Uncle’s Hypnosis Game 2
* * *I can’t believe I just leveled up in FarmerVilla, after only playing it less than 24 hours. That’s got to be some kind of record, right?
A red gift box, for reaching level 2, shakes on my phone screen. I click on the box’s golden bow, smiling as it begins to unravel. Even though I’m not wearing headphones, the triumphant music blares so loud that I hear it, and my heart does a happy flip as a dark brown horse rears up on the screen. It has six red stars. The game just gave me a super rare, and I squeal and dance in place.
“CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR EPIC 6-STAR BAY STALLION!”
I love this game, I think to myself, and I can’t stop smiling as I put my new, shiny addition in my barn. I’d been really disappointed when I hadn’t gotten to buy a horse at the auction yesterday, and now it feels like the game is giving me just what I want and need. But I also really need to make my way to school soon if I don’t want to be late….
I push the worry down, because I should tend to my new horse first, especially when I realize that I can spend farmer points to deck him out in a fancy bridle and saddle. Once he’s all tacked up, the game allows me to ride around my farm—and that means being able to plant and harvest crops even faster. There’s also a horse racing mini-game which has big prizes. Prizes like real life money . . . and cars.
I try to enter him in a race, but the game stops me: “THIS IS A PAID FEATURE. FREE S MAY ONLY ACCESS IT BY ING FIVE NEW VIDEOS.”
“Five?” I say with a soft groan.
I click accept though, because the horse racing prizes are crazy-nice. And I’m definitely not thinking clearly with my total lack of sleep. My hands shake slightly as I put my headphones back on.
“FIRST VIDEO REQUEST: A VIDEO OF YOU LOTIONING YOUR CHEST.”
I frown at the screen. I just got dressed, and now I have to take off my pink dress and bra and find some lotion? Luckily a timer doesn’t pop up on my screen, so I take my time stripping down and searching my room for the scented coconut cream stuff my mom gifted me for my birthday. I haven’t even used it yet, and I realize that it’s probably a good thing that the game is making me, since I haven’t had a chance to shower and smell a little like a sweaty, sex rag. The lotion will help cover it up.
I quickly film myself slathering the creamy lotion all over my voluptuous tits (I swear, I’ve grown a full cup size every year for the past four, and now I’m sporting natural D’s), rubbing the stuff in and jiggling my breasts enticingly at the camera. Instead of a voice, this time a little ding alerts me that the video has been accepted and ed.
“SECOND VIDEO REQUEST: A VIDEO OF YOU ON YOUR KNEES, BEGGING PRETTILY.”
This time a 30 second timer pops up, and I quickly kneel on the floor and make wide, pleading eyes at the camera. “Please,” I whisper, and then I draw the words out sexily, “Please, please….”
Another ding alerts me that I’ve done it correctly, so I look back at my phone screen to see, “THIRD VIDEO REQUEST: A VIDEO OF YOU SPREADING YOUR BUTTCHEEKS.”
I flush red at this, wondering why anyone would want to see that. It seems humiliating and demeaning, but the stupid 30 second timer pops up, and so I pull down my clean panties and bend over, using one hand to pull open the round globes of my ass, and the other to hold the phone as it records my winking asshole.
“This is filthy,” I mutter, but a frisson of pleasure goes through me as my phone dings.
I’m doing it right, at least, and maybe I’m even pleasing some man on the other end. Good sluts love to please men, and so the thought of pleasing some unknown, game makes me wet. But the next video request gives me pause, and I stare at it in horror.
“FOURTH VIDEO REQUEST: STUFF AN OBJECT UP YOUR VAGINA.”
“I’ve never had anything in there,” I whine at my phone, but the half a minute timer pops up and scares me into action.
I need to complete all of these videos so that I can enter my stallion in races. Otherwise, I won’t have the chance to win all those really cool prizes—and I’ll have just ed a bunch of trashy videos for nothing. I spot a tall, partially melted candle sitting in a silver holder on my dresser. It’s about the size of two of my fingers at the top, although it tapers out at the base to be about three fingers wide.
“But it might fit,” I find myself saying as I hastily grab it.
I’m still very wet from squirting earlier, I find as I nudge the green base of the smooth, waxy candle against my virgin fuckhole. A gasp escapes me when it starts to slide in. It feels very strange, but not bad, to be putting such a solid object inside myself—even though sometimes I slip one of my own, slender fingers up there. It’s much thicker than a single finger and much colder. I get the wide base a couple inches inside, my pussy aching and burning a little as it’s stretched open, when a deep voice booms in my ears, “Good slut.”
“Ahh!” I cry out, my cunt spasming around the thick candle and squirting a hot, cummy stream all down my hand and the floor.
My phone dings again, and I look at it with glassy eyes, panting and twitching helplessly.
“FIFTH VIDEO REQUEST: KEEP THE OBJECT INSIDE YOUR VAGINA. ADD ANOTHER OBJECT INTO YOUR ANUS.”
“No,” I sob, but my traitorous eyes scan my room for something I can stick up there, already anticipating the dumb timer popping up.
There’s a pen on the floor by my backpack, and I grab it, closing my eyes as I lay down on the cold floor to begin working the smooth end into my ass. Luckily my girl-juices have slickened my backside’s hole, and I keep thinking to myself, ‘Good sluts are relaxed and cheerful’, as I unclench the tight pucker of muscle and slide the pen straight in.
It feels super weird, almost like going potty in reverse, but also insanely sexual, too. Humiliation rolls through me as a shaky moan escapes my lips. This shouldn’t feel good, should it? I’m grossed out and turned on all at once, especially when the deep male voice whispers, “Good girl.”
This time I don’t cum, and I feel a twinge of resentment that he called me a girl instead of a slut. It should horrify me to think like this, because I shouldn’t want that dark, mind-addling voice to call me a slut (or anyone to call me a slut!), but all I can worry about is that maybe I didn’t please him well enough.
Should I try harder? I start to obsess over it, and even though my phone dings I remain on the floor with my legs spread open, the candle sticking out of one hole and the pen out of the other. I prop the phone up awkwardly between my legs with the help of one hand, making sure it has a good shot as I use my free hand to work the candle in and out of my pussy, switching to the pen every few strokes to plunder my ass, back and forth—back and forth—until my entire body is trembling.
“Good slut,” the deep male voice says, and I nearly scream in pleasure as I orgasm so hard that I push the candle out, a long stream of squirt following it.
My asshole sucks the pen in a little further, and I find I can’t pull it out as I continue to shake and pant. The cheerful music starts again, so I lift up my phone to read the new message, deciding to wait until my body untenses to try again at removing the pen.
“CONGRATULATIONS ON UNLOCKING THE HORSE RACING MINI-GAME. EACH ENTRANCE FEE COSTS A SPECIAL CURRENCY CALLED ‘FAVOR TICKETS’. WOULD YOU LIKE TO EARN ONE FAVOR TICKET BY SENDING YOUR RECENTLY ED VIDEOS TO A RANDOM ?”
“No,” I say sharply, quickly tapping at the red decline button; I can’t go through that whole mess again.
It was insanity—and just thinking about what happened with Uncle Joe makes me sick. I still can’t believe he’s seen me squirt . . . or that I sucked him off like an eager whore. It feels like a bad dream. Even if I knew the game would send him the newest clips, and that I might have a chance to delete them or that he’d just ignore them (since he told me to forget about everything that happened), it’s totally not worth the risk.
My phone freezes, and a few agonizing moments later it dings, and then a cheerful voice says, “Success! Thank you for sending your newly updated files to….” It pauses a moment, and then a robotic voice takes over, monotonically saying, “Uncle Frank.”
“Oh my fucking God,” I utter, dropping my phone to the floor with a clatter; my entire body seizes up, then begins to convulse with horrified sobs.
No calming internal thoughts pop up as I weep noisily, curling into myself with the pen still lodged in my ass. My phone begins to ring. Insistent and loud. Just like Uncle Frank….
This cannot be fucking happening.
What has my life become? I think miserably as I try to stop crying.
