You Don't Have to Worry

"You Don't Have to Worry"

Amanda doesn't know where she's going. The strong, tanned hand that holds her soft, pale fingers in its grip is leading her down the sidewalk, away from the coffee shop and past her hotel and into a parking garage she doesn't recognize in a part of the city that looks totally unfamiliar. Even if she were to snap out of her daze right this instant and wriggle free of the stranger's grasp, it would probably take her hours to find her way back to the tour group. She feels a strange, discordant surge of panic swelling up beneath the smooth surface of her tranquil calm, and she murmurs out, "Um... where...?" in a confused, drowsy voice that seems to take forever to bubble up from her groggy and bewildered brain.

But before she can assemble the disjointed words into a complete thought, the tall man looks over at her with his dark, piercing brown eyes and says, "You don't need to worry about that, Amanda." And his voice is so calm, so confident, so soothing and completely filled with certainty that Amanda feels it tug her thoughts right back down into placid compliance. It's such a wonderful promise, delivered with such absolute conviction directly to Amanda's slack, expressionless face that she can't help wanting to believe it despite the evidence. She doesn't want to worry. She doesn't want to feel the anxiety and stress that she knows she should be experiencing right now.

If she chooses to believe him, then she can simply sink back down into that wonderful sea of slow, drifting pleasure that he showed her how to experience back at the coffee shop. She can slip back into the tranquil depths of his eyes and let her thoughts float away, leaving only delicious relaxation and soft, lazy bliss behind. Amanda can feel her mind yearning to experience that sleepy euphoria again, pulling her toward it like an eager puppy straining at the end of the leash.

If she tries to think... she can feel that yawning sea of anxiety and fear every time she begins to realize what she's doing. She's walking with a strange man in a strange city, heading further and further away from the comfort and familiarity of her tour group on the suggestion of someone she's barely even talked with for twenty minutes and whose name she doesn't know. He's leading her to a dark gray sedan with tinted windows, guiding her into the passenger seat and buckling her into place with a click that even her fuzzy, befuddled mind can't help but hear as sinister. Nobody knows where she is. Nobody's looking for her.

So of course Amanda chooses to believe. It's the simplest decision in the world, a choice to move away from distress and toward pleasure, and she sags into the soft leather seat and lets her eyes go glassy and unfocused. She doesn't need to worry. It's a suggestion she wants to accept, a command that makes her life so much easier and happier and more relaxed that all she can do is let it seep into the back of her drowsy, mazy head and drift deeper into trance. The door closes, the man goes around the car, but Amanda can't stir herself fast enough to even realize properly what's happened, let alone take advantage before he gets in on the driver's side.

Once the car begins to move, the sense of helpless passivity deepens almost instantly into a feeling of total disassociation. Amanda knows, deep down, that her last chance to exert any control over the situation passed the moment that the stranger put the car into gear and began to drive, and the experience of being a passenger creeps into every aspect of her loose and drowsy thoughts. She feels like she's watching herself slump back against the soft cushions as he reclines her seat just enough to make sitting up too much of an exertion for her tired, sleepy body. She's merely following along, observing the stranger's hand as it creeps under her dress and pulls her skirt up to her waist. She's there, but she's not really there there. She's just along for the ride.

Even when the car leaves the confines of the city and gets onto the autobahn, Amanda can't seem to shake the dreamy lethargy that permeates her body and her mind. Every time she thinks she's beginning to find her way out of the maze of soft, drifting pleasure that wraps around her thoughts like a spider spinning a cocoon around a struggling moth, the stranger's fingers stroke gently up her thigh and lightly rub her pussy and she hears him saying, "It's alright, Amanda. There's nothing you need to think about right now." And the fragile bubble of resistance pops, filling the space inside her with a rush of liquid bliss that sends her right back down into sleepy euphoria all over again.

She doesn't know how he knows what she's thinking. Perhaps something in her expression gives it away, a momentary furrow of her brow that betrays her struggle to push aside the sweet, sleepy mist in her head and form a complete thought. Perhaps she shifts her body under his touch when she's trying to resist the pleasure he's using to program her soft, malleable mind. Perhaps he simply knows that he needs to keep drawing her deeper and deeper into his inexorable power, and Amanda simply doesn't notice him doing it when she's already blank and happy and relaxed. She doesn't know. She can't figure it out. It simply becomes another example of his complete and total control over her, a wonder that she can only accept right alongside the rest of his calm, measured instructions.

She knows he's speaking to her. Occasionally she tunes in closely enough to hear him saying things, his honeyed voice murmuring, "The less you think, the more you can focus on the pleasure between your legs as my fingers rub your mind deeper and deeper into blissful relaxation..." before she loses track of his words again and her thoughts scatter into a haze of empty, peaceful euphoria once more. Even when she's not listening, though, Amanda knows that she's listening. She's just not thinking about what she's listening to. