Work finished for the day (and, indeed, the week), Emma had made her way down from her home office and settled herself on the sofa. Daphne, her cat, joined her, and Emma’s hand automatically went to scratch behind her ears, under her chin. She picked up her phone and started making her way idly through TikTok.

Her phone rang, and she tapped the green answer icon before she registered who was on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“What do your big tits mean?”

The room she was in seemed to fall away. Emma’s vision swam and became completely unclear. Even the presence at her fingertips of her cat went unregistered, though her fingers continued to scratch automatically. “My big tits mean I can’t resist,” she answered, her voice a soft, warm drone.

“You can’t resist?” The voice was amused and teasing, in a way Emma would definitely respond to if she were thinking any thoughts. But even halfway through her call-and-response trigger, she had stopped thinking.

“I cannot resist my tist,” she answered. The absence of thought no longer mattered; replacing thought was the happy, comfortable glow of trance. Peace wasn’t the half of it; it was bound up in a state of… anticipated pleasure. The knowledge, the certainty, that soon everything would be bliss.

“Good girl,” the voice told her. “Open the red wine and put it out on the table with two glasses, put the door on the latch, then go change. Afterward, you can wake. You won’t notice any difference.” A pause. “I’m just about off the motorway. I’ll be with you real soon. Understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Obey.”

“I obey, sir.”

She ended the call, set down the phone, and set about the process of gently persuading her cat from her lap; even in trance, she had some priorities of her own, and would not bend from them.

Then she padded through into the kitchen. Her vision was back, but if any of her neighbours had happened to glance into the kitchen and seen her, they would have seen a slow listlessness to her movement. They might have written it off as the results of a tough day at work. The bottle was duly opened; she collected two wineglasses and padded through into her living room with them, closing the door behind her. Everything was set out in place as if for a romantic dinner. Back to the front door she went, removing the security chain and unlocking her door. It wouldn’t be unlocked for long; she knew her house would be secure again the moment he was in there, and she’d then be locked in with him.

A little of that anticipated pleasure leaked through at that thought, warming her empty head and her eager pussy. There was less listlessness to her walk as she made her way upstairs.

*

Two weeks ago

“Hello?”

“What do your big tits mean?”

“My big tits mean I can’t resist.”

“You can’t resist?”

“I cannot resist my tist.”

“Good girl. And I see you’ve learned not to take my calls without going somewhere private.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you busy after work tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Good girl. You have an assignment. You will not think of it as an assignment. You will barely think of it at all. It will simply be natural to do as you are assigned. Understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“You are assigned to buy yourself a new outfit. Something that shows off those big tits and that spectacular ass. Something you couldn’t wear out in public. Then you’ll bring it home and forget about it until I visit next. Understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Obey.”

“I obey, sir.”

*

She went up the stairs and turned into her room and as she crossed the threshold her hands were already on the hem of her T-shirt, lifting it off her, tossing it to one side, discarding it. She did not break stride as she did so, nor as she reached behind herself and unclasped her bra. It landed on the floor near her T-shirt, already forgotten. It wasn’t part of her orders. It didn’t matter.

Her wardrobe was full; she had too many aesthetics for it not to be busy. Gothic, bimbo, street fashion and fetish all met in there. She stood in front of half-open doors, her thumbs hooked into her leggings at the hips. She wore leggings a lot more often now; every time she put them on, she heard a voice say “Love to show off those thicc thighs” and even though her thoughts echoed it, she was never entirely sure it was her saying it. Some days it sounded just like her and other days there was a leering pleasure in the tight outfit showing the curves of her thighs and her ass that she thought had to come from an onlooker.

She worked her leggings down and stepped out of them, then wriggled out of her panties and set them aside too. Looking into her closet, she saw for the first time the outfit she had bought two weeks ago. It had hung there throughout, and every time her eyes had fallen on it they had skimmed past it to see other things.

It was latex; a deep blue latex that either she or someone in the store had painstakingly polished to an inviting sheen. She couldn’t remember doing any such thing, but right at that moment that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It came in two pieces, the largest of which was cut like a high-waisted swimsuit, except that the neckline plunged down below her navel, down below her hips, stopping just before it could expose everything, and from an inch below the neckline, between her thighs, and up to almost the top of her butt there was a zipper for easy access.

The latex bands rising up her body were tight against her tits (hadn’t she once called those breasts? But now they were always tits, any other word for them always out of reach when she wanted to speak, even if she understood them when she heard them) and once she’d taken the time to reach underneath and tug her tits into position, the straps were taut enough to hold them high and prominent.

The second piece was a pleated microskirt, long enough to give her modesty so long as her legs were straight, she didn’t bend at the waist, and she remained perfectly still. In all other situations at least a tantalising glimpse of the zipper could be seen. As Emma blinked several times and raised her hand to her mouth, Emma woke more fully, wondering what she’d come into her bedroom for.

Some of her clothes were lying on the floor, so probably she’d come in to tidy that away into the laundry bag before anyone saw it. Not that she was expecting visitors, but that seemed important all of a sudden. She gathered them up and tucked them away, then wondered where she’d put her phone.

Her search for it carried her back downstairs, where she found her phone waiting on the sofa, and where Daphne quickly came to greet her.

Emma heard the front door open and her blood froze.

*

One month ago

“No! No!”

Her wrists had been attached to her bedhead with thick red bondage tape; one of her ankles had been likewise secured by a trail of tape leading from the frame. An intruder, perched over her on the bed, was struggling with her other leg as she tried to kick him free.

The neighbours were just on the other side of the wall. A scream would alert them. But Emma hadn’t screamed. Her voice was no louder than it might be in a normal conversation. Yet she struggled all the same, even as she could feel the tape loop tighten around her ankle. She tried once again to kick him - it would have been the ninth or tenth kick this intruder had endured, and he’d made some uncomfortable sounds as they’d landed - but the tape seemed to hold her tight. “Fuck!”

Emma wasn’t even sure where the tape had come from; he must have brought it with him, but after he’d grabbed her by the arm, wrapped an arm around her throat, and dragged her upstairs he’d never needed to dig it out of a pocket. He’d just taken one hand off her for a moment and it had been in his hand, as easily as if it had been waiting for him on the bedside table.

Unlucky for her, too; if it hadn’t been there he’d never have succeeded.

The intruder satisfied himself she was secure and climbed fully onto the bed. He straddled her just above the waist, kneeling either side of her spread thighs, and he looked down on her and grinned. “You know who I am?” he asked.

Silent, eyes wide, Emma shook her head, and the intruder chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “You soon will.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, then slowly, teasingly, drew his fingertips down her body, over the rumpled, much-loved band T-shirt she wore, until his hands were resting on her tits.

Emma was now perfectly still, staring up at him, anticipating… what?

She wasn’t at all sure. But she knew something was about to happen. The air seemed charged with electricity, anticipation, excitement.

She was biting her lower lip as she made eye contact with the intruder. If she wasn’t caught up in the anticipation she was sure she’d be not fighting but squirming.

“What you need,” he told her, “is a soft, heavy drop.” And with that incomprehensible statement as warning, he squeezed both tits at once.

“My… my big tits mean I can’t resist,” she intoned, her voice a light monotone that seemed to sound nothing like her. Thoughts were swimming in her head, and she wondered what on earth she’d meant. Her vision swam, and her head and her pussy filled with a sudden heat.

He pulled her T-shirt up high enough to reveal her bra. Slipped his hand in under the fabric.

Thumb and forefinger found her nipple. He tugged, lifting her tit up from where she lay restrained on her bed, and Emma’s breath caught in her throat, She bit down on her lip, stifling a moan that would have admitted to the intruder the dark secret that she was, abruptly, more excited than scared - not scared at all; anticipating bliss to come.

He let her nipple slip from his grasp, and her tit dropped back down, a soft, heavy drop. Her breath came out in a moan, her eyes suddenly glazed, “I cannot resist my tist,” she whimpered.

She heard him laughing, not so much amused as deeply pleased with himself (and, a treacherous part of her hoped, with her). He did it again, with both hands and both tits this time, and as he tugged her thoughts seemed to stretch and hang, and as he dropped the world where she was her own person seemed to fall away. Over and over again, with her voice gasping out, over and over, the rhyme she had started reciting, the rhyme that had come out of nowhere.

“My big tits mean I can’t resist. I cannot resist my tist.

