Baner's Slut

The date-rape drugs described here—GHB, MDMA and Meth—are real, just, to my knowledge, never compounded for effects quite like those described.

The carrier DMSO acts exactly as described and has been used as a substance-drug carrier across the skin for years.

I have personal experience with the hypnotic state described here - In the hands of an unethical and skilled master hypnotist one can, over a period of months, actually cause a person to be given a post-hypnotic suggestion from a state of trance, mainly by getting the person to believe that the events and/or persons happen a long time ago and not to be concerned about them... and to forget about the thought as soon as possible.

In like fashion, also as a personal experience, a similar state of obsessive behavior (often financial) can be induced in a person, to cause them to make millions of dollars for someone else while working many overtime hours and making a lot less for themselves.

Hyper-sexuality, or nymphomania, is a real disorder in women. They can become a slut at a moment's notice, but then revert to a posture of innocence in a heartbeat - It is uncommon but not rare.

BANKER'S SLUT 3

by TheKeith

I became aware of my sorry state the day, as they say, I was ridden hard, used up and put away wet!

Literally!

I just woke up from an uneasy sleep, there in my own private office. I sat up and looked down at myself. I was nude. My skin felt slimy and my hair was a mess around my face, plus it smelled, well, like fresh cum. I got up and went into my own personal bathroom.

I was pretty much well used, as far as sex was concerned. There was dried cum in my hair and on my body, especially around and on my tits and my pussy was sore and reddened. I felt like I needed to move my bowels, but when I did, there was globs of semen in the toilet water. I'd been ass-fucked by many men. My pussy felt bad, so I got out the douche and did myself, only to discover a lot more cum in the drained water. I had a sudden urge to throw up, which I did, but heaved up only more slimy gobs of jizm.

I thought, had I been gang-raped?, to get this much male spurting stuff in and on me. Suddenly, I had the strong feeling that I'd forgotten something important, something that I just couldn't grasp right then. I needed to talk to someone. I tried calling Harriet, but her cell-phone went right to voice-mail.

I was still naked, so I took a long, scrubbing shower, to get the cum off my body and out of my hair. Toweling off in my own office, I saw that the couch I'd slept on had more cum splotches on it, evidence that I'd been royally fucked there and maybe other places, too, but I just couldn't remember where, what, or with whom. Obviously, there were a lot of them, as there was far too much semen in and on me for just one or two men. I'd entertained a couple of dozen.

Why couldn't I remember anything?

I thought to get dressed, but got another shocker, when I opened my personal closet. It was full of clothes, but they were all of a kinky, sexy nature, and most were semi-transparent lace: catsuits, baby-doll nighties, schoolgirl outfits and the like. On the floor were a dozen sets of shoes, but they were all CFM (Come-Fuck-Me) pumps with high stiletto heels.

There were only stark black little quarter-cup bras that exposed my whole boobs, leaving just a little support but none of any use on the street. There were no panties anywhere.

Way back on the floor of the closet was a pile of rags, and under that was an old man's shirt and a pair of old, torn jeans, along with a pair of flip-flop sandals, so I put these on. Here I was, an executive at The Bank, with a generous 6-figure income and a bigger budget. in cash, but I was dressed like a high-school-age street hooker.

I stuffed some wads of money in my old purse, pulled from a drawer in my desk, when I happened to glance at a paper there. It was from the medical clinic that served the needs of The Bank, and it said, in formal language, that I had been successfully treated for a 'trifecta' of STDs: gonorrhea, vaginal and anal syphilis.

Along with that information was the final shocker, in that the note detailed that this had been my 5th treatment for gonorrhea and my 3rd treatment for vaginal syphilis. The doctor had recommended strongly that I protect myself from re-infections, as the range of antibiotics used to treat the diseases had to be increased twice in my 'prior treatments'. Where had I picked up multiple STDs, as an executive within the bank, working long hours alone and with my research department? Who had given me the clap and the syph, in my cunt and up my ass, too?

Plus, that feeling that I'd forgotten something terribly important had grown stronger.

My research department had been closed down and I was alone. Who to contact? Just on an impulse, I looked up the building directory, to find someone to advise me, but the only therapists were directly connected with The Bank, and it just didn't feel right to call anyone connected with my institution.

