Can't Make a Sound

by Jukebox

Tags: #consensual_kink #dom:female #f/f #hypnosis #pov:bottom #sub:female #brainwash #brainwashed #brainwashing #discreet_public_play #fingering #hypnotized #public_play

DeShaundra and her Domme while away a long plane trip to London with hypnosis and very stealthy sex.

This story has been suggested by 1 users.

I want to moan so badly right now. My Lady's long, dexterous fingers are deep inside my slick pussy, swirling around and around on my clit with the skill of a safecracker, and the pleasure is so intense that every single muscle in my body has gone rigid. One of my legs is pressing hard against hers, the other is squeezed up against the cool metal wall so hard I'm amazed I haven't caused a leak in the side of the plane. I'm trembling all over, my breath comes in tiny little gasps, and every few seconds my vision blurs out into a sea of sparkles as my eyes unfocus in mindless bliss. Moan, hell. I want to scream like a goddamn porn star right now.

But I can't.

We talked about it, back when we were first negotiating the scene. Back when the plane was still on the ground and we were still at home and this was just a sexy way to pass the time during a seven-hour flight from New York to London. "This isn't just a case of embarrassment, DeShaundra," she said, her English accent making every word sound like it was coming from a strict, sexy nanny. "It's not like that time at Macy's where we could say you thought you saw a mouse." Despite myself, my cunt clenched hard around her fingers, recalling the waves of heat rising from my body as I tried to pretend my clit wasn't still throbbing from her touch. It throbs even harder now, both the memory of Macy's and the memory of her playing with my pussy while we talked about Macy's replaying in my head.

"If we get caught on the plane, there's the possibility that they might simply decide to turn around and head back to New York," she admonished. I think I nodded, but damn, it's hard to convince my brain to take her seriously when everything she says sounds like an invitation to misbehave. She makes punishment sound so fucking hot that even the prospect of wrecking our first vacation together and getting the FAA on our asses gets my pussy all slick and wet and messy. And it didn't help that she couldn't keep her fingers out of my cunt while we talked.

She loves playing with my pussy. That's how all this started. We were lying in bed, giggling, her pale arms wrapped around my ebony belly and her fingers teasing my pussy lips, when I said it was a shame we couldn't join the Mile High Club together. "The bathrooms on those new planes don't even fit one person, let alone two," I joked, distraction already creeping into my voice and making me sound just a tiny bit drunk with pleasure. "We'd never get away with it." I knew even then that my Lady loves a challenge. She wouldn't be able to let that go.

It's all flashing through my head out of order, my thoughts getting more and more disjointed as her fingers push in and out of my soaking cunt. The airpods only make things worse--I can hear my Lady's voice in my ears non-stop, a constant loop of her deliciously posh and proper voice telling me, "Good girls drop deeper. Good girls sink swiftly. Good girls obey." All accompanied by a chorus of moans and whimpers and pleas for more that I know are my own. She loves to record every sound I make when I'm so deeply hypnotized that I can't even remember what she's doing to me, and play them back to me once I wake up to show me just how much control she has over my mind. I wonder how long she was planning to use them like this.

It's enough to make my gasps crack into a tiny explosion of breath, not quite a moan but not entirely silent, either... and that's enough to make my Lady's fingers stop cold. She frowns ever so slightly--to a casual observer, it might look like she just hit a troublesome passage in her book on confirmation bias in 19th century medicine. She's been careful this entire time to watch me squirm without looking like she's watching me squirm. But I know what it means. It means that subby girls who want their clitty rubbed have to be quiet like they promised.

And I do want to keep my promise. Really I do. I meant every word I said back in the bedroom when I whispered, "I understand, my Lady. I swear I'll safeword if I feel like I can't control myself." I wasn't just saying that because her fingers were slipping into the warm, wet cleft between my pussy lips and I was already beginning to feel soft and sleepy and agreeable the way I always do when she fucks me like that. I'm conditioned, yes, but I also knew she was right. A blanket over our laps only goes so far when one of us is squealing like a little baby piggie and flopping around in her seat.

But godDAMN does she know just what to do with my cunt. Even with the towel I slipped underneath me when I sat down, I'm a little bit worried about the mess I'm going to leave after seven hours of this--I already lost count of the number of times I came, mainly because I have lost fucking count of how to fucking count by this stage of our little game. I'm high on endorphins, drunk on hypnosis, clean out of my mind with pleasure. I don't know if I even know what a safeword is right now, let alone what mine might be. I never want this to fucking stop.

Even so, I nod at her, silently acknowledging the cruel logic of her delay. Because Lady always knows best. My breathing slows and my muscles gradually relax, the boiling lust between my legs gently settling into a slow simmer, and I finally begin to regain control. Her control, of course, but it's still control of a sort. I'm an obedient good girl for my Lady and I do what I'm told, and what I've been told is to stay still and silent while she plays with my pussy the whole way to London. It's definitely the kind of reward that makes it worth following instructions, even if a tiny part of me still wants to brat like a motherfucker and see what she does to me for it.

