he said, and it was his voice, but defensive, small.
“They are,” she agreed. She put her phone away. “Come here.”
He walked to her. The robe swished around his legs. He stopped in front of her chair. She was still sitting. She looked up at him. “Kneel.”
The war was shorter this time. A spike of resistance, quickly smothered by a wave of warm compliance. He knelt on the thin carpet. It hurt his knees. He didn’t care.
“You came in the shower,” she stated.
He nodded, his face burning.
“Did you think of me?”
He hesitated. The bimbo answered. “Yes. I thought about your hand. And your… your pussy. On my face.”
Vivienne’s eyes darkened with pleasure. She uncrossed her legs. She was still not fully dressed, her trousers and underwear pooled around her ankles from their earlier scene. She had made no move to rectify it. She spread her knees, just a little. The sight was deliberate, vulgar. Her cunt was on display, lips slightly swollen, glistening in the room’s low light.
“You left a mess on stage,” she said conversationally. “Clean it up.”
He stared. His true mind recoiled. This is degradation. This is beyond anything. This is sick.
His body leaned forward. His tongue extended. He licked the inside of her thigh, where a faint, dried trail of his own release might have been. The salt of his sweat, the tang of his come. It was faint, but it was there. He shuddered.
“Not there,” she chided, her hand fisting in his damp hair. She guided his head firmly between her legs. “Here. Clean me up. I’m sticky from you.”
His mouth was pressed against her folds. The smell was intense, animal, overwhelmingly female. He gagged, but his mouth opened. His tongue laved her, broad strokes from perineum to clit. She wasn’t wet with arousal now; this was different. This was a chore. A punishment. His tongue collected the dried, flaking evidence of his humiliation. He could taste himself, mixed with her. It was bitter, salty, obscene.
“Good,” she breathed, her hips lifting slightly off the chair to give him better access. “Get it all. Every drop you spilled on me.”
He obeyed, his eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaked out again. He was literally licking his own come from her body. The bimbo in him was thrilled, moaning against her flesh, lapping eagerly. The journalist in him was dying, screaming into a void.
After a minute, she pushed his head away. “Enough. You’re adequately hygienic.” She looked down at him. His face was wet with her, with his tears, with shower water. “Stand up. Take off the robe.”
He stood on shaky legs. He untied the belt. The silk robe slipped from his shoulders and puddled at his feet. He stood naked before her, exposed, his half-hard cock betraying his arousal even through the shame.
“Turn around. Hands on the back of the couch. Bend over.”
The position was familiar, degrading. He assumed it, presenting himself to her. He heard her move behind him. A drawer opened. Something clinked. Then he felt something cold and smooth press against his entrance. Not a finger. Something else.
“What—” he started.
“A little toy,” Vivienne said. Her voice was close. He felt her breath on his back. “I prefer keeping my hands clean for the encores.”
It was a vibrator, sleek and tapered. She pushed it into him without preamble. The intrusion was sudden, shocking. He cried out, his muscles clamping down around the invasive object. It was cold, unyielding.
“Relax, you tight little bitch,” she muttered, working it deeper with a cruel twist. When it was fully seated, she turned it on.
A low, insistent buzz filled him, a vibration that resonated in his bones. It wasn’t pleasant at first; it was an assault. But then his body, traitor that it was, began to adjust. The buzz found his prostate, a distant, indirect pressure that made his cock jerk. A low moan was dragged from his throat.
“There we go,” she said. She left the toy humming inside him and walked around to face him. He was bent over, face level with her stomach. His eyes were wide, desperate. She took his chin in her hand. “Now. You’re going to suck me off. Properly this time. No audience. No performance. Just you, and my cock, and that thing in your ass reminding you of your place.”
He blinked, confused. Then he understood. From the drawer, she produced a strap-on. It was realistic, veined, a daunting shade of deep pink. She made quick work of securing the harness around her hips. The dildo stood out, rigid and threatening.
Jared’s mind broke a little more. The absurdity, the sheer, over-the-top filth of it unmoored him. The bimbo persona cooed with delight. “It’s so big! And pretty!”
“Open,” Vivienne said, tapping his lips with the silicone tip.
He opened his mouth. She fed the cock into it, slowly. It tasted of clean rubber. It pushed against the back of his throat. He gagged, tears springing to his eyes again.