In the phone book, I saw the name of Helen Miriam, Ph.D., C hyp , who lived and worked out of her home on the other side of the city. Again on an impulse, I called her and asked for an immediate appointment, because something had gone terribly wrong in my life, plus I'd forgotten something very important. I told her I'd pay any amount, in cash. She gave me her address. I went down the back stairs of The Bank and out the emergency door, which didn't sound an alarm.

Hailing a random cab, I got to her place after a longish trip. She was a mild-mannered woman in her mid 40's, with a certification and private practice in hypnosis and hypnotic therapy. We chatted a bit, as she seemed to put me at ease instantly. Blushing, I outlined my problem, including what i'd found in the bathroom and even in the medical report. She agreed to take me on as a cash-paying client.

Then Helen tole me to take both of her hands, and lean forward, pressing down hard, so I did. Abruptly, she snatched her hands away, said 'SLEEP' in a commanding voice and I didn't know anything until I woke up a couple of hours later ... naked, lying on my back, on her kitchen table, tits pointed up, nipples distended, legs spread up in the air in a slutty V-shape, with my arms at my sides, and hands reached around my butt, to pull open my vaginal lips, exposing my pussy. Which was gaping open, sloppy wet. I was screaming, "Come on, somebody, anybody, please FUCK ME RIGHT NOW."

I scrambled up off the table, trying to cover myself with my hands, while still trying to dress myself in my ratty clothes, which were thrown all over the kitchen floor. I groaned, partly from embarrassment, and partly from a still-strong need to have a big cock inside me, pumping hard, so I could orgasm.

Helen looked at me, a touch of sadness on her cace, as she continued to position two video-cams around the kitchen area. Helen said, "I'm sorry, but I have to stimulate you again, so we can both observe what you do when I say three command words. Will you let me do that, right now?"

Shaking and cowering, now dressed in the shirt and jeans, I nodded. Helen looked right at me, and in a low-pitched voice, said three words that I couldn't remember. There was a blank space in my mind. I woke up in 10 minutes ... naked, lying on my back, on her kitchen table, tits pointed up, nipples distended, legs spread up in the air in a slutty V-shape, with my arms at my sides, and hands reached around my butt, to pull open my vaginal lips, exposing my pussy. Which was gaping open, sloppy wet. I was screaming, "Come on, somebody, anybody, please FUCK ME RIGHT NOW." The strong feeling of needing to be fucked by a hard pounding cock to cause an orgasm, but it faded within a few moments.

Re-dressed for the second time, we both watched the resulting videos, and on the video screen, I saw myself declare, "Ohhh KAY. I see lots of cocks. Let's PARTY!" Then I saw myself doing a sexy strip of my two pieces of clothes, throwing each as far away as I could. I saw me reaching up and squeezing my own boobs and tugging/twisting on the nipples, which then stood straight out, longer, bigger and harder that I ever remembered. On the videos I strutted around, naked, swinging and rotating my hips, and standing as though I had CFM heels on feet. I got down on all fours and pretended to suck several invisible cocks. Then I got back up on Helen's kitchen table and did what I described and saying the 'fuck me' litany.

I'd become a hypnotized drugged-out slut-whore for my team, the Directors and the big depositors as representatives of The Bank.

I asked Helen about the urgency of what I'd forgotten, and she got a sad expression on her face, she said, "Look down at your left hand, dear. Look closely. What do you see?" I looked, but except for the blur on my finger, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then Helen spoke three more words, which I couldn't remember, and abruptly the blur disappeared.

There were rings on the third finger of my left hand. An engagement and a wedding band. What wedding? When? It crashed down on me, as I screamed, "My husband! Casimir, where are you? Where is he? I need him. I've been forced to fuck a lot of other men. I've got to find him. The house, he's at the house, he'll come for me."

Helen shook her head side to side. "I'm afraid that won't happen, Anitra. You've been under the control of a master hypnotist for months, possibly years. In all that time, he hasn't been able to contact you. Your personal cell-phone was turned off more than a year ago. He's very likely long gone."

"Nooooooo," I screamed, dissolving in deep, racking sobs. "It's only been a few days since I last saw him, before I ran out of our place to attend to a problem at The Bank," but then I had to add, "isn't it? Just a few days ago? NOOOOOO!"

Helen asked, practically, "where's your house? Let's drive there and we'll see abut your husband Casimir McCorkindale." Another drive brought us to the house, where the weeds were tall and brown around the property, and some folks had started to use the front and back yards as places to 'short-dump' their discarded stuff. It looked like the property had been abandoned for a long time. My heart sunk to my toes.

I still had my front-door key, and we entered, but found a paper covering the light switch. The paper said something about cameras and the power being off as a precaution. Gong into the kitchen, there was another dusty piece of paper, with big, black words on it. Hand printed it said:

HILLPOTFOOD RIGHT CLOSET.

JOHNKEY

MASSWALL

I grinned at Helen's mystified look. I said, "It's a riddle. Look, back before zip codes, someone delivered a stamped letter to the post office, with the words Hill, John and Mass printed on it, just they way it is on the note. Damned if the people in the post office didn't deliver a letter to John Underhill, Andover, Mass.

So I've gotta find a KEY under a POT on top of a WALL." Going back outside, I came back in half a minute, holding a corroded but usable bronze key. Preceding Helen, I went into the FOOD pantry, off the kitchen, looked to my RIGHT and opened up a somewhat hidden, very heavy CLOSET door.

The room was lined on all six sides with a fine-square copper mesh, which reminded me of what Casimir and once said about a Faraday Cage that shielded electronic stuff from interference and remote keyboard logging. At a small table was a little DVD player connected to a much larger LCD monitor ... and a printed paper note.

I nearly fainted away when I read what Cas had left me, and fell to the floor, tears flowing, screaming, "oh, please NO. Noooooo ...".

Helen had to get me up and into the chair, after she brought another chair into the closet space from the kitchen. Then Helen forced me to load the first disk into DVD player and activate it. We both watched in fascinated horror, as I stripped, sucked and fucked two dozen horny men and a few women, including some Board of Directors old men, a few big depositors plus Ahmed and even Harriet, my BFF at The Bank. I had sex over and over and over, while I orgasmed and cried for more and more and more.

We looked at myself getting my ass and cunt cleaned right there in the meeting room in front of the cheering, insulting, dirty-talking mass of men and a few women. The sex went on for two hours, before I was half-carried out of the pictures by Ahmed and Harriet. In the last minute, the exhausted men complained that they weren't going to get any more that week, because I was being sent upstairs to the Board room, and then to be leant out to the big depositors for an off-site gang-bang, which, "Since I was an insatiable nympho-slut, I was sure to love."

"How could this be?" I shrilled to Helen, adding, "it had been only a few days since I ran out on Cas ... wasn't it? Why had he left me to die as a slut-whore for The Bank?"

Helen quietly pointed out the date of my orgy, recorded on the DVD he'd seen with his own eyes and recorded on the spot. That was September 22, 2006. She said sadly, "It's been well over a year since that note was written. You're very probably divorced. Look at the dust and grime that was all over the house."

She said, "You've been an active, seemingly self-aware sex-slave to The Bank and a gang-banging slut-whore to your own people. You've probably been used and abused thousands of times since he left you. Girl, that was certainly because you forgot about him, about your marriage, about everything that held you two together."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Torsdottir, but you effectively abandoned your loving husband to serve a corporate institution—and its representatives there—with your body and soul, leaving no room for him or both of you as a married couple, at all."

I cried and sobbed until there were more tears left.

Driving back to The Bank, I got Helen up to my office and she eliminated my blurred vision, so I could see the awful dirty, filthy sex pictures on the walls. She zeroed out the blur that prevented me from seeing the cabinet that held all the boxes of the 'sexy juice' patches I had been forced to wear, within the hypnotic compulsion to have lusty sex on command.

I saw the three big boxes, each crammed with recorded DVDs of my various sex 'performances' in the research meeting room. Despite a quick count of over 300 disks, I knew that I'd 'performed' in far more orgies that those ... and that, apparently, I'd mindlessly loved every moment of each.

After we watched all three of Cas' disks and skimmed through a small, random sample of the others, Helen asked, "Now, girl, what are you going to do about it?"

A white-hot rage ate into me as I vowed to bring down the most cherished and loved (I thought) institution of my life. The one that I gave my whole loyalty to. The one that—literally!—screwed me over for 2 years. The one that I'd smash to dust and then piss on the dust.

I also swore to get my man back, if only as a slut-slave to him forever after.

It was surprisingly easy. While I had to undergo more forced-sexing, I didn't remember anything about each, as the hypnotic command demanded. The bank was keeping two sets of accounts, and I had access to both, after Helen released yet another command within me. The Bank was in terrible financial shape, as a result in over-investment in sub-prime real estate, plus very shady and illegal money-laundering of Mafia money and Middle Eastern finance deals with terrorist entities. The Bank was insolvent, and had been for months, with the Board of Directors each looking to save their own skins and dollars from the other, while all the time fucking me into sexual jelly, day after day after day.

I knew the names to call with the IRS and the FBI and the NSA, plus other agencies, and I knew the upper-level people to talk to. I arranged for a full-scale audit of all The Bank's loans and assets, and even arranged for a mid-orgy raid on my research department during my very last 'performance'. Yes, I was arrested, after the agents pulled the three guys plugged into me off my orgasming body, but I was never processed or formally arraigned.

The Board of Directors wasn't so lucky. Two suicided. A few tried to run and were easily caught. Others tried to buy or bribe they way out of charges, which didn't work either. They all got long prison terms for fraud, money laundering, aiding a foreign government plus so many multiple counts of drug-assisted forced-sex that they'd never see the outside of walls and razor wire again in life. Many of my 'analysts' were caught, tried and convicted of multiple counts of drug-assisted forced-sex too.

The chemist swallowed one of his own creations and died in convulsions.

The hypnotist took a plea deal, testified and re-testified, then ran before his reduced sentencing (30 years instead of life without parole), He apparently entranced a light plane pilot, then bailed out at 8,000 feet over barren country. Either his parachute didn't open or the straps weren't buckled properly and he fell out of the chute. He's never been heard of since.

Ahmed and Harriet ran. They bolted from the raid, into my office (bugged, with cameras), where they raided my private safe for ready money (grand theft). Then they tumbled down the back stairs (cameras on all floors, operating now) and took off in a convenient company car (GPS equipped), and fled from our state to another, where the car was electronically shut down. Since they'd crossed a state line, the case became Federal.

I attended their separate trials, where they accused me of any and all sex crimes (all irrelevant) and rolled over on each other. The best part came, when they both separately yelled out the command sequence to make me suicide. They watched, smirking, as I pulled a big, black automatic from my purse, racked the slide, put the barrel in my mouth. As they watched, I pulled the trigger ... shooting a stream of sweet chocolate syrup into my mouth. Giggling, I wiped my chin off, as they watched in horror. They both were sentenced for wire fraud, money laundering, pandering, drug handling and use and multiple counts of drugged-forced-sexing participation and procurement.

There were a lot of divorces, mostly of my male team, but also of the husbands of all of the women participating.

Then I had to endure watching over 300 disks, each about 4 hours long, with rotating teams of lawyers and other professional folks, to identify as many of the 'big depositors' as I could. When each was identified, I sued for drug-induced forced-sex and related charges—not in criminal court but in civil—indicating that I was 'open' to a settlement in the 6- to 7- figure area, to make the charges and evidence 'go away.' After the first few wins, showing public display of their executives using me for sex 'on company time', in magistrate court, I had no trouble gaining untold wealth.

There were LOTS more divorces, though, as 'bootleg' photos and video segments made their way into the homes and wives (or husbands) of the rich and powerful.

"The only downside to all of this," Anitra concluded, "was the realization that, if I had the 'sexy juice patch' and it was only loveless sex, I really was an insatiable nympho-slut and wanted more and more. I'd enjoy it all, orgasming over and over, for the moment alone. I would never be forced. With the 'sexy juice' patches applied to myself, I could literally beg for nearly anything sexual and it would please me to receive it into my so-willing body ... just as long as it was for plain drugged-out sex alone."

"So, Casimir, my long-lost love, I'm a very wealthy woman, investing many multiple millions of dollars to yield a very comfortable income for the rest of my loveless nympho-sex-filled life, unless you decide to be my only man."

"It was only if MY LOVING MAN was inside me, loving me, kissing, mauling my tits and nips, spewing his love seed deep inside, that I could be completely satisfied with just one cock."