I know I need to answer the phone. I know I need to face this. Besides, good sluts are relaxed and cheerful. I know that I’m not being a very good slut, and for some reason that makes me feel like something very bad might happen. Something even worse than having my uncles see my squirting porn videos. Something even worse than my dad walking in on me masturbating. Something even worse than getting my mouth fucked by an old, bloated alcoholic that I’m related to.
You squirted as you drank his cum, my mind whispers to me tauntingly. You are a filthy slut.
For some reason this last thought makes my tears stop, sending a little tendril of arousal through my soaked pussy. I still have the pen stuck in my ass, and my phone is still blaring loudly. I know it’s my Uncle Frank, and I can practically hear his haughty thoughts: ‘Stella, fucking pick up and answer me!’
I pick up my phone, blinking at it with watery eyes and then clicking the green, acceptance button.
“Hello?” I say weakly, holding the phone to my ear.
Frank huffs loudly. “Uh, did you mean to send a bunch of wacko shit of yourself to me?”
“No,” I answer honestly, my tone shaky and tearful.
“Well, you did.” He huffs again into the phone. “Why the fuck are you filming that kind of stuff?”
“To be a good slut,” I answer automatically, hating myself.
I can’t seem to stop myself from answering questions from men truthfully and tears leak down my face as he hisses into the phone.
“Jesus, Stella! Who the hell are these for?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Anyone and everyone, I guess.”
“Well, I’m going to have to show these to your dad. This is insanely inappropriate and dangerous! I’m really disappointed in—”
“Please don’t,” I choke out, my sobs growing louder.
I can’t stand that he’s mad at me . . . or the thought of him showing my dad the videos. I just want to make him happy. I need to please him, because good sluts love pleasing men, and therefore, it must only be bad, awful girls that disappoint men. Shitty things happen to bad, awful girls, I know with a strange certainty. I need to fix this. I need to prove to him that I’m not a bad or awful girl.
“Please, Frank,” I beg, horrified when he doesn’t say anything—and for a moment I’m terrified he’s going to hang up on me. “Please, please,” I whimper, and then I try to sound sultry, “Please, I’ll do whatever you want to make you happy. Don’t show the videos to my dad.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he says stiffly. “We really need to talk about this. Go to school. I’ll pick you up after in my work van.”
“Okay, thank you,” I whisper.
Unlike Uncle Joe, Uncle Frank works a lot. He’s probably been on the job for the last couple of hours, and he usually works late. I can’t believe I interrupted his important work time with my slutty videos. It’s incredibly nice of him to offer me a ride home, and although I know I should only feel appreciation, I’m also really nervous about seeing him in person. Usually, he’s impatient, loud, and impulsive. He’s always intimidated me a bit with his larger-than-life attitude—and with his roguishly good looks, since he looks like a younger version of my dad; we all have brunette hair and green eyes, and although my dad is getting a little paunchy with age, Uncle Frank keeps his body super fit from working construction for twelve to sixteen hours a day.
A slutty thought pops into my mind: I hope he got hard watching me squirt.
I gasp at myself, then whisper, “No, I don’t!”
Shakily, I manage to pull the pen out of my butt and then I get redressed, picking up my clean underthings and pulling them on. I slide my pink sundress and sandals back on, wishing I had time to take a shower. It smells like ass, and sex, and coconut lotion in my room, so I open the window to let it air out before rushing out of my bedroom door with my backpack (which I throw my purse, phone, and headphones into).
I don’t want to see my dad or Uncle Joe. I’m also going to be late to school. If anyone sees me leave, no one says a word, and I make myself out into the cool, morning air and squint into the bright light of a springtime sun.
In three months, I’ll be graduating and then I can leave this all behind, I think to myself as I start the long trek to school. It takes about forty minutes to get there, and I’m already exhausted from acting like a sex machine and not sleeping at all last night. Tiny, niggling thoughts plague me as I stumble on: I need to check on my farm. What if something bad has happened to my livestock or crops?
“Fuck my stupid farm,” I snarl at myself, wishing that I’d never started playing FarmerVilla in the first place.
A sharp pain goes through my skull, and instantly I say, “I love FarmerVilla.”
No, I need to stop playing it! cold thoughts whir insistently. It’s bad for me! It’s doing bad things to my life!