It's the same reason I let her hook her finger into the inconspicuous nylon bracelet I wear all the time now, the one that she and I both know is my secret collar, and lead me to the airport bathroom like a puppy on a leash after we went through security. It's the same reason I went into the stall with her and waited with stiff nipples and an aching cunt while she smiled at me, my whole body trembling with anticipation to see if she was really going to go through with it. And it's the same reason why, when she leaned in and whispered in my ear, "Panties, good girl," I hiked up my dress and slid down my underwear and handed it over to my Lady. Because in the end, nothing makes me wetter than doing what I'm told.

And even though she's not touching herself right now, nothing makes my Lady wetter than watching me obey. Her fingers begin to move again, slowly building up that sensual heat, teasing me with stroke after languid stroke against my clit until the whole world takes on the unreal texture of a wet dream and I go limp in my seat. It's different than before, more... more hypnotic, paced to lull me into a state of dazed and drowsy trance for her while her voice loops again and again in the headphones. That's its own little snare, a seductive song in my ears that entices me to chant along, but my lips are already too slack and loose to speak. I swallow heavily, suddenly aware that it's not a good look if some flight attendant finds me drooling and staring vacantly into space, either.

Time loses all meaning--the recording in my ears loops around and around, from "Good girls drop deeper" to "Good girls sink swiftly" to "Good girls obey" and back again more times than my drowsy brain is capable of counting. It's the same joke we always make--here I am studying to become an accountant, and all my Lady has to do is diddle those fingers of hers in my pussy and I forget how numbers even work. But it's not funny right now. Right now it's so fucking hot, all the thoughts in my brain have melted into a sticky syrup that's leaking out of my pussy onto my Lady's hand and I can't stop it. I can't move. I can't even fucking whimper. Oh god. Oh god.

The pace of her fucking begins to increase again, her hand moving faster and faster under the blanket and the tray table as she slides her fingers in and out of the creamy, slick mess she's made of my hole. I can imagine exactly what it looks like down there, my pretty flowery dress hiked up until it's a belt and my curly bush soaking with musk just above my frothy, cum-coated pussy lips. Thank god for all the air conditioning that goes on in the main cabin--if it wasn't for the constant breeze, I just know that everyone around us would have smelled my cunt by now. I'm going to need something like three showers tonight.

Oh, who am I kidding? My Lady's going to throw me on the bed the second we get to the hotel and lick off every last goddamn drop.

That image sparks another climax, but it's marked only by a tiny hitch in my breath and a squeeze around her thrusting fingers. I'm more deeply hypnotized now, and my good girl brain is so much better than my waking self at obeying my Lady. Maybe that's why I brat so much; I know that when my Lady really wants to make certain I do what I'm told, she skips the threats and the punishments and goes straight to whispering a trigger in my ear to drop me into vacant, oblivious bliss. And who turns down a thing like that? Not me, that's for damn sure.

Even when I cum again, skimming from peak to peak as my Lady multiplies my orgasm into numbers too big for my mazy little brain to understand anymore, it probably just looks like I'm one of those nervous people who doesn't fly well. Yeah, I'm breathing kind of fast, yeah, I'm sweating and trembling, but I probably just look like I need a Xanax or something. My skin is too dark for anyone to notice how flushed and hot my cheeks are. I'm being quiet, I'm being sneaky. I'm being a good girl for my Lady and nobody knows but the two of us how deeply fucked and brainwashed I am.

At least, that's what I think until the flight attendant comes by. She's in uniform and everything, and she looks all nice and professional and strait-laced... but the little details of her haircut and her choice of glasses tells me there's nothing straight about her. She's taking orders for drinks, but the second she sees us her eyes widen and her nostrils flare and she hesitates for just a fraction of a second before asking, "Is there anything I can get you ladies?" And I know she knows.

My Lady realizes it, too. She fixes the blonde woman with her most prim and proper smile, an expression that dares anyone to find something untoward about her, and says, "Just waters for the both of us, I think. It's important to stay hydrated on a long flight like this, don't you agree?" Her accent makes her sound like a BBC radio announcer, and I know we're going to get away with this... but that's not what my mind is on. Not anymore. I can't help wondering how long the flight attendant is going to be in London, and whether she's interested in finding out just what my Lady did to make me so sweet and compliant to her will.

Judging by the way she fumbles with the water pitcher, she's thinking the same thing I am. She sets our drinks down on the tray tables and moves on, and my Lady whispers in my ear, perfectly audible thanks to the airpods, "Drink for me, pretty girl." And I do. Obedience is the easiest thing in the world right now... and with London speeding toward us with every passing minute, suddenly our vacation holds more promise than ever.


(If you enjoyed this story and want to see more like it, please think about heading to and becoming one of my patrons. For less than $5 a month, you can make sure that every single update contains a Jukebox story! Thank you in advance for your support.)


Show the comments section

Back to top

Register / Log In