Even after five years, that sound is all it takes to make Cleo wet. She hears it from behind her, a tiny metallic click at waist level that would be almost inaudible if her ears hadn't been so precisely trained to listen for it, and she knows instantly that someone must have recognized her. A sinking, defeated feeling hollows out her chest from within; no matter how hard she struggles to wipe away the programming that lingers in her deeply conditioned subconscious, no matter how long it's been since she walked away from the brainwashed slut Master made her into, there are some triggers her hypnotized mind refuses to resist. Cleo's head slowly turns as if pulled by a string to see who's undoing their fly.

She doesn't recognize him, but that doesn't mean anything. Cleo has a tendency to get a little bit spacey once she's triggered, and it's possible that this particular gentleman has taken advantage of that to encourage her to forget his pale, chiseled face and cool blue eyes. It's just as likely that she's never met him in her life; Cleo spent a good few years under Master's tutelage before his neglect, philandering, and disdain penetrated even her brainwashed brain, and showing off her triggers to strangers was one of his favorite hobbies. Word got around. Five years later, and it was still getting around. A whisper here, a whisper there: 'Hey, you see that girl sitting on the bench over there? If you pull out your cock, she'll get down on her knees and suck it. She can't help herself.'

And she can't. Already, Cleo's mouth is beginning to open, her jaw going slack and her lips curving into twin Cupid's bows as the metallic click becomes a clinking buzz of parting metal teeth. The man with the sandy blond hair smirks, watching Cleo's eyes go distant and unfocused at the sound of his zipper dropping down... down. Down. Down. Even after all these years, she still feels the association between physical and mental descent connecting in her mind with the same swift, inexorable certainty. The zipper goes down, and Cleo goes down, and then Cleo goes down again.

It takes her a moment to realize she's slipped off the bench and onto her knees. Her thoughts are so distracted by the slick, tingling heat between her thighs that the actions of her body become instinctive, automatic, entirely outside of her awareness as well as her control. Going down like a zipper always makes Cleo so horny and wet, and being horny makes Cleo weak and slutty and compliant. It's a smooth, simple chain of logic that binds her into obedience to her trigger, and she suspects that even if she spent the last five years without the intermittent reinforcement from men who still think that she's Master's programmed slave, she'd still respond to it.

How could she not? Cleo's no novice herself when it comes to hypnosis; you don't spend four years submitting to constant brainwashing without picking up at least a little understanding of what's being done to your head. She understands that much of Master's conditioning operated on the concept of 'secondary gain'; he attached rewards to compliance with his suggestions that her subconscious could easily understand and accept, and reinforced them frequently to make sure that the association stayed clear and strong and vivid in her brain. By the time she dumped him, her deep self already knew with absolute certainty that the sound of a zipper coming undone meant that it was time to be a good blowjob puppet for Master, and being a blowjob puppet made her pussy feel so slick and needy that she craved the experience. And even though she no longer consciously seeks it out, that craving remains buried in her mind.

But not anymore. Now it's right there at the surface, pulsing like a second heartbeat against her clit, and Cleo crawls to the end of the bench with a rapt, vacant look in her glassy hazel eyes. A tiny part of her wishes she hadn't worn the light green skirt today; even though it's carpet she's crawling across and not the grass of the quad outside, she's still going to pick up dust and grit that will undoubtedly show for the rest of the day. Others might not notice, but she will. She'll be reminded of how weak she is. How helpless she is. Damn if that isn't going to make her want to masturbate all fucking day.

Because that's the other reason she can't shake this particular trigger, isn't it? There's no reason not to be honest about it; Cleo's sinking into the privacy of her own thoughts now, her programming increasingly distracting her from her own actions as she kneels in front of the stranger and waits with her mouth wide open for him to pull out his cock and shove it between her parted lips. There's no point in lying to herself--this isn't just a physical response. Cleo is wet right now because she's turned on by the thought of giving a stranger a blowjob in a public place, and that's all there is to it.

It wasn't this that made her give up on Master, after all. Oh, he degraded her like this all the time--he gave her triggers that compelled her to show her tits to strangers, to forget panties under her skirts and to respond to certain well-chosen phrases with, "Why yes, I am a slut for public use." Nothing that would ever come up by accident, nothing that would trigger her in front of someone who didn't want to make use of her willing body and her pliable mind... but to anyone who knew what to say and what to do, Cleo was a needy little bitch. And Master made sure that all sorts of people knew it.

But she loved it. She still loves it. If Master hadn't spent all his time recruiting new partners online, casting his net far and wide with 'free hypnosis files' and finding women who were still young and naive the way Cleo was when they first met, she'd probably be with him still. If she could find someone she trusted to degrade and objectify her the way she wanted, she'd cheerfully submit to all sorts of new, even more sadistic brainwashing. But in the meanwhile, Cleo's unconscious mind is quite happy to keep all the triggers that make her feel like a filthy, horny slut the way she likes so very much, and her waking self's feelings on the subject don't enter into it.