“My big tits mean I can’t resist. I cannot resist my tist.

“My big tits mean I can’t resist. I cannot resist my tist.”

She continued to chant until, her mind pulled this way and that so many times, nothing was coherent; not her thoughts, not her speech, and all that could be made out was rhythmic mumbling. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, unfocused, staring through it, registering nothing.

Her hips twitched under him. Not the intruder; that wasn’t how she thought about him any longer; just him. A person so important to the way her mind now worked that he didn’t need qualifiers or a name. He would always be the first male on her mind in this state.

His hands lowered, and she felt his fingers at her waist. In her eagerness she thrust up, hips bucking, an instinctive gesture of need so strong and hungry she almost sent him sprawling.

He managed to keep his balance, though, and her leggings were wrenched down over her hips, then again midway down her thighs. Emma wasn’t aware enough to wonder why she hadn’t put panties on that day.

His hands closed around her waists, just below her restraints, pinning her to the bed. He shifted position, his knees driving her thighs up and out, putting more tension on her ankle restraints.

“My big tits mean I can’t resist,” she echoed, and his cock was in her. Her eyes crossed. “I cannot resist my tist.”

He was fucking her, setting his own pace, pinning her down, using her for his own pleasure. She gasped her mantra out in time with every thrust, moaning, gasping, delighting in his actions.

Her mind was somehow primed to be fucked and to draw pleasure from simply being used. He didn’t need technique, he didn’t need to be gentle, he just needed to fuck her. What was going on in Emma’s head did the rest.

She rocked back and forth over her bed, all awareness of everything that wasn’t her mantra or his cock gone, moaning and crying out, loud enough now for her neighbours to hear and to become frustrated over where they hadn’t heard at all before.

Finally he released his grip on her, pulled out, spilled his cum all over her bare, needy thighs, crotch, and belly. It was then that Emma came, too, and blacked out.

*

There was someone in the house. The door was locked and the chain was on, but all the same, somehow someone had entered through it. Emma looked around for something she could use in defence; there didn’t seem to be anything, at first glance. She balled her hand into a fist and got ready,

It was strange, she thought. There was fear there, and it felt real. Yet beyond that fear, she was calm. She was quiet.

Her phone was in her hand, but she wasn’t calling the police.

Emma blinked and forgot that this was at all strange.

As the door opened, a thought appeared in her head: I mustn’t let him touch my tits. I lose if he touches my tits.

She didn’t recognise the man who stepped through the door. Daphne, perched on the arm of the sofa, quite close to the door, didn’t growl or hiss as she usually did at strangers. Frustrating; she might not have any help there.

“Get out,” she said, and her voice was firm and did not waver, but her voice was soft enough for her neighbours not to hear. “Get out.”

“No,” he said simply. “That’s not what I want to be doing. And it’s not what you need.”

The noise in her throat was something like a growl. She took a step toward him, straightening up, arm drawing back for a punch.

“What you need,” he said, “is a soft, heavy drop.”

Emma punched him. She didn’t throw her punch with her full force and he tried to move clear, but she caught him a glancing hi. He stumbled, then scrambled, moving past her into the room, turning to face her a couple of paces in, just out of reach of another swing.

Daphne watched events unfold impassively, then went back to cleaning her own paws.

She swung a kick at him, and he lifted his leg slightly to take it on the thigh. Her legs were muscular and powerful; she’d been in the gym regularly for months now, she never skipped leg day, and she would usually expect that if she kicked someone she might knock them sideways, if not over. But it didn’t happen.

He was probably going to have a bruise or two, especially if she did it again, but she seemed to be pulling her own strikes. She felt annoyed at herself, fleetingly, but the next time she blinked that annoyance was gone along with the realisation itself.

She threw another punch and the intruder caught her wrist on the way back. She tried to wrench it free but he moved with her, which at least meant she could hit him with her free hand; her phone clattered to the floor.

He didn’t grab for her free hand. Instead his went to her head; fingers closed around a handful of hair, holding firmly enough to lock her head in place without actually wrenching at her, eyes staring into his. She saw an amusement there which she completely expected, but traces of a gentleness that she did not, that made no sense to her. She hit him in his exposed side and he whuffed for a moment, losing his grip.

She squirmed her head free of his hand, tried to twist her wrist free of the other; he just about held on there, though, and took advantage of her half-turn, going behind her, twisting her arm behind her back.

This was a position that could give a real advantage in a fight, but he didn’t increase the pressure, didn’t twist her arm up to the point it would be deeply painful, just held her firmly enough that he could keep her in place. With his other hand he made a grab for one of her tits, and that warning thought she’d had rushed through her mind again.

She swatted his hand away firmly with her free arm, shifted her weight, stomped on his toe. Or tried to. Her foot met steel toecap and skidded off, and she knew he’d felt no pain from it.

He tried again to grab her tit. This time she was ready; she caught his wrist rather than swat it away, tugged the arm. Bit on his wrist.

Emma didn’t register that she’d failed to bite the skin, didn’t notice that as with her strikes she wasn’t putting her full power into any of them. It was still enough that he swore and let go of her other hand. She shook loose and took a step away, pivoting on her heel, back to face him. She went low, tackling him in the gut, bringing both of them to the carpet just shy of the sofa.

Grunting fiercely and triumphantly, she straddled him, catching his wrists and pinning them down. Emma was very glad she’d spent as much time working out as she had; it made it much easier to handle him. “You’re going nowhere,” she growled, and he was still regaining his breath to answer. He tried to wrench one hand free, then the other, then both at once. When none of these efforts worked, he tried twisting underneath her, but Emma shifted her weight and his attempt failed before he did more than get one hip off the ground. “Pack it in!” she exclaimed.

To her righteous indignation he grinned at that. “Chance’d be a fine thing,” he said.

Infuriated, Emma let go of his wrist to haul off and slap him. It was a good slap; it made a satisfying sound. His head turned with the impact. He visibly winced.

The mistake in her action was borne home to her a moment later, when his hand closed around the latex strap over her tit and squeezed.

Emma’s eyes crossed and a flood of pleasure shuddered from her hips to the top of her scalp. She swayed atop him, but managed, somehow, to slap his hand away before blurting out…

…blurting out…

…something?

She’d wanted to say something…

…it was on the tip of her tongue…

Her vision cleared and she looked down, but his hand was back against her - and she suddenly found she’d let go of his other hand while her was squeezing. Each hand trailed teasing fingers along the bare sides of her breasts and Emma’s eyes rolled back in her head, a strangely delighted grunt of pleasure being only the prelude to her speech.

“My big tits mean I can’t resist,” she said. From his position on the floor, he hooked a finger under each strap and tugged. She fell forward, bending at the waist, ending with her tits pressed against his chest. Emma almost lost awareness completely at that moment, but she still felt and saw what he was doing, just through a heat haze of lust, arousal, and pleasure. She felt like she’d been fucked senseless, but her pussy ached to be fucked at all.

“Muh… my big t-tits mean I c-can’t resist,” she moaned. His lips met hers as she finished the sentence, and Emma kissed him hungrily, all fear and aggression now completely gone. When they broke from their kiss there was nothing but emptiness in her eyes, nothing but vacancy in her expression, and nothing but needy obedience in her mind. “I cannot resist my tist,” she droned.

The man gave her tits another grope and then put his hand to his cheek where the imprint of her hand still burned redly. “Good girl,” he managed, but his voice sounded strained. “Damn…” After a few moments in which Emma didn’t know whether to feel happy or regretful, he smiled, and she felt happy. It had been settled for her just that easily.

“Get up,” he instructed, and she rose shakily from straddling him, stepping off him to one side. Her arms hung limply, unmoving, and she stared straight ahead, though this could only be seen intermittently as her eyelids flickered.

He picked himself off the carpet and groped her again, not just her tits this time but also what the little voice in her head insisted in referring to as ‘that spectacular ass’.

“God,” he said, “you were so ripe for this. We’re going to have so much fun…”

Emma felt herself on the precipice of wonderful bliss again. There was, now, nothing between it and her. Certainly no free will could get in the way.

*

Two months ago

“The trouble is, I’m not forgetting it’s you,” she said. “It doesn’t feel real.”

They were sitting on the floor facing one another. Daphne was flitting between them, favouring her, but making sure she got her fusses and love from each of them. Most of their clothing had already been discarded and lay strewn about.

“Well… amnesia, even temporary amnesia, can be a weird thing,” the man said. “Like a lot of aspects of all this, for some people it’s almost way too easy. For others it’s tough. And it really can depend on who’s telling you to forget. So… maybe we’ll have that a bit more? But there are a few more things we can try, see if we can put together something that works with the way you think.”

“Okay… but what if it’s the other thing? What if I won’t forget because it’s you?”

He took his time to answer that. “Well, it’s not the only option,” he said at last. “It’s just the one I’d usually expect to be easiest.” His tone was gentle. “We can try something now, if you’d like?”

She grinned. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re going slow with these just so you can keep ‘trying to get it right’.” She didn’t make quote marks with her fingers, but they could both hear the quotes all the same.

It got a laugh. “No, I’ll be messing with your head even when we have these things juuuust right,” he said. “For one thing, between the pair of us I’m pretty sure by the time we do that, one of us will have thought of something new we both want to try.”

“Well, then.” The smile she gave him was warm, affectionate, knowing, and demanding all at once. She sat up, eyes on his, and arched her back as a prompt. He reached out, flicked his finger across a nipple, watched her twitch in response, heard the quiet squeak of excitement.

It wasn’t quite enough to drop her, but she definitely seemed more sensitive to titplay than ever before. He was pretty happy to see that. “What you need,” he begain, but the pause for emphasis was too much for a brat’s instincts, and she finished before he could:

“What I need is a soft, heavy drop.” The tip of her tongue poked out from between her teeth, giving her grin a centrepiece. In response he flipped his hand under her breast, cupping her, and hefted the weight of it experimentally, just enough to make it bounce. Her eyes crossed and began to roll, but didn’t quite; he waited until he could see in her eyes that her mind had nearly recovered and then he let the tit drop. More than a half-inch, less than an inch, but enough that her eyes rolled and her shoulders sagged and her whole body language changed and she droned out “My big tits mean I can’t resist.”

He took her tit in hand again, lifting it slightly, bringing it forward from her. He leaned forward and lips and tongue found her nipple. The noise she made was somewhere between a contented moan and a needy cry like an animal in heat.

His other hand found her hair, fingers weaving their way in, controlling her head, even as his words controlled the rest of her. The kiss lasted for a long time, and throughout it, just his hand kneading her tit kept her flooded with pleasure, kept the lesson of his control on repeat in her head, as her soft, heavy drop continued…. And continued… and continued.

He lifted her unresisting head from the kiss with a handful of hair in the end and, smirking, waited.

“I cannot resist my tist,” she moaned breathlessly, a single strand of drool crawling downward from her lower lip.

He grinned. “Good girl,” he said. “We have some work to do, and I want you nicely fractionated for it. Understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you remember how we fractionate you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

He set his thumb and forefinger by her nipple, pinching digits together just enough to have a firm grip. Then he snapped his fingers, and the sudden twitch woke Emma… well, woke her most of the way. She was blinking, trying to clear her vision and her head, and he snapped his fingers again, plunging her back down deep. Another snap, and another… and another… and Emma found herself rising out of trance and plunged abruptly back down, over and over again, but always sinking deeper, always rising a little less high, and her tits were humming with bliss and her mind was humming emptily and-

*

Clad in her deep blue latex, Emma stood helplessly as the intruder fondled her tits and her ass before running his hand over the latex between her thighs. His eyes weren’t on her body, though; they were on her face, on her eyes, studying her own empty lack of reaction - and grinning as her lower lip quivered with the effort of trying to hide the arousal she felt.

He smirked. “Pour me a glass of wine,” he commanded.

“I obey, sir.”

She swung around to face the table in the corner, walking toward the two glasses and the wine bottle she’d set out to breathe earlier. It was next to the window, but the curtains were drawn. She couldn’t remember if that had been her idea or if it had come from elsewhere.

One glass was poured and she turned to face him. She had been told to our, nothing more. So she held the glass in one hand, and stood, and waited.

He was by now sitting on his sofa, watching her, smiling lopsidedly. He reached down and unbuckled the belt of his jeans, then popped free each button on the fly in turn.

“Come here,” he told her.