My stomach lurches with nausea, and I have to stop for a moment, clutching my knees as I stoop forward and try not to wretch.
Play FarmerVilla to relax! a cheerful thought tells me.
But I don’t have time to play it, because I need to get to school, although the nausea wanes as I tell myself I’ll definitely check on my farm at first break.
An hour later, I’m sitting in detention—for being so late—and my head is pounding.
“I need to play to relax,” I whisper to myself.
The boy sitting in front of me turns to give me a strange look.
“What’s that?” he asks, his scarred and pimply face frowning.
It’s Billy, the school bully, I realize absently. He cracks his knuckles as I say, “Sorry”, and then his ginger head turns back around.
My panicked eyes search out the teacher—or rather our captor—who is in charge of watching over us during our punishment. Mrs. Finnegan is reading some sort of book, her glasses sliding down her thin nose, and her wavy, grey hair falling into her face.
She looks half asleep, I realize, quickly pulling out my headphones and my phone. I’ll just check on my farm really fast, and then I’ll sit here quietly and pretend to work on all the homework that I’ve already finished.
As soon as I a warning message pops up: “DUE TO EXTENDED INACTIVITY, NEGATIVE RED BARS HAVE BEEN UNFROZEN. CROPS AND ANIMALS NEARING CRITICAL STATUS.”
But I was only offline for a couple of hours, at most! I want to scream.
“TO PREVENT CROP AND ANIMAL REMOVAL, PLEASE WATCH A SHORT VIDEO.”
That doesn’t seem so bad. Better to watch one than have to one. I quickly put my headphones on and tap the play button. White, staticky noise fills my ears and my tired brain turns to warm mush. Everything feels so heavy. Everything feels so calm. Everything feels like bliss.
It seems like only a few seconds , but when my eyes refocus, Billy is leering strangely, his phone trained on me.
“Good slut,” a deep voice intones, and then I realize my hand is in my panties, because a hot, wet gush of girl-cum coats my fingers as I moan in pleasure, my pussy spasming in delicious clenches.
“Miss Copeland!” the teacher yells, rising to a stand. She’s so loud that I can hear her over the cheerful music of my game. “What on God’s green earth are you doing, girl?”
“She’s masturbating like a whore!” someone shouts. “I got it all on film!”
I rip my headphones off, hearing several other students gasp or titter around us. A few of them murmur things to each other: “I got it, too, did you get it?”, “Yeah, shit’s insane”, “We should post it online for money”….
“Mister Harper, you’ll be coming with us to the principal’s office,” the teacher says to Billy. “Both of you up, now.”
“I didn’t do nothing though!” Billy snarls, shoving his phone into his pocket.
“You were watching and recording,” Mrs. Finnegan insists. “I’m not an idiot. You two are clearly canoodling.”
I’m so ashamed that I can’t even shoot Billy an apology glance as we are forced to walk in front of Mrs. Finnegan to head to Mr. Langley’s office. He’s a stout, jar-headed man who always looks like he has something up his ass because he walks around so upright and stiffly. He’s also well known for being radically conservative and religious—which I know doesn’t bode well for me and what I’ve just done.
The fucking game made me do it, my mind whirs in a panic. But how will I ever explain myself?
“I took some medication this morning,” I forcefully lie, once I’m face to face with an angry Mr. Langley. Instantly a jolt of searing pain goes through me: Good girls don’t lie. “It must have—” I choke out.
But I can’t finish the untruthful statement, nausea spreading through me so quick that I know I’m going to vomit on the floor if I open my mouth again.
“Be that as it may,” Mr. Langley says stiffly, “I can’t have young ladies exposing themselves lewdly in this school. Mister Harper, what was your part in this?”
“Nothing,” Billy mutters, jamming his hands in his pockets.
“That’s not true,” Mrs. Finnegan pipes up. “He was watching and he had his phone out. I believe he may have taken pictures or video.”
“I didn’t! Everyone noticed Stella and I just saw a little of it, so sue me!” Billy yells.
“One week’s suspension, Harper—I don’t have time for your games today.”