It's not her waking self that feels a warm, throbbing shaft slide into her pussy every time she bobs her head up and down on the stiff cock in front of her. It's not her waking self that experiences the sensation of being fucked with an absolute, vivid clarity every time she gives a blowjob. It's not her waking self that's already cumming around the phantom dick inside her as she slurps and slobbers around the pulsing, twitching flesh in her mouth. Her waking self is already descending deeper and deeper into insensate, mesmerized rapture, a victim of the programming that finds the hot buttons in her brain and hammers on them relentlessly until she can't stop herself from sucking like the mindless slut she is.

Cleo doesn't notice the drool spilling out around the hard cock in her mouth, dribbling down her bubble-gum pink lips and smearing her flushed skin before splashing onto her blouse and jacket. She has no idea that she's grunting gutturally, making low animal sounds of pleasure that only entice the stranger to fuck her face harder and harder until his cockhead penetrates the entrance to her throat. She isn't even thinking about the way the man's balls smack into her chin again and again with every thrust, the collisions reminding Cleo's hypnotized subconscious that she's nothing more than an orifice for someone else's enjoyment. All she's aware of now is the throb in her clit, blaring out blast after deafening blast of ecstasy into her brain.

The pleasure widens the channel inside her mind, the one that she can never fully dam up no matter how hard she tries. From the sound of the zipper going down (down) to the slow, sinking sensation in her mind as she drops down (down) into trance to the way she sinks to her knees and goes down (down) on the cock in her mouth, Cleo's thoughts only travel one way and they always end up at the same destination. She's tumbled into that valley of deep, hypnotic bliss and her years of programming always send her sliding down, down, down to that warm, empty place in her head where all she can do is suck. It's irresistible. And deep in her heart, Cleo doesn't want to resist.

As much as she's embarrassed every time she has to go find a restroom and clear the messy splatters of semen off of her face and clothing, as much as she tries to break the habit of spending her leisure hours in semi-secluded alcoves and out-of-the-way walkways where a public blowjob will go unnoticed, as hard as she blushes when she has to tell a security guard that she can't help sucking strangers' cocks every time she hears them pulling down their zipper and winds up demonstrating the effect in action... Cleo's submissive side loves it when someone looks at her and their eyes light up with that cruel, glittering stare. When they recognize her for who and what she is. When they decide they're going to take her, right there where anyone might see, and she can't stop them.

She's fought that conflict again and again over the last five years, ricocheting back and forth between angry determination to break out of her programming and furious, helpless masturbation over the memories of her most recent public encounter. Cleo loves that she hates being used like this, and hates that she loves it. And somewhere in that tangled mess of arousal and wounded dignity she finds a curious kind of bitter contentment. And so many orgasms.

She cums again, gushing onto the lining of her skirt as the imaginary cock between her legs fucks her to another climax just seconds after the first. It's no substitute for physical sensation; Cleo's going to spend most of the rest of the day wishing for her apartment and her bedroom and her biggest, thickest dildo. But the mental orgasms Master trained her to experience are enough to keep her eagerly sucking the stranger's cock. He goes down her throat with every thrust now, and Cleo swallows him with practiced ease. It just means more pleasure to her hypnotized mind.

The pace of his face-fucking increases, and the sensation of his balls on Cleo's chin changes slightly as his scrotum tightens in anticipation of release. Her blank, obedient subconscious recognizes the difference and reaches up to tease his sack with her long fingernails, brushing with the delicacy of a butterfly's wing against the sensitive skin until the stranger's breath comes out in a low, continuous moan. If anyone were to walk by, they would no doubt immediately spot the public sex act going on in front of them, but Cleo's die-hard programming has chosen this place well. They're high up in the building, on a floor where only a few have business and most of them take the express elevator on the other side of the walkway. This little alcove halfway along only feels deliciously, decadently exposed to the world. In truth, there's almost no chance of them being interrupted.

But just the potential is enough to send Cleo over the edge into a third orgasm, turning the back of her skirt into a soaking mess as the stranger shoots a massive load of semen into her mouth. She tries to swallow it all, but he pulls out after the first few jets of cum and splatters her face with blast after blast of pearly liquid. She knows where the nearest restroom is, but she's still going to have to walk the whole way with his jizz displayed all over her like some kind of slut. Like the kind of slut who lets herself be used in public. Cleo finds herself hoping that another man will see her like that and follow her into the women's room to see if she'll do the same for him.

No one does. Cleo can't help breathing a sigh of relief. She knows it's messed up to feel this conflicted over her desires, constantly craving and dreading the same thing. She's sure that if she could just sort out what she really wants, the trigger would disappear from her mind at last. But then she'd only find someone to reinstall it for her. Maybe even someone like Master. Would she go crawling back to him if he was the only way to get off like this? Was this a compromise with the tiny part of Cleo's mind that never wanted to be free in the first place? It's a question she can't answer.

Cleo scrubs her blouse clean in the bathroom sink and dries it under the air dryer. She does the same with the skirt. And then, doing her best to ignore the tingling heat in her pussy, she goes back out into the world again. Still listening, deep down, for that distinctive metallic click that will tell her what she has to do next.

THE END