I can feel it starting to happen again. I'm looking over at Tracie, seeing the sparkle in her bright blue eyes as she stares in rapt adoration at her perfect husband and his perfect body and his infuriatingly perfect smile, and before I can even consciously realize I'm about to tell her the truth about him I feel a phantom cock slide between my parted lips and fill up my mouth so completely that speech becomes impossible. I try to tell myself it's not real, the same way I do whenever my treacherous subconscious gags me with an impeccable sensory impersonation of Gage's dick, but it doesn't do any good this time either. I can't speak at all.

I know how to change that. I know that if I simply turned my mind away from the topic of Gage's infidelity, and my own hypnotically commanded part in it, the compulsion in my brain would unlock and I'd find conversation coming to me just as smoothly and easily as it ever did. I'd be able to chat with Tracie about my new hairstylist and how right Tracie was that I'd get a lot more attention as a blonde, I'd be able to mention my latest disastrous blind date and my terrible luck with men, I'd even be able to smile and nod and agree with her that someday I'll find someone like Gage if I just keep looking. I simply won't be able to tell her that I've already found someone like Gage. Someone exactly like him, in fact.

And she deserves to know. Even if I have my suspicions about her constant, rapt adoration of her admittedly charming husband, I feel like she should at least get the chance to pit his hypnotic programming against her conscious, deliberate awareness that her best friend is his obedient blowjob puppet whenever she isn't in the room. She might brush it off as nonsense--hell, for all I know she'd give me one of those bright, beaming smiles and say, "Well then Emmy, why don't we just have a threesome?"--but I want to give her the opportunity to try to think for herself.

But how can she, when I'm so completely unable to? The more I try to blurt it all out, the more I feel that rock hard shaft plundering my throat and choking off my ability to speak. It's not exactly like the actual blowjobs I give to Gage whenever he decides to snap my fingers and turn me into his cocksucking bobblehead; there's less spluttering, for one thing, and none of the guttural moans of pure delight I can't help releasing when his dick is in my mouth. But it's enough to completely and totally silence me despite my best efforts.

And I can't escape the lingering suspicion that Gage knows whenever it happens. I'm not sure how, and he certainly doesn't show any kind of outward acknowledgment of my sudden and inexplicable silence, but something about the expression on my face or the slight parting of my plump red lips must give it away. I suppose once you've gotten as deeply into someone's head as Gage has gotten into mine, you just know all their tells without even needing to think too hard about it. I'm an open book to him, and he's scrawled his annotations on each and every page.

The new lips were Gage's idea, of course. Five milliliters of polytetrafluoroethylene injected over the course of three visits to give me the kind of plump cockpillows he's been fantasizing about ever since he first hypnotized me that sunny Sunday morning at the little cottage we rented on the beach last summer. I don't consciously remember who paid for them, but if it was me I certainly didn't notice the missing cash and if it was him Tracie never said anything to me about it. Then again, I don't think he allows her to handle the finances anymore. She's become a lot more submissive to him now that he's gotten his hooks into my mind as well as hers, and it frustrates me to no end that he knows I can't call him out on any of his patriarchal bullshit anymore without sinking into a deep, helpless fantasy of getting my face fucked by his stiff prick.

The frustration does nothing to help me lever myself out of the immersive daydream of being skullfucked by his raging erection, of course. If anything, it makes the pulsing heat of my swollen clit even more intense--I don't know how Gage knew that my pussy gets wetter and wetter the harder I struggle and the more I fail to resist his hypnotic control, but I can't deny that it's true. There's an itch at the base of my brain that only this kind of mental bondage can scratch, and the more I fight his suggestions and the more obvious it becomes that I simply can't, the hotter it is for me. I'm embarrassed, naturally. How could I not be? But that and a quarter will get you a gumball.

Tracie burbles contentedly while I sit there with my lips parted in helpless cocksucking vacancy, amiably filling the silence with a chatter that tells me everything I need to know about Gage's control of her thought and will and perceptions. The Tracy I knew growing up would have noticed that I hadn't said a word in almost two solid minutes now, giving only the most token and distracted of nods to her every conversational gambit--but this Tracie, the bubbly, giggly ditz who lets her man handle everything and trusts him so implicitly that she's willing to leave me alone with him for hours at a time, she's so self-absorbed that it never occurs to her that there's anything strange about my lack of speech.

I can't help wondering, as I meet Tracie's vapid gaze and feel myself guzzle down even more of Gage's phantom cock, whether she's experiencing the same kind of irresistible subjugation I am inside her head. Is she also fighting against some deep compulsion to obey and losing despite her best efforts? Or has Gage filled her head with a warm pink mist of intoxicating stupefaction that renders her incapable of even understanding just how completely he controls her? I have a feeling he does whatever works best to keep us docile. But even though I've known Tracie my whole life I don't know her well enough to know what brainwashes her.

I'm really only beginning to understand what makes me vulnerable to Gage's hypnotic programming. It's never occurred to me until just now how absurd it is to keep trying to overcome his suggestions even though I know I won't be able to resist him and even though I'm fully aware that his wife wouldn't so much as blink if I did tell her that I'm Gage's brainwashed blowjob puppet. Or even that I'm so deeply under his spell now that I fantasize about his stiff prick plowing my face every time I masturbate. I'm struggling, yes, but I'm not struggling because I think I have a chance of achieving my desired outcome. I'm struggling because it feels good to suck his dick and every time I try to fight him I can experience that all over again.

That's when it really hits me. I'm conditioning myself. All of my efforts to push speech past my plump cockpillows are only training me to associate the impossibility of resistance with the warm, sensual pleasure pooling between my pale thighs whenever I picture Gage's big dick filling my watering mouth, and he's hijacked my natural impulse to warn my best friend of her husband's infidelity to turn me into my own personal brainwasher. I glance over at him, smiling in our direction as he tosses the pasta he's making for dinner in his homemade Alfredo sauce, and the second I see the knowing little gleam in his hazel eyes I realize that all I'm doing is playing his game. And I can't win. I can never win, and I wish that didn't make my pussy so helplessly wet but I can't deny what I'm feeling right now.

Has this been his plan the whole time? Has he always known that if he only set an obstacle in front of me, I'd batter myself into exhaustion attempting to overcome it until I was nothing more than a limp, malleable victim for him to manipulate and control? I confess, I never really thought Gage was much of a forward thinker; I always assumed he hypnotized me into sucking his cock because he liked having his cock sucked by a pretty blonde with plump, cherry red lips and everything else was simply a matter of making sure events didn't get out of control. But now I'm wondering if he doesn't have an endgame in mind for us.

If he does, I can't stop him. I can't even speak; I've been sitting here for over five minutes, periodically wiping away a trickle of drool from lips that can't close because in my mind they're wrapped around a flushed and throbbing erection I know all too intimately, and my determination to warn my best friend about her unfaithful husband is exactly what Gage has twisted into the instrument of my subjugation. If I give up, he wins, and I can't let that happen even though intellectually I also know that if I don't give up, he wins too. Gage always wins, and god does that make my cunt throb so hard every time I think about it.

Gage brings over the food, and for a few blessed moments my compulsion fades as I fill my mouth with delicious pasta and perfectly sauteed chicken and crusty garlic bread, and I admit to wondering if it wouldn't be worth it to become the brainwashed third in a polygamous triad to get home cooked meals like this every evening. Deep down, I know that's why my dating life is such a mess--Gage's programming is always pulsing away at the back of my mind, sabotaging my attempts to form a relationship to anyone who isn't him--but the sweet satisfaction of a carbohydrate-loaded meal distracts me from that too, at least for a little while.

But there's a limit to how long carbs can distract me, and when I slip off to the bathroom and find myself pulling a toothbrush out of my purse to get my breath back to kissing fresh after the meal I realize I'm once again following one of Gage's post-hypnotic suggestions. That in turn renews my resolve to fight his commands and tell Tracie everything, and even though I know I'm tricking myself into guzzling Gage's cock endlessly in my own imagination I can't deny my own essential nature. That's what he's using against me, after all. That's what's making me into his helpless, obedient slave and the more I resist it the better it works.

The second I come back out and set my eyes on Tracie, the suggestion instantly kicks in and I can feel Gage's cock thrusting straight down my throat with an urgency and a stamina that nothing in reality can match. I can't even remember anymore what it's like to look at my best friend and not lose myself in a fantasy of sucking her husband's dick, and I realize yet another layer to Gage's meticulously planned conditioning as I become aware that I now associate the very sight of Tracie with the thought of giving Gage a blowjob. By the time he decides she's ready to accept my role as the third in their nightly threesome, just the thought of Tracie watching Gage fuck my face is going to turn me on.

That might not be tonight, but it's clear that it's getting closer. Gage's hold on Tracie is virtually unbreakable, and I can tell how easily she rationalizes every one of his commands when he tells her to go take a bath and she says, without even the slightest hint of self-awareness in her voice, "You know what? I think I'm going to go take a bath. Can you keep Gage company for a half-hour or so?" I try to answer her, but my brain is perpetually gagging on the perfect cock in my mind and I wind up nodding instead. She doesn't notice. I'm not sure she's even capable of noticing anything Gage doesn't want her to anymore.

She leaves the room, and I instantly, automatically drop to my knees. The lips that were only slightly parted in vacant acceptance curl into a Cupid's bow, a perfect cocksucking 'O' that willingly accommodates his thrusting shaft as soon as he pulls it out. And with a spluttering, helpless grunt, I feel a little bit more of my already-impotent resistance fading away.

I wish I could pretend that I miss it.

THE END