“Fuck off!” Billy shouts, his face turning nearly as red as his hair.
He doesn’t bother listening to their outraged tirades or hear that he’s now suspended for two weeks, storming out of the office and leaving me alone to face my punishment.
At least he didn’t show them the clip, my mind whispers. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy?
But I don’t have time to worry about Billy as Mr. Langley says, “Miss Copeland, I’m going to have to your parents. If you’re having medical issues, that will need to be dealt with before you’ll be allowed back in school. For legal reasons, Mrs. Finnegan will remain with us while I make the call and then she’ll escort you off the property to await your guardians.”
Tears blur my vision as my mind races. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe that I masturbated in front of the entire class and am now standing here facing two angry school officials. I can’t believe that they are going to tell both my mom and dad—and then it’ll all come out that I’m not on any medications and that I’m just a big, horny slut.
A few minutes later, Mr. Langley awkwardly says, “It seems we don’t have your parent’s updated numbers on file. The number for Rose Copeland is disconnected?”
“Her last name is Green now . . . and I’ve moved in with my dad,” I whisper. “My mom moved to New York.”
“Alright then, what’s his number?”
“Uhm, let me check….” I pull out my phone, my heart and mind racing so hard that all I can see is red. My thumb scrolls past ‘DAD’ and pauses on ‘UNCLE FRANK’. Should I?
Yes, he’s picking me up anyway, I decide, fighting down a wave of nausea as I give Mr. Langley the number for my uncle instead of my dad.
I shoot Frank a quick text: ‘I’m in trouble. Please play along “dad”.’
A few bubbles pop up like he’s typing back, but then they disappear as Mr. Langley calls him. I close my eyes and pray to whatever God there might be that Uncle Frank comes through for me. Hot shame floods my body as I listen to my principal awkwardly tell my “dad” that I’m apparently having issues with my medication and that it’s caused me to lewdly expose myself to an entire classroom. My panties still feel wet and sticky, clinging to my pussy lips. Thank God, no one seems to want to say that I was actually masturbating in front of everyone.
You mean fingering yourself like a depraved, little whore, a cold thought whirs.
(No, like a good slut, another warm thought insists: Good sluts play with their pussies, good sluts make themselves cum….)
I try not to squirm as a fresh wave of arousal flares inside my soaked cunt. Why do I want to play with myself right here and now while I’m being humiliated? It’s horrendous and insane.
“Thank you, sir, for taking this seriously,” Mr. Langley says—and I realize I’ve missed a chunk of the conversation as he hangs up the phone. “Mrs. Finnegan, please escort Miss Copeland out. Her guardian will be here within the hour.”
“I can’t leave the detention students for that long,” Mrs. Finnegan says, shaking her head.
“Well, just leave her outside. She can wait by the road near the dumpsters. I trust that she won’t come barging in to cause any more trouble….”
“No sir,” I agree, staring at the tiled floor.
I am left outside, just off the property on the corner of the road. My phone reads that it’s almost eleven in the morning, and there’s a text from my uncle that reads: ‘This is insane. I’ll be by when I can take my lunch at noon. You have A LOT of explaining to do!’
I text him back that I’m really sorry, but then the pull of FarmerVilla has me rifling through my backpack for my headphones instead of offering any explanations. I need to check on my farm. I need to make sure my crops and animals are okay. I need the relaxation and calmness the game offers me—and right now, before I get sick all over the sidewalk.
“Hey Stella!” a husky voice calls.
I turn to see Billy leaning against one of the dumpsters, a lit cigarette hanging loosely in one of his large hands.
Shit. What does he want? But I know I need to go over to him and apologize for getting him into this mess—because even though he’s definitely not grown-grown, he’s still my age, so technically a man; and good sluts love to please men, my mind insists.
“I’m really sorry, Billy. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble….”
“Well, you did,” he snaps, pausing to take a long drag of his cigarette. He blows it out too close to my face as he says, “And I think you owe me for it.”
