Chapter 3: Dream of Submission
The coffee had gone cold in his hand. Voo stood in the doorway, the rough wood of the frame pressing into his shoulder, and watched the bed. The flickering oil lamp painted the room in a seething, molten gold, making the shadows in the corners breathe.
Michal thrashed.
It wasn’t the restless turning of normal sleep. This was a violent, contained struggle. Her back arched off the mattress, tendons in her neck standing out like cables. Her wrists were pulled taut against invisible binds, fingers splayed and clawing at the quilt. Her ankles strained against the same unseen force, legs spread wide in a brutal, vulnerable V. Every muscle in her body was corded, shaking with effort. But she didn’t wake up.
A low, guttural sound, half-gag, half-moan, rattled in her throat. Her head tossed side to side, sweat-darkened hair plastered to her temples. Her mouth was stretched wide, tongue protruding, working against nothing. The muscles in her jaw flexed and fluttered. She was gagging on empty air, her throat convulsing around a phantom intrusion.
“Unngh… nnghh…”
Then her hips pistoned upward, a sharp, desperate jerk. Her body seized, a rigid bow of tension. A long, ragged whine escaped her.
“Cumming!” she choked out, the word thick with sleep and sensation.
The force holding her seemed to redouble. Her body slammed back down onto the mattress, only to be yanked up again by another unseen assault. Her face was a mask of agonized pleasure, brows knotted, lips peeled back from her teeth. She was being fucked in the dream. Voo could see it. The rhythmic, brutal penetration. The way her stomach tightened, the flinch and clench of her inner muscles visible even in the low light. One for her ass. One for her pussy. And her mouth, forever occupied.
“Ah! Ah! CUMING!” Her announcement was a shout this time, tearing from her raw throat. Her heels dug into the mattress, back arching impossibly high. A second wave hit her, then a third, cascading one after the other without respite. “Cumming—cumming—cumming!”
Each declaration was punctuated by a full-body spasm, a shock that traveled from her ruined mouth down to her curled toes. She was a live wire, arcing and sparking against the sheets.
Voo took a slow sip of the bitter, cold coffee. He watched with the detached focus of a biologist observing a fascinating, trapped specimen. This was the programming, rooting down past her waking resistance, into the fertile dark of her subconscious. Her mind was constructing its own prison, furnishing it with her deepest, most hidden fears and wiring them directly to pleasure. The “Habit Breaker 2.0” was gone, discarded. But its architecture remained, built now into the very foundations of her psyche.
He set the mug down on the floor with a soft click.
He walked to the edge of the bed. The air around her was hot, thick with the scent of her sweat and the faint, metallic tang of her arousal. He didn’t touch her. He just watched. Her eyelids fluttered, showing the whites of her eyes. She was utterly gone, lost in a landscape of violation she herself was painting with brutal, exquisite detail.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a soft gravel in the charged air. “Take it.”
As if on command, her dream shifted. Her choked gags turned into wet, sucking sounds. Her hips still jerked, but now with a different, grinding rhythm. She was trying to move, to meet the phantoms driving into her.
“F-faster…” she slurred, the word dripping with a need that would have horrified her awake. “Please… deeper.”
Her body obeyed her own dream-command. The convulsions became more frantic, a stuttering series of peaks. “Cumming. Cumming. Can’t… cumming again.” The announcements blurred into a sobbing litany. Tears streamed from the corners of her clenched eyes, mixing with the sweat on her cheeks.
Voo reached out. Not to her body, but to the oil lamp on the nightstand. He turned the wick down slowly, dimming the light. The room descended into a deeper gloom, the shadows swelling to swallow the edges of things. Her thrashing form became a pale, undulating shape in the near-dark, the sounds more visceral, more isolated. The wet slap of phantom flesh. The creak of the bedsprings under her violent motions. Her ruined, hungry voice.
He sat in the old rocking chair in the corner, the one that always creaked. It complained under his weight as he leaned back. He matched its rhythm, a slow, steady creak… creak… creak… a metronome beneath the symphony of her dream.
It went on for hours. Her energy began to wane, the violent thrashing subsiding into weak, persistent tremors. The announcements became mumbled, incoherent. Her body was exhausting itself, but the feedback loop of sensation wouldn’t let her wake. It was a perfect trap. Her need for him, chemically mandated by his presence, was fueling nightmares of consummation that only fed the need further.
