Choice Points Pt. 06

This is the rest of the story I guess. There's not really sex in it, so if you've just been along for the ride so you can choke your chicken or butter your muffin or whatever you perverts like to do, you'll probably be bored...

Being a professor was not that highly paid, but I learned a lot about his operation as the bookkeeper. It turned out he'd been hypnotizing students for more than 15 years.

He had two former students who sent him 90 percent of their paychecks (one was a CPA - his first bookkeeper, and one was a goddamned professional hypnotist. Holy mindfuck.) They just lived in modest one-bedroom apartments and drove their beat-up cars and ate ramen and lived their lives and never put it together that they were perpetually single and mailed away most of their money every month.

And he had two former students who sent him whatever they could sneak away from their wealthy husbands. His nest egg (that bought the house we lived in) came from one of his first victims, who he actually sold to a wealthy and obviously unscrupulous man he'd met in his early days on the D/s scene. That guy was so damned grateful (and rich) he often sent random bonus checks in gratitude whenever he had a stock market bump.

All told, Wrack made more than $400,000 a year, most of it tax-free, all of it highly illegal. And there was the side perk of 15 women of various ages who would always, always be willing to fuck him whenever he asked or demanded it. I asked him one time why he still fucked Vanessa, who snuck away from her husband every three or four months for an afternoon with him. She usually brought her three year old, and one of us was charged with watching her kid while they fucked. He told me that he liked variety, and then he patted me on the head and said "but don't worry, you're my favorite." That condescending asshole.

There was no one particular part that was that much worse than the rest. I hated being used. I hated being powerless. I hated watching my friends be abused. I hated sordid sex with strangers. I hated Wrack's smug grin. I hated myself for all the moments I enjoyed, the endless pleasure, the thin line between pain and ecstasy, the warm salty taste of a woman's freshly fucked cunt. It turns out I was more than a little queer after all. But there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it.

In the end, getting free was a miracle. Wrack moved off professors row after he left teaching, and into a large duplex in an upscale neighborhood near campus. He wanted us to continue with our education, and he pushed us hard to achieve academically. We were part of his perpetual meal ticket after all. To the general public he was our rarely seen eccentric landlord and we girls lived on the second floor while we attended college. We were all very careful.

My sister is four years younger than me, beautiful and sweet and smart and sassy. She began making noise about visiting to see if she wanted to attend the same college. Wrack had placed so many restrictions on what I could say to my family that after a year and a half of putting her off, I ran out of creative ideas.

It was the spring of my junior year, and she came for the weekend. We re-organized the house so it seemed like two apartments before she arrived, and we had a nice girls dinner when she got there on Friday. We took her to a party on campus (I mean, what else do high school kids wanna do when they visit!) and stood in the corner awkwardly while she befriended (and then did some serious grinding with) a gangly first-year, who kept looking over at us to make sure we weren't going to jump him.

We pried them apart around midnight, and brought her flushed and smiling face home. Saturday we took a campus tour and answered her thousands of questions. It was actually her fourth college visit, so she had some savvy opinions about the U's pluses and drawbacks. Saturday night was the challenge. Wrack had organized a high dollar sex party for that evening, long before my sister firmed up her dates. And several men had requested me specifically, and he had ordered a special free-standing bondage contraption that would suspend me in mid-air with every orifice available, but with incredible flexibility of rotation. Like a cross between a pillory and a sex swing, attached to a hammock stand. We'd laboriously cleared out the dining room downstairs to make space. So I had to attend.

Cassie and Kate just said they had plans and headed out (and then right back into the first floor), but I was stuck. I didn't want her tracking down that awkward kid from last night for an unsupervised hookup, but I couldn't very well tell her that I needed to go to a sex party where I was the main paid attraction.

In the end, I gave her a flimsy excuse about a late night study session with a quirky group of math-heads, and told her that this was what college life was really like. She promised to stay in and go to bed early, and I promised her homemade waffles in the morning. I headed toward campus in case she was looking out the window, then doubled back through the alley and into the first floor.

Did I tell you my sister was smart? She thought I had a secret hottie on campus that I was going to meet, and she wanted a look at this mystery hunk. So she followed me. I was carefully not looking around in case she was watching out the window, so I never saw her. She told me later that she figured my secret hottie was actually the debonair landlord she'd met in passing Saturday morning ("debonair" she called him, hmph.) But then, like me years earlier, she'd taken a look through an unsecured first-floor window. Wrack was usually so careful, but it was an unusually hot day and the screen was partially up, and we weren't in the basement because of the device.

We've actually never talked about the details of what she saw, but she came with me to therapy a few times, and when the therapist asked her once, she blushed all the way to her ears and refused to answer. She told me later that she figured I was in some sort of sex club, and was just too embarrassed to tell her the truth. I guess that was mostly right. She was the non-judgmental type, and our high school had gotten a lot more sex-positive since I'd graduated. She figured I was an adult making my own choices (she couldn't have known), and who was she to say anything? Heck, she'd been grinding on a stranger the previous night.

She decided after that to attend a different college, and though we remained (and remain) very close, she never visited me by herself again. But I still made a yearly pilgrimage back home. Wrack insisted, fearing that me cutting off ties completely would raise suspicions. The first year he rented a hotel room nearby and made me sneak out and meet him for a half hour of re-conditioning in his rental car each night I was home. Well, re-conditioning in the sense that his cock was in my throat and he was whispering clear instructions in my ear.

The second year he just made me call him each night to talk, and the third year he didn't need to do anything. I was so deeply conditioned, and he'd built up our cover story so fully that there was no need to make me do anything different. Heck, I'd stopped having any ideas about how to escape him. I'd accepted my permanent fate.

And then my sister asked me about him. My parents and her had come to my graduation the year before, and she had seen him around briefly, and felt like he was leering. He definitely was. In fact, lately he'd taken to fucking me in the ass while telling me all about how he was going to hypnotize my sister to join his harem. So much for debonair. I've never told my sister that part. She's too innocent.

Meanwhile, I had settled into a part-time job as a book-keeper at a local non-profit (nice to have a skill, thanks Wrack!) I had planned out another visit home around a set of bondage parties Wrack had arranged - it was winter-time, so I wasn't worried about a bikini showing off bruises, but I didn't want my parents wondering why I was wincing when I sat down to dinner.

My sister came home from her first year of college to be there too, and we had a lovely time. Late the second night on the back porch, aided by a beer snuck from our fridge, she got around to telling me about The Boy that she was dramatically in love with, and how funny he was, and how he played on the soccer team, and how cute his curly brown hair was, and how special their first time had been, and how she was scared that he wasn't as in to her as she was to him, and all the other details that a first college romance entails.

It was adorable, and I laughed and smiled and commiserated with her, even as I felt a deep grief in the pit of my stomach for what Wrack had taken away from me and Cassie and Kate.

And then out of the blue she asked me if I still lived with that creepy landlord. It was a question Wrack had prepared for. He was so meticulous. We'd decided that it would make a lot more sense to tell my family I lived in a two bedroom with one other female roommate. When I never mentioned a boyfriend, they'd just generally assume I was a closeted dyke and it would drive a wedge between us over time. Even typing that I want to punch Wrack in both of his eyeballs.

And the part of me that had resisted Wrack every step of the way, that wanted to stay conscious even through all the humiliation, that had been watching for my chance to come, that had completely run out of clever ideas to escape, but hadn't run out of will, or love for my family - that part of me did the only thing it could do. It hesitated.

It felt like I was silent for a full minute before I said "No", but my sister claims it was less than half a second. She says if she'd had a second beer she might have missed it. But she's sharp, and she saw me lie, and she asked more questions. It wasn't more than three or four minutes before my conditioning kicked back in and I was able to lie with my usual fluency, but it was too late. For Wrack.

My sister asked me enough questions to realize I was unable to speak the truth, and unable to tell her what was going on. She woke my parents up for support, and it was more than three days before they were able to piece the story together. I went to my first therapeutic un-hypnotizing session that week, and I never returned to Wrack's house. It was four days before the police mobilized, but by then he and Kate and Cassie were gone, and haven't been seen since.

I miss them. I hope they're ok.

...

So where do I go from here?

It's been 9 months now of living at home, with daily therapy. Wrack had one sizable bank account in my name, to ease suspicion, and after two months with no trace of him the DA released those funds to me. But like I said, that money's almost all spent on therapy and law suits and ice cream. I can't get a job yet, because Wrack knows where I live, and I'm sure he still has triggers buried in me and it wouldn't be safe.

I trust my therapist, but I don't trust the hypnotist she recommended. I'll never trust another hypnotist in my life. I made my sister sit in those sessions for the first month (she took four weeks off from school to be there for me - she's amazing!) There's been tremendous unlearning, and lots of re-building. I've worked through most of the guilt and some of the shame, I know it's not my fault. I know that He took advantage of me. I know there's no going back.

But I don't know how to move forward either. Honestly I'm so used to having sex all the time that I'm constantly horny without it. But I can't imagine going on dates or demanding that men treat me with respect, when mostly I want to tell them to push me onto my knees and jam their cocks down my throat while pinching my nose and nipples. How do you work that into a conversation without sounding like a freak?

I'm stuck. I'm a product of my own experiences. When I think about it, the first real orgasm I ever had was with Wrack's cock down my throat and two girls sucking my nipples. The first time I had sex with a man was better than cocaine even though I tried to resist every step of the way. The majority of my sexual pleasure for four years has been mixed with pain and bondage and hypnosis. Is it any wonder I'm so fucked up?

My therapist thinks I'm finally recognizing and facing the damage this ordeal has wrought in me, and she's right. The problem is we've drawn different conclusions. She thinks I'll be able to move through this and lead a 'normal' life. Maybe find a nice man (or woman or NB) and settle down and raise some kids and stop looking over my shoulder and finally be happy.

But I know that I'm finally coming to terms with my true purpose and my place.

I've made my choice.

I'm Wrack's, if I can find him again, or yours if you find me first.