He’s not a very tall man, I realize as we stand nearly eye to eye—but he is muscular and largely framed. I know he could beat the ever-living shit out of me if he wanted to. We are also all alone in the mouth of a narrow alleyway where the school keeps all its dumpsters. Billy could easily drag me deep into it. He could cover my mouth and rape me. No one would hear and my uncle isn’t coming for an hour.
For some reason the thought makes my pussy drool into my already sodden underwear. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I do owe you,” my mouth says all on its own. “I want to please you. Let me make it up to you.”
Billy smiles. “That sounds real nice. Why don’t you show me what I only got a peek at earlier?” He motions towards the skirt of my sundress, flicking his fingers upwards.
“Did you record me masturbating?” I ask softly, my mind buzzing with arousal and fear as I lift my dress to show him my wet, clingy panties.
He groans and squints at my pussy, then whispers in a gravelly voice, “Desk was in the way, but yeah, could definitely tell what you were doing. Show me what you were doing, again.”
“Did it make you hard?” I cringe a little as the question slips from my lips; the warmth pulsing in my mind is compelling me to sound like a desperately flirty, little slut.
I don’t like Billy. I don’t want to be back here alone with him. And I definitely don’t want him to touch or do anything to me.
He stamps out his cigarette as he says, “Yeah. Show me for real now.”
Oh God, am I really going to do this? My hands seem to think so, because one yanks my underwear down while the other keeps holding up my dress.
“You’re really wet,” Billy murmurs, taking a step closer.
I quickly began to toy with myself, afraid that if I don’t start that he’ll try to touch me. Part of me would die having his dirty, nicotine-stained fingers on or in me. Part of me might grossly enjoy it, though, too.
“I’m a good slut,” I whimper, hating my traitorous mouth.
Why do I keep saying these things? I’m horrified that I’m getting so turned on by behaving like a complete tramp. My fingers slide through my wet folds, and Billy doesn’t say a goddamn thing, his lips parting slightly and his eyebrows rising as I rub myself in a frenzy.
When I use my left elbow to pin up my dress, using that hand to shove a finger inside me while my right hand keeps frigging my clit, Billy whispers, “You are a good slut.”
“Oh!” I cry out, his words searing into me like hot ecstasy; my pussy spasms and squirts, spraying all down my legs and splattering the grey cement.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Billy hisses.
It’s then that I notice he’s got his phone in one of his hands, and it’s pointed just so that I know he’s been recording the show.
“Billy,” I moan.
“That was fucking hot. It almost makes up for the trouble you got me in.” He smirks at me, then lifts up his phone to review the footage he took. His pupils blow wide, his jaw tightening. “Almost,” he whispers.
Please delete it, I want to beg him, but I can’t, because I know he’s pleased by how his cock is bulging out of his dark jeans.
“Good sluts love pleasing men,” I find myself saying, still standing there with my dress raised and my wet cunt exposed.
Why can’t I pull up my panties or drop the skirt of my dress? God, I want to get out of here.
“You any good at sucking cock?” Billy’s dark eyes burn into mine.
At least he doesn’t want to fuck you, the reasonable part of my mind whispers. Another part feels deeply disappointed, imagining him grabbing me and throwing me to the rough cement, where he’d take me from behind like an animal.
But maybe even though he’s a dumb bully, he doesn’t want to slam into some girl raw (especially one that he now thinks of as a raging slut).
“I want to please you,” I tell him honestly. “I’ll try my best.”
He nods, gesturing for me to kneel. “Works for me.”
The cement is painful against my bare knees, and I don’t even try to pull up my panties, letting them hobble my ankles as I position myself in front of Billy like a depraved whore. They feel clingy and wet against my skin. My pussy still throbs from Billy’s praise—and throbs harder as I watch him hastily unbuckle his jeans. He wants my mouth badly, and all the warmth inside my brain pulses with anticipation as he fumbles with his boxers to draw out his pale, veiny cock.
“Mmm,” I hum in appreciation, even though I think it’s ugly as sin.
Maybe all cocks are kind of gross—fleshy, bulging things that drip from a puncture like hole—and his is kind of awkwardly shaped, crooked upward like a hook with a bulbous head. But the musky smell of his arousal lances into my warm brain, calling for me to taste it.
