She was daydreaming about the first time they put her on camera.
It was probably the same scene then as now: waking to find herself on her knees among cables and light fixtures, parked in some out-of-the-way spot with the rest of the spare equipment. Her attention, what there was of it, tuned to a familiar, lazy spiral of arousal, self-abasement, self-forgetfulness. Her eyes fixed on a blank spot on a wall while people with minds, people who wore clothes, moved about arranging and discussing and activating and deactivating the slut gear.
It was when she was first being trained to torture herself with her orgasm. She was already at the point where she never came except on command, when she was being brainwashed or for someone who was using her. But somehow she got the idea that maybe she should learn to come at her own command. Like she’d be easier to train that way, and that would please the Owners.
It was weird, having an idea. She went to Teacher about it. All Miss did was shrug and say, Try it.
But she could never find the command. The one she could use on herself and make herself come. Before long they were having her go for what felt like hours. The pain of it, the endless, desperate futility, became its own kind of unyielding trance. She felt the orgasm approach and knew this time it would happen. Every time. She heard herself beg so hard for it, with so little sense, she might have been speaking in tongues. And before every crest she broke, and in every exhausted trough realized she was nothing but a drone, a machine set to frig itself without stopping, without knowing what it meant to stop.
Sometimes someone would order her to come. Sometimes they just let her go till she passed out. Always she emerged from the edging trance feeling less. Less herself, more a slave.
She’d been giddy with excitement when they told her cam duty. She still got that way. Being washed, made up, dressed in some pretty little whore thing, daydreaming about the toy she’d be given to play with. Bumped here and there, weightless as a balloon. She’d never seen a lit-up set before, and the glare stunned her. There’d been a pause after she’d climbed on the bed, while they brought off the slut who’d been on before her. She remembered kneeling, the light on her skin, and in the moment she felt an awareness, that something was happening to her, something irrevocable. She was on a porn set, about to fuck herself on camera. She thought of the girl she’d been who would have thought that impossible. This is all you’re good for now, she told herself. Her heart was pounding. It’s all you’ll ever be good for.
As much as she was brainwashed already, in a way it was the first time she’d really come to terms with the fact of being a slave. It was a hard feeling. She rode the edge of it till it seemed like her pussy would come apart. Afterwards she’d cried. She was just wrecked. They gave her to one of the other sluts to be comforted, a cute redhead, and the girl held her and chanted mantras at her till they both fell asleep.
A touch on the back of her head made her aware of Control. Then there was only obedience, and the familiar buzz of surrender. She stood, pivoted, and followed the tech who’d activated her, threading their way through half a dozen other tranced, kneeling sluts. The one who’d just come off, a redhead, naked, covered in sweat and pussy juice, was being led past: the tang filled her nostrils and made her head swim.
On the bed, waiting to begin, she imagined it was the same slut as that other time, her comforter, who’d just walked past. She had a fantasy of the girl brought back to the edge of the set, being knelt where they would catch each other’s eyes. How she’d silently tell her this pussy’s for you with her look and the roll of her hips and what her fingers were doing between her legs. The redhead touching herself in tandem, and then her handler releases her and she moves toward the bed, slowly, their eyes never leaving each other's.
Someday I’ll be a girl who fucks girls on camera, she thought. She couldn’t remember thinking that before. She wondered if it would feel like anything in particular when it happened. If she’d even notice.
She imagined Teacher making her beg for the privilege of finding out, how drawn-out and how degrading Miss would make it: and realized she was already begging as the first wave of orgasm rose and began collapsing beneath her.