And so she was still cumming, still gagging, when her alarm went off. Michal slid under the covers, crawling in between Voo's legs as she began licked and kissing his cock, his balls, her tongue stretching to tickle his asshole. Both her hands were tormenting her nipples, each twist and tug making her pussy spasm with another orgasm, each more ruinous than the prior. The air under the blankets became hot, humid, hard to breathe. Sweat covered Michal's body as her lust and enthusiasm climbed, her hips involuntarily thrusting with each orgasm, as her worked Voo's cock farther and farther down her throat.
Sweat covered Michal's body as her lust and enthusiasm climbed, her hips involuntarily thrusting with each orgasm, as she worked Voo's cock farther and farther down her throat. His hand rested on the back of her head, not guiding, just present, a weight that meant ownership. She choked, gagged, and came again, the vibration around him triggering another sharp cry into the humid dark.
“Cumming,” she gasped, the word muffled by flesh.
This became the template for dawn. The alarm’s bleat was not a call to wake but a signal to descend. She would slither from her sweat-damp pillow to the heat between his legs, her mouth finding him with a blind, practiced hunger. Her hands would already be on her nipples, pinching, twisting, sending those first jolts through her system. The room would fill with wet sounds, choked announcements, and the creak of bedsprings as her body bucked against empty air. Voo would watch the ceiling, sometimes grunting, sometimes silent, always letting her work. He never moved to finish it quickly. He let the marathon unfold.
hgem“Good,” he might say, voice rough with sleep. “Get it all.”
The days stretched long and tormenting. Voo’s presence in the cabin was a constant, low-grade fever in her blood. Just him chopping wood outside the window, the steady thunk of the axe, made her clit pulse in a dull, aching rhythm. Him sitting at the table, mending a harness, his fingers working the leather, would have her squeezing her thighs together, a useless attempt to stifle the heat pooling there. The chemical need programmed into her synapses flared brighter with every shared breath of pine-scented air. She moved through chores—washing dishes, sweeping floors—with a flushed, distracted urgency, her mind screaming for friction, for release, for him.
He never gave it to her. Not like that. He would brush past her in the narrow hallway, his calloused hand grazing her hip, and she’d have to steady herself against the wall, knees liquefying. “You should peel the potatoes for supper,” he’d say, and she’d obey, the mundane task made agonizing by the throbbing between her legs. She’d catch her reflection in the dark kitchen window: eyes too bright, lips bitten raw, a woman drowning in a dry room.
“I can’t,” she whispered once, alone, her forehead pressed to the cool glass. The confession was for no one. Her fingers, slick with dishwater, drifted down, hesitating at the button of her jeans. A full-body shudder wracked her. She snatched her hand away, clutching the counter edge. To touch herself would be to acknowledge the prison, to make it real. So she endured, the need a live wire shoved down her throat, humming in her teeth.
Nights offered no sanctuary. Sleep was not rest; it was a deeper, more vivid servitude. The phantom cocks returned with brutal consistency, filling her, stretching her, fucking her into a endless, screaming circuit. She’d wake hoarse, her throat sore from dream-gagging, her sheets soaked through with sweat and arousal. Sometimes she’d wake mid-announcement, the word “cumming” dying on her lips as the real world, the one where he lay beside her untouching, crashed back in. The humiliation was a cold water rinse after the heat of the dream. She was coming apart in the dark, for no one, for everyone, for him.
After a week, the announcements began to leak into her waking hours. A particularly sharp twist of her nipple while she hung laundry would wring a soft “oh, cumming” from her lips. She’d freeze, eyes darting around the empty yard, face burning. The programming was eroding the boundary between inside and out. Her body was a radio constantly tuned to a station of climax, and she could no longer control the volume.
“Hear you muttering out there,” Voo said one evening, not looking up from whittling by the fire. His knife scraped a long curl of wood from the block. “Sounds productive.”
She stood by the sink, trembling, a plate in her hand. Shame, hot and acrid, flooded her mouth. But beneath it, a darker, hungrier current stirred at his attention. He’d heard. He knew. The knowledge made her pussy clench, empty and aching. She said nothing. She just turned the water on, loud, to drown out the sound of her own breathing.