“I obey, sir,” she sighed happily. The feeling of imminent bliss had never left her, but now it felt somehow closer, although she couldn’t understand how.

She swayed her way back across the room, hips rolling, one foot placed in front of the other in wide, swinging, slow strides designed to hold his attention. Only the wrist and hand holding his wineglass remained completely steady; not a single drop of red wine was spilt.

He took the glass with one hand and went back to stroking the zip over her pussy with his other, watching her stand there, helpless to squirm without command but needing so much to squirm.

They watched each other as he sipped the wine she’d bought. “Take out my cock,” he told her.

“I obey, sir.” And she hurried to do so. Her mouth watered in anticipation.

He found the zipper itself and pulled it open slowly, teasingly, carefully. A finger stroked her pussy lips through the new opening and his grin grew as he saw her twitch around him, her hypnotised docility finally beginning to crack under the combination of real and programmed stimulation, her arousal spilling over the boundaries her self had been given.

“Straddle,” he purred, and his tone was enough to make it an order. He didn’t need to specify what she was straddling, either. Emma was more than eager to obey.

“I obey, sir.” Sinking onto the sofa thigh after thigh, she braced herself with her hands on his shoulders, privately storing away his expression as he looked up close and personal at her tits on display under her skimpy latex outfit to enjoy later, and lowered herself slowly, teasingly, onto his erect cock.

He took another swallow from the glass, then handed it to her. She bent back just above the waist, leaning backward, and placed the glass on the nearby end table. She’d barely lifted her fingers from the glass when he thrust for the first time, bracing his feet against the floor and his shoulders against the sofa back to steady him for it. She bucked atop him, turning back to him, eyes still glassy, but her own needs rose up inside her.

In this conditioned state it didn’t necessarily take much to fulfil them. As a tittyslut, her whole body was tuned to be one erogenous zone, the capacity of her mind that wasn’t needed now for thinking given over to intensifying the pleasure she took from being used, from being fucked, from being objectified, and from being obedient.

Just having his cock inside her was enough for pleasure like she couldn’t remember feeling before. But there was also something about the way he moved, the way he touched her, the way he fucked her, something that spoke of familiarity and affection. Like pushing her buttons was one of his goals, just as much as getting his rocks off was.

None of that made sense for an intruder, but an intruder he was. Emma’s head was not in a state to try to work that out, so she let the question fade from her mind in favour of providing a better tittyslut experience for the man she obeyed.

He was obviously already highly excited, and she found her programming meant that she started to approach cumming as she saw him get close. She braced herself against the wall behind him with one hand, staring glassily down on him, her hips rolling and pumping to give him the best experience she could. The man she’d been fighting mere minutes ago was now her total priority, and she was his slut. There was no logical transition between the two but her mind helplessly accepted it as good and right all the same.

He came inside her, clinging on to her, face buried in the cleavage her costume provided. She rode out the last of his thrusts, feeling the pleasure inside her build rather than subside, and when she came in her turn it washed over her hard enough that if his arms had not already been wrapped around her, she would likely have fallen from the sofa.

He took her by the tit and said something she didn’t hear, and Emma blinked, smiled, and briefly snuggled in against him.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and there was suddenly deep affection in her tone, as fitted the happy, submissive mindstate she now wore and her knowledge she was with her boyfriend.

“Oh, believe me, I’m pretty glad myself.” They shared a private smile and a laugh. “Rest up a bit; I’m going to order dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” In this state she did not choose her own takeout. Not now he knew her well enough to be able to order for her. Choosing her own needed thought, and the tittyslut tried not to think.

Tittysluts didn’t make choices anyway. That was for their…

Emma didn’t have a word for what he was. More a gooey, needy, delightfully submissive feeling.

*

Three months ago

Emma had found a spot just under his shoulder where, if she lay on her side, her head seemed to fit just exactly right. Especially after a heavy scene, when both of them were recovering, just lying down together, his arm around her, him staring at the ceiling and her listening to his heartbeat, was just the right note for their aftercare to tail off on.

It wasn’t even that they were exhausted; needing a break is pretty far from being out of energy, and certainly both of them had plenty of that left. But the peace and quiet between outings helped both of them centre themselves.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, he spoke. “Ask you something?”