“Open up,” Billy whispers, cupping my chin with his dirty, yellowed, fingers and guiding his prick to nudge my lips. “We gotta make this fast. Don’t wanna get expelled or nothing.”
I suck him in obediently, relishing his hiss of pleasure. His hips buck, jamming the blunt head of his cock into the roof of my mouth before it slides harshly back to clog my throat. The warmth in my mind keeps me from gagging, my jaw automatically relaxing and my breath going deep and slow through my nose.
Good sluts are relaxed and calm, my warm mind whispers.
He pulls back to fuck my face nice and gently, one of his hands cupped around my face (almost affectionately) and the other fisted in my mane of hair (not so affectionately).
“I like it like this,” he says with a grunt. “Don’t scrape me with your teeth.”
I try my best, letting him slide all the way into my throat before he pulls back, laving his entire shaft with my tongue. Salty spurts of precum flood my mouth as he uses me like a cocksleeve. I can’t believe I’m blowing a boy that I barely know out in an alleyway. I can’t believe that I’m dripping down my thighs as I pleasure the ugly, school bully. I can’t believe this is all happening to me—a kissless virgin girl, now doomed to be everyone’s sex doll.
“Yeah, just like that,” he says with a groan, pumping into me.
My mind turns into one long blur of warmth as he keeps going and going—not making it quick, but seeming to draw it out until my jaw and knees ache. I begin to toy with my throbbing clit absently, humming around his cock as my own pleasure builds inside me, and then he stiffens with a curse, spilling deep into my mouth.
“Mmph!” I orgasm with him, ribbons of bliss going through me even though no one compelled it from me.
No voice inside my mind told me I was a ‘good slut’, and Billy isn’t saying anything to me, just cursing. I swallow down his thick load, shivering and aching. Am I turning into an actual whore now? One that gets off without being forced to? The warmth in my mind is still there, but I feel like I could have resisted cumming from being treated like this. That I should have resisted.
“Gotta go, thanks,” Billy says gruffly, pulling away even before he goes soft.
He leaves me on my knees, stuffing himself into his jeans as he takes off like I’m nothing more than a toilet he just finished doing his dirty business into.
For a moment I want to cry, but then heated thoughts fill me up: Good sluts love to please men. Good sluts play with their pussies. Good sluts make themselves cum.
“I am a good slut,” I tell myself shakily as I scramble to a stand.
My mouth tastes like Billy’s salty, bitter cum, and my panties feel hideously soaked and dirty as I yank them back into place. I hastily grab my phone, suddenly worried about FarmerVilla and what might have happened to my animals while I was too busy to play.
I gasp as I open the game to read: “YOU HAVE LEVELED UP! CONGRATULATIONS ON REACHING LEVEL 3. OPEN YOUR GIFT NOW.”
Does this game somehow know what it’s making me do? Is it monitoring my sexual escapades and rewarding me for them? It sure feels like it, and it makes me want to throw my phone down on the cement and smash it.
I don’t, of course, tenderly cradling the phone in my hands like its treasure, and then I eagerly open my new gift box. A shiny, grey horse with five stars prances around on my screen.
“CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR 5-STAR DAPPLED GREY MARE!” the game tells me.
I earned a girlfriend for my stallion, I think happily, even though I’m a little disappointed that it’s not a super epic, six star.
The game seems to know what I really want, because a cheerful voice rings out, “Limited time offer! To upgrade your mare to a six star, please fulfill one of the following requests!”
Three options pop up in big, red letters:
STRIP NUDE AND WALK AROUND IN PUBLIC
BLOW THE NEXT MAN YOU SEE
TAKE A COCK UP YOUR ASS
“What the fuck?” I whine.
How will it even know if I do any of those things? It’s not asking me to take photos or record it or anything—which must mean the application has taken over my phone. It must mean the stupid thing is monitoring me completely!
I’m just about to strip off my clothes and walk around the school premises nude, because that seems like the lesser of evils, when a white van rolls into view, honking at me.
“Shit,” I hiss, staring at the side of the vehicle and seeing NUTS’N’BOLTS CONSTRUCTION.
Uncle Frank is early. And I have a lot of explaining to do….