I woke up Thursday morning feeling refreshed, and relieved, as if I'd scratched an itch. My adventures the night before with the Society had satisfied my craving for cock for the time being. At such times of satisfaction, I was able to transfer my focus away from sex and onto the ordinary business of life and my job as an at-home employee of a major corporation.
Today, besides work, I had another task. The men of the Society urged me to call a hypnotist for an appointment in hope that I might be able to return to the night that I met our tormentor, Vance, and rediscover forgotten details that might lead us back to him, so that he could be punished for his crimes against us.
To our certain knowledge, the man named Vance had tattooed seven men with obscene labels across their foreheads: HOT4COCK, FAGGOT, COCKSUCKER, CUMDUMP, COCKS4ME, MANEATER and myself, CUMSLUT. The tattoos had changed our lives, turning us into easy, submissive sluts who could be used by any man who asked. Collectively, we called ourselves The Society for want of a better name, and our goals beyond finding Vance remained unclear: could we charge him with a crime and testify against him, or should we take the law into our own hands? The police didn't take the case very seriously, so it might well be up to us to bring Vance to justice. There was no decision to be made if we didn't track the man down, so that was our first order of business.
I flung back the sheets and hopped out of bed, recovering the hypnotist's card from the crumpled jeans on the floor. I read the unusual name there: Arturo O'Brien-Skorzeny, Hypnotist. It was after eight, so I called the number on the card, hoping his office might be open. I got his receptionist and quickly scheduled a one-hour session for three p.m. Friday. I punched the appointment into my calendar on my phone before turning my attention to my work day.
The day passed, and not uneventfully. Thursday afternoon, my boss, Mr. Flax, and the HR representative, Jason Big Sky, came over to my place, ostensibly to inspect my home workstation for health and safety requirements; in fact, they came to spit-roast me on company time.
The very average, flabby figure of Mr. Flax reclined on my couch with his pants around his ankles. I knelt completely naked before him, using my hands on his knees to steady myself between his thighs. His seven-inch penis was in my mouth and I sucked him with vigour, even as I pushed back with my ass to meet Mr. Big Sky's cock-thrusts. The HR rep was powerfully built and athletic in contrast to Mr. Flax. My knees ached; I wished I had a cushion off the couch to soften the floor beneath me. The two men fucked me at both ends until Mr. Flax came, erupting in my mouth. I dutifully collected his emission and opened my mouth to show him his pearly load; it pooled in my throat and hung in strings from the roof of my mouth like tinsel. Mr. Big Sky still pounded my backside, each thrust penetrating deep into my bowel. Finally, he groaned, and I felt him shudder as his cock, buried to the hilt in my ass, unloaded into the condom he was wearing. He pulled out of my arse and took off the rubber. I turned to kneel in front of him and he poured the contents of the condom into my mouth, letting it mingle with the semen of Mr. Flax. The two men admired their large loads as I gargled them at their command.
"Keep up the good work," Mr. Flax said as he buttoned himself down.
"We'll be back for your annual performance review next week," Mr. Big Sky said, zipping himself up.
With that, the men were gone. Perhaps I should have resented their use of me as a form of workplace harassment and exploitation, but you can really only be harassed if you're unreceptive to that kind of treatment. Their attentions turned me on and satisfied me. In truth, I was already looking forward to seeing Flax and Big Sky again.
The rest of the work day was productive, and at about six o'clock I ordered a pizza from my favourite pizzeria. Thirty-eight minutes later, my favourite pizza delivery man, Curtis, had me bent in half over the back of my couch, fucking me fast and brutal; the stocky delivery driver had to get back on the road soon so his employer wouldn't suspect him of stopping for a quickie on company time. His cock sawed in and out of me relentlessly. I don't know what was so special about Curtis, whether it was the size or shape of his dick or the rhythm of his fucking, but I almost always came hands-free when he fucked me. The back of my couch had more than one permanent cum stain down the back thanks to my sessions with Curtis. As he touched me deep inside, I felt the semen boiling in my balls and I knew it was already too late to stem the tide; I moaned helplessly before I striped the back of the couch with line after line of my jizz. My orgasm triggered spasms in my asshole, tightening it around Curtis' cock as he continued fucking me with vigour. He soon sprayed my insides with his cum. When he was done, he pulled out and let me lick the organ clean. Then, he tucked his cock into his pants and left, taking a piece of my pizza with him for the road.
Well fucked for the day, I hit the sheets early and started the next day at the crack of dawn. Working from home sometimes has a few advantages, such as flexibility with hours. I started at six in the morning, sifting my way through my e-mail and various reports until nine o'clock when I started making follow-up calls to clients, ensuring they were satisfied with our services and product line. The day passed quickly and it was two p.m. before I knew it. I quickly showered and changed, and a few minutes later, I was in a taxi heading to my appointment with the hypnotist. Needless to say, I wore my toque low on my forehead so my CUMSLUT tattoo could not be seen.
The hypnotist's office was in a shabby, tired-looking building. It was on the second floor and the elevator was out of order, so I took the stairs.
When I entered the office of Arturo O'Brien-Skorzeny, Hypnotist, it was like entering a new world. In contrast to the building's dismal appearance and the institutional style of the corridors, the office was modern with clean, carpeted floors and tastefully papered walls; the waiting room was well-appointed with comfortable furniture and a few original works of art. The lights were kept dim, and I wondered if that was partly to relax the hypnotist's subjects in advance of their treatments.
I was ten minutes early. The office receptionist, a classy-looking black woman named Deirdre, welcomed me and offered me a pen and a clipboard with a single sheet of paper clamped on, asking if I would be so kind as to fill out the patient intake form. The first section was quite ordinary: name, address, sex, marital status, relevant medical history (including any prescriptions) and diagnosis of mental health disorders, if applicable. The form asked if and when I had been hypnotized previously. I checked the box confirming I had never been hypnotized. The next question was about the goal of having hypnosis; I hadn't realized that people went to hypnotists for so many reasons: to quit smoking or drugs, pain management, nail-biting, changing habits and much more. The box I ticked was for memory loss; in my case, I was trying to recover my recollection of a period in which I had been under the influence of alcohol and possibly a date-rape drug. I returned the clipboard with the completed form and Deirdre smiled pleasantly. She entered some of the information on the form into her computer system before placing the sheet into a pocket on the door of Mr. O'Brien-Skorzeny. I took a seat in the otherwise empty waiting room.
At three p.m. precisely, I was ushered into the hypnotist's office and told the gentleman would be with me shortly. I looked around the pleasant office. The window was hidden by blinds, and what little light there was in the room came from a small lamp on the desk. I noticed that several diplomas and certificates hanging on the wall, including one that certified O'Brien-Skorzeny as a hypnotist in good standing with some hypnosis society or other.
I was studying the contents of his office so intently that I didn't notice the gentleman had arrived. He greeted me and I started in surprise at his silent entry.
"Good afternoon," I said, recovering quickly.
"My last name is a stumbling block for many," the hypnotist said. "Just call me Arturo."
Rather than sitting across the desk from me, Arturo sat in a chair spaced about four feet from mine. It felt like safe distance. He had the clipboard in his hand and he reviewed my information on the intake form.
"Memory loss? Does this refer to an extended period of your life or are you trying to recall a particular incident?"
I sighed, took off my wool hat, and told the hypnotist my story in the very briefest terms. I explained that I wanted to fill in the blanks of that night with Vance in order to seek justice for myself and my fellow victims. I was trying to remember the night I was seduced by a man in a nightclub and taken back to his place. At some point in the evening I had been drugged and I became ill. I remembered nothing else until I woke up back in my apartment. The object of coming to the hypnotist was to discover as much about the man named Vance as possible.
"I see. As you were referred to me on this matter, you may have guessed that I have dealt with men from your... society... before. We have tried to fill in the memory of similar evenings with several of them. I will be candid about the results; they were not very fruitful. Only fragments of recall were restored. In addition, there is a danger in trying to recover lost memories: the process may cause one to unintentionally imagine false memories; it's not rare for the hypnotized subject, so prone to suggestibility, to give the hypnotist the answers he assumes the hypnotist wants to hear."
"I understand," I said. I felt very exposed in this small office facing a man with CUMSLUT tattooed on my forehead, but the hypnotist's soothing voice and outward calm soothed me and I relaxed a little.
"That was the bad news. The good news is that every subject and every experience is different. It is well worth making the attempt to recover your lost memories."
The hypnotist had me lay back in the comfortable chair as he leaned toward me from his. He produced a silver pendant on a chain. He began to swing it back and forth like a pendulum, telling me to watch the talisman as it caught the lamplight. My eyes locked on it and from then my memory literally goes soft: I can remember what happened, but without any of the hardness of reality; even now, months later, there remains a sense of detachment from what was happening, as if I was witnessing my hypnosis through a fog rather than living it in the clear.
Arturo soon had me in a deep hypnotic state. He tested his suggestion upon me. He told me that my right arm was very light, so light that it could rise of its own volition; my hand rose in the air in front of me until Arturo's hand pressed mine down again. He told me now that I was, in fact, getting very heavy: my arms and legs and my trunk sank into the cushions of the comfortable chair. My eyelids, heavy as the rest of me, closed as well.
"You are now deep in a perfect state of suggestibility. You will do as I command, remember as I command. Say 'yes' if you will obey."
"Yes," I mumbled.
"Very good. Let's go back to that night a few weeks ago when you met the man called Vance. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"For you, that evening is not weeks past. You are living in that time now, but you are detached from what you see and hear; you will not be afraid or affected by the memories we visit."