“Sure.” She smiled slightly. It was nice, when you heard a question like that, to know that whatever was asked would be a good thing, not a potential nightmare. His tone was too cheerful to herald bad news. And it should be cheerful, too; both of them had pushed very hard to make the other happy all that afternoon and evening.

“Earlier, when I was making you admit what you wanted me to do,” he said. “I got the sense you liked that… like, more than you expected. Am I right?”

She smiled. Rather than answer, she shifted position, hiding her face in his chest. He prodded her lightly in the side. “I’m thinking about something here or I wouldn’t ask.”

“…Might have done,” Emma said quietly. The admission sat there for a while, both of them still peaceful. Into whatever plans he was forming she spoke up again, “but honestly it was how you were doing it that I was reacting to.”

“Really?”

Emma almost laughed. He sounded so… surprised. “Huh,” he said, and while he sounded delighted there was definitely some smugness in there. “I did think steering my approach that way might get some good reactions.” Which did get a giggle, just one, and her hand, which had been flat against his bare chest, drew in its fingers, her nails lightly and affectionately scratching him.

“You should do more with that,” she said.

“Using your breasts to control you?”

“Sure? Although… are you really gonna call them breasts if you’re doing that?”

There was a pause. She felt him nod. “Yeah, I guess you’ve got me there.”

Her hand resting on his chest meant her elbow was nicely placed for a pointed but gentle jab to his belly. “Maybe try being less of a prude before you get carried away? You called me a tittyslut ten minutes ago. It’s not like you won’t go there.”

“I just need to be in…” He trailed off, then laughed. “Alright, tittyslut,” he said. “You’ve made your point. A new trigger it is.”

She lifted her head from where it rested and crawled up his chest until they were eye to eye, never lifting herself high enough that her breasts lost contact with his chest. “You don’t know how happy that makes me,” she said, and smiled.

*

He fetched the food from the delivery guy while Emma waited. Actually it would be more accurate to say, while Emma stood by the table, a blank tittyslut, with her hands behind her back, back arched, chest pushed out, one foot in front of the other, knee bent, heel lifted from the ground, toe pointed.

On display.

Emma spent a lot of tittyslut time on display. Usually (almost always) in reach of his hands, One of her favourite ways to spend an evening was to be sat on display - there was a small tuffet that sat next to the sofa partly to store things in and partly because she’d found it was a great place for this - with her mind worn down by brainwashing, fractionation, and mantras, dressed or undressed for display, legs spread, while he would grope and fondle her as much as he wanted, sometimes while reading a book on his phone.

She heard the door lock, heard him re-arm the alarm, and the part of her which worried about home invasion, the part of her that most delighted in erotically recreating it to soothe her fears, relaxed even further than usual. He came back through into the room, set down the takeout on the table beside the wine (having directed her to pour her own glass, then immediately put her into display and taken it from her), and kissed her unresisting lips, his tongue flicking through the parting in her teeth as if it could mark her more deeply as his.

He chuckled. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you glad I’m back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you glad you’ll be able to eat soon?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Ah.” He grinned, made eye contact. “Is that too complicated for a tittyslut’s properly mindfucked mind?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you glad about that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you rather I stopped teasing you with how little of your intellect you can use?”

This was less complicated than the one about eating soon, but not by much, and Emma was silent for a few seconds as the concept turned over in her mind. “No, sir.”

“Are you hoping you’ll have to suck my cock for dessert?”

Emma hadn’t given it a single thought. Tittysluts didn’t make choices. But the idea was in her head, now, and not much else was. Just need, and lust, and obedience. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you’re good,” he chuckled.

Emma thought that was a silly thing to say. Of course she’d be good. Until he woke her up properly she didn’t really have the choice.

He went through their food, dividing the delivery between their two place settings, and turned back to her. Before setting her free, he bent his head to her tits, tongue, lips, teeth teasing her nipple, hand cupped over her pussy, sensing for her squirm.

When he had her right on the edge he broke from his teasing. Whispered something in her ear.

Emma never heard what he said, but she found herself looking at him differently. More herself.

She grinned, and they kissed, and they sat down to dinner.

“I’m going to hold you to dessert,” he told her.

Emma smirked. “Make me,” she told him.

They both knew that he would. They both also knew she’d make him earn it.

And both of them looked forward to it.