By the third week, a shift occurred. The furious, silent resistance in her eyes began to blur into a glassy, needy supplication. She caught herself looking at his hands, imagining them on her, in her, with a specificity that left her dizzy. She started anticipating his commands, her body thrumming with readiness before he even spoke. The morning blowjobs became less a tortured ritual and more a focused, desperate art. She experimented with rhythm, with pressure, using her own reactions—the flutters in her asshole, the cascading orgasms from her nipples—as a guide to what might please him.
“You’re getting better at this,” he remarked idly one morning, his fingers tangled loosely in her hair.
Praise. It landed in her gut like a stone, sinking fast and heavy. A warm, filthy pleasure, entirely separate from the physical convulsions, spread through her chest. She redoubled her efforts, taking him deeper until her nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair, tears of effort streaming down her face. She wanted that again. That vague, casual approval. The realization, when it hit, was the most humiliating orgasm of all. It rolled through her in a silent, devastating wave, her cunt milking nothing, her asshole spasming.
She didn’t announce it. She just swallowed, and kept swallowing.
The final night of the month, her dream was different. The phantoms were there, the brutal fullness, the relentless pace. But her own dream-voice changed. Instead of choked pleas, she heard herself begging. “More,” she dream-whispered to the faceless shapes. “Use me.” She woke just before dawn, her own words echoing in her skull, her body humming with residual ecstasy. She lay still in the grey light, staring at the water stain on the ceiling she’d come to know so well.
She was empty. She was full. She was his.
When the alarm sounded, she didn’t hesitate. She moved to him with a smooth, automatic grace, her mouth already watering. Her hands went to her breasts, her back already arching into the first of many morning orgasms. She looked up at him, just once, as she took him in. Her eyes held no calculation, no boardroom steel. They were wide, wet, and utterly transparent, reflecting only his shadow and her own consuming need. The last brittle fragment of the CEO she had been dissolved in that look, lost in the simple, devastating geography of her hunger.
Voo smiled down at her, a slow, quiet thing. He didn’t need to say a word.
The cycle was complete. She had become what he had made: a humiliated slut, perfectly tuned to his presence, her every nerve ending a petition for his use, her dreams and waking life a continuous, degrading announcement of his victory.
She had become what he had made: a humiliated slut, perfectly tuned to his presence, her every nerve ending a petition for his use, her dreams and waking life a continuous, degrading announcement of his victory. Voo watched her scrape burnt toast into the sink the next morning, her movements languid, her eyes fixed on some middle distance where phantom sensations still danced. The coffee pot hissed. He leaned against the counter, so close the heat from his body amplified the constant buzz in her skin.
“You should go get your nipples, clit, tongue, and labia pierced,” he said, his voice as casual as a man commenting on the weather. He sipped his coffee. “Two rings in each nipple, two rings in each side of your labia, and two bars in your tongue.”
Michal’s hand stilled. The burnt crumbs scattered in the stainless steel basin. A cold clarity, sharp as a shard of glass, cut through the ever-present fog of need. This was new. This was permanent. Her mind, a tangled knot of programmed compulsions and dying embers of self, flared with a hot, silent rage.
He didn’t snap his fingers. He let the ‘should’ hang, naked and authoritative, in the steam-filled kitchen. He wanted her to feel the weight of his decision, the sheer, uncontested momentum of his will.
“Then get your asshole and nipples tattooed,” he continued, his weary eyes holding hers. “Color them bubble gum pink.”
He turned and walked to the table, leaving her standing there. The command rooted in her, not as a forgotten whisper, but as a direct order she was physically incapable of refusing. Her defiance was a last, sparking fuse. She slammed the skillet into the sink, the clang reverberating in the small cabin. “Fuck you,” she spat, the words hoarse but vehement.
Voo just looked at his newspaper. “You’ll need to drive into town. The place on Main Street does walk-ins.”
Her breath came in short, sharp pants. The chemical need his presence stoked was now a twisted ally to his command, a throbbing urgency that mapped the very locations he wanted altered. Her nipples tightened under her shirt, aching. Between her legs, a pulse beat a frantic, agreeing rhythm. Her body was betraying her, voting for its own mutilation. She stormed to the bedroom, dressed in a fury, her hands shaking as she pulled on jeans and a sweater. She snatched the keys from the hook, the metal biting into her palm.
Michal’s defiance flared even as she headed to the car. The old truck’s engine coughed to life. She gripped the wheel until her knuckles ached, replaying his calm, fucking voice in her head. You should. She screamed, a raw, furious sound swallowed by the rattling cab. Tears of impotent rage blurred the pine trees into green smears. She could just keep driving. North. Forever.
But her foot remained heavy on the accelerator, pointed unerringly toward town. The ‘should’ was a steel cable in her chest, pulling taut. By the time the first weathered buildings appeared, her anger had crusted over into a numb, dissociative dread. She parked two blocks from the discreet storefront with the neon ‘Body Art’ sign buzzing in the grey afternoon light.
The inside smelled of antiseptic and vanilla incense. A young man with sleeved tattoos looked up from a magazine. “Help you?”
Her mouth was desert-dry. The words, when they came, were flat and alien. “I need piercings. And tattoos.” She listed the locations, the specifications, her voice dropping to a near-whisper on the last, most humiliating parts. The artist’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he just nodded, a professional mask sliding into place.
“Private room in the back,” he said, gesturing. “Paperwork’s on the clipboard.”
The room was sterile, lit by cold fluorescent tubes. The paper gown felt like ash against her skin. Lying on the chilled vinyl table, staring at acoustic tiles stained with water marks, the last of her defiance evaporated. It was replaced by a hollow, echoing certainty. This was her life now. Her body was not her own; it was a document he was editing.
The piercing gun’s mechanical click was precise, shocking. The first nickel ring through her left nipple was a white-hot spike of pain that arrowed directly to her cunt. Her back arched off the table, a strangled gasp ripping from her throat.
“Cumming,” she whimpered, the announcement automatic and wretched.
The artist paused, his gloved hands hovering. She just shook her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. He continued. Each puncture was a bright, clarifying agony that her reprogrammed nerves translated into a cascading series of devastating orgasms. Her body convulsed under the sterile lights, a ragged symphony of sharp clicks and her own choked, sobbing announcements. “Cumming. Oh god, cumming. Again.” The labia rings were an exquisite, searing fire. The clitoral hood piercing made her vision tunnel into a pinprick of white-hot sensation.
When he asked her to stick out her tongue for the bars, she was a limp, trembling mess, soaked in her own sweat and release. The buzz of the tattoo machine was a different kind of violation, longer, deeper, a persistent vibration that felt like it was etching his will directly into her bone. The bubblegum ink, a violently cheerful pink, filled in the delicate skin around her asshole and colored the raised, tender flesh of her nipples. It was ludicrous. It was obscene. It was a brand.
She drove home in a trance. The new metal felt foreign, heavy, each small movement sending a dull ache or a sharp, pleasurable twinge through her system. The pink tattoos, hidden under her clothes, seemed to glow with a shameful heat. She parked the truck and walked to the cabin, each step a submission.
Voo was on the porch, whittling. He didn’t look up as she approached. The setting sun painted the clearing in long, melancholic shadows. She stopped before him, saying nothing. He finally glanced at her, his eyes taking in her pale, drained face.
“Show me,” he said.
Her hands trembled as she unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down her hips just enough. She turned, bending over, presenting the freshly tattooed skin. The pink against her pale flesh was unmistakable, a candy-colored flag of ownership planted in the most intimate ground. The cold evening air kissed the new ink, making her shiver.
He reached out with a single, calloused finger and traced the edge of the tattoo. A violent, full-body shudder racked her. The combination of the touch, the soreness, and the sheer psychological violation triggered a chain reaction deep in her core.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself on the porch rail, a low, continuous moan tearing from her throat as orgasms rolled through her, one after another, unstoppable. “Cumming,” she sobbed into the rough wood. “Cumming. Cumming. CUMMINNNNG!”
Voo watched, his finger now resting lightly on the branded skin, feeling the muscles there spasm and flutter around nothing. He said nothing. He just let the evidence of his command speak for itself in her ruined voice and trembling flesh. The sun dipped below the trees, and in the deepening blue twilight, her announcements were the only sound, a perfect, broken proof of a victory now etched permanently upon her.