Target Audience

by Jukebox

Tags: #brainwashing #dom:male #f/m #hypnosis #pov:bottom #sub:female #brainwash #brainwashed #covert_brainwashing #covert_conditioning #covert_hypnosis #enslavement #hypnotized #masturbation

Sheryl participates in a test screening for an upcoming release, and helps them fine-tune it with her feedback.

"And we're just going to change that green to a red, there we go, and just press the right-hand trigger if you feel that it grabs your attention a little bit better. Good." The voice coming through the headphones is almost sickly-sweet, dribbling into Sheryl's ears like warm strawberry syrup, and she promises herself that she can use a little bit of the fifty dollar debit card she's earning right now to get some pancakes when all this is over. She's probably going to need a little food by the time they finish--this audience feedback session has been going on for well over an hour, and they still haven't gotten past the credits of the 'exciting new screening' they were promised.

The young man next to her raises his hand, boredom and frustration dripping from every word as he speaks without waiting to be acknowledged. "You've shown us these credits, like, twenty times," he whines, squirming in his chair in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Sheryl doesn't even notice the hard plastic beneath her anymore. Perhaps her butt's just gone numb or something. "Can't we get to the movie? Or the show, or whatever? I've got places to be, okay?"

The man in the booth responds with a smooth, condescending calm. "An eye-catching title sequence is essential for capturing our target audience," he says in an unctuous tone. "We want every last detail to be perfect, so if you could just quiet down and let folks pay attention to their screens? Remember, press the trigger on the right if you feel like you're affected, emotionally that is, by what you see. Press the trigger on the left if it's not doing anything for you."

Sheryl glances back over at the small monitor in front of her, noticing that the tiny tracery of green that weaves through the spinning yellow circles is now red. She tries to concentrate on the difference, to study the patterns that twist and writhe on the screen to the pounding techno beat that comes through the headphones and decide if she feels 'emotionally affected' by the difference. It does seem to contrast better, and it makes it easier for Sheryl to follow the lines with her eyes... she decides to squeeze the right-hand grip. Hopefully they'll find that useful.

She really doesn't know. Even after all these repetitions... Sheryl has lost count of the number of times she's watched this sequence, there's no clear beginning and no clear end to the swirling patterns or the thumping base... she has no idea what they're responding to. There are easily thirty people in the room, a mix of men and women all near her own age, and any one of them could be giving the decisive feedback that makes the man in the booth change the background or raise the contrast or brighten a particular shade of red. Or maybe none of them. Maybe they've planned all their alternatives in advance and Sheryl is just going through the catalog of choices.

The voice comes in again, mingling with the music like it's providing lyrics to the techno beat. "Okay, we're slowing it down just five percent, here, just enough to give your eyes time to linger over the patterns. Squeeze right if you like it, people!" Sheryl's not sure whether the credit sequence is looping back to the beginning now, or whether the patterns simply slow down midway through. There aren't any names on the screen, just some placeholder text that flashes past too quickly for her to read. But she does notice that slight, languid hesitation to the curling, twisting lines of color. It's nice. She's happy to squeeze on the right-hand trigger this time.

The young man next to her doesn't seem so thrilled. He raises his head to the heavens, rolls his eyes with such theatrical intensity that Sheryl's worried he might sprain something. She tries to tune him out and focus on the screen--the only thing worse at this point than staring vacantly at the same two minutes of footage for hours would be staring at the same two minutes of footage until they kick her out for not taking this seriously. She wants to at least give them value for their money. It seems like the only responsible thing to do.

"Okay, yes, it looks even fucking slower!" he snaps, but Sheryl's trying hard not to listen. She doesn't want to be disruptive and rude, not when so many people have clearly worked so hard on making this credits sequence the best they can. She wants to keep watching, to focus her attention as closely as possible and follow the instructions of the man in the booth. It's the same kind of conscientiousness that makes her such a good student, such a good... a good girl.

The voice from the booth breaks in again. "Please try to deliver all your feedback through the trigger buttons provided," the man says, studiously neutral disapproval in his voice. "Verbal discussion can be saved for our question-and-answer period afterwards, where it won't disrupt the other subjects." Sheryl can't imagine maintaining a pose of defiance in the face of those calm, disappointed tones, but obviously the young man next to her doesn't seem bothered by it. He's clearly not appreciating the music and the slow, seamless crawl of the interweaving lines on the screen the way Sheryl is. He's not even trying. Sheryl doesn't understand why he's so pointlessly contrarian about something so beautiful.

The young man holds up his left hand, three fingers tightly squeezing the grip and the middle finger outstretched at the booth behind him. "This good?" he shouts, but Sheryl's already stopped paying attention to him. He's just another spoiled, immature brat who's not used to working for his money. The fifty dollars probably doesn't even matter to him; he just came here looking for a free movie, and he's mad now that his wants and his needs aren't being catered to. Sheryl isn't that kind of person. She understands that sometimes you just have to be patient and serve others to get what you want. That's what a g-good... a good girl does.

A frown of consternation furrows Sheryl's pale pink forehead, quirking her lips down and causing her to momentarily register her discontent with a release of the right-hand trigger button. That's twice now she's thought those two words. 'Good girl'. That's twice she's caught herself squeezing extra hard on her grip when they crossed her mind, as though the intensity of her approval could communicate itself to the booth through pressure alone. She--she normally doesn't use that term for herself, does she? It's not something she usually describes herself as. Conscientious, yes. Responsible, yes. But 'good'? A 'good girl'? It seems odd. It seems--

The voice from the booth cuts in, treacly praise suffusing every syllable. "You're all doing so well," the man coos, his tones rich with silky flattery. "We're just going to add a little bit of a flicker effect to the sequence now, just a very slight flicker to help take you out of your heads a little and really grab our target audience. Just keep watching, just keep staring, that's it. Good. Very good." Sheryl can't help appending a quiet 'good girl' in the privacy of her head, and it sends a warm, happy shiver down her spine. Her fingers curl more tightly around the right-hand grip in approval as her eyes lock onto the screen even more intently.

The selfish boy next to her is anything but happy with the change. He's pumping his left fist into the air to the rhythm of the techno music, deliberately and ostentatiously squeezing his grip with every upward thrust. Sheryl only really sees it out of the very corner of her eye, though. Her attention is totally focused on the pulsing, flickering screen now, absorbed by the way that the lines seem even more captivating when the flashes make them stand out against the neutral white background. She doesn't even notice the placeholder text anymore. That's probably not what they want, it's probably the opposite of the effect they're going for, but Sheryl can't imagine letting go of her happy trigger now.

'Happy trigger'. 'Good girl'. Sheryl tries to frown in puzzlement again, but this time it's as though her muscles don't want to listen to her anymore; the wide, fixed smile that spread across her face at some point in the last few cycles seems determined to stay no matter how hard she tries to force her expression into some other form. She loses track of her concerns about the new vocabulary she seems to be developing in her sudden worries about her plastic, bubbly grin. Should she really be enjoying the credits this much? Shouldn't she have some concerns to give to her... her... her....?

'Masters', Sheryl realizes. The word she keeps trying not to finish that sentence with is 'Masters'. Just hearing it inside her own skull makes her squeeze her happy trigger as hard as she can, and the wide plastic smile on her face radiates up to her unblinking eyes. She doesn't know why she loves that word so much; she only knows that a good girl loves having a Master, and she loves the idea of being a very good girl. Every time she tries to analyze those new wants, those new desires, she finds herself absorbed instead by another flash on the screen or another pair of lines intertwining in smooth, languid beauty. It's enough to make her squirm in her chair with sudden, unthinking arousal.

Even the explosive outburst from the seat next to her isn't enough to distract Sheryl from the whirling, twisting patterns on the screen. "This fucking sucks!" the brat next to her shouts, leaping to his feet and yanking the headphones off so hard that they smack into his monitor. "You know what, asshole? You can keep the fifty bucks! I've been sitting here for three fucking hours and I haven't seen shit!" Sheryl almost laughs at his foolish tantrum. They haven't been here three hours. It's been an hour, if even that. Perhaps only minutes. Time doesn't have much meaning inside the beautiful dance of spinning colors anymore.

He grabs his things and storms out, but the voice in her ears quietly reassures her. "It's okay," the man purrs, smoothing away Sheryl's concerns before they can even truly form. "He wasn't part of our target audience anyway. We don't want people like him to be affected by our programming. We're catering to a more... attractive demographic." The voice seems more comforting and sensual than ever, almost sexy when it's mingled with the pumping bass and the swirling spirals. Sheryl finds herself nodding, even though she doesn't know if anyone's watching her. She hopes they are. She hopes they can see how much she appreciates this opportunity to make them happy.

The left-hand grip falls from Sheryl's nerveless fingers. She can't imagine needing it ever again. Everything is so perfect about the video now, and every tiny change only makes it more perfect. She knows that they're doing things to it again, adding variations to the placeholder text that keeps flashing past wherever she's not consciously looking at that moment, but she's certain that it only gets better from here. Sheryl's pussy gets wetter and wetter with every new version now, and her nipples are practically rubbing holes in her bra and the thin fabric of her t-shirt.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees more and more men following the loud, disruptive bratling out of the room; whether they've lost patience with the video's subtle charms, or they simply can't wait any longer to receive their payment, Sheryl doesn't know. She only knows that the true target audience is staying exactly where they are, captured by the fascinating beauty of the patterns on the screen, and that means it's all working perfectly. Sheryl's one of the good girls, now, providing them all the feedback they need. She's being useful. She's pleasing her Masters. She never realized until now how wonderful that could make her feel.

Sheryl's free hand slips into the waistband of her jeans, works its way inside her panties, dives into the soaking coral folds of her cunt and rubs away at her slick clit. She can't hear it over the throbbing techno beat, but she knows she's so wet that her fingers are making thick sloshing noises as they churn her musk into a frothy mess, leaking out past her labia and making a damp patch on the crotch of her pants. If they can see her up in the booth, they know that she's a horny, obedient good girl now. They know she's absorbed every last bit of her programming, and she's got a happy trigger inside her head now for them to use whenever they want to bring her back to this open, empty state. Just imagining that makes her cum.

But Sheryl knows they're not done yet. The screening is over, but they've still got a question-and-answer session to get through. Her Masters want plenty of feedback on exactly how they can improve the process further, make it even faster and more irresistible... and Sheryl definitely wants to put her mouth to good use. Even after the time for talk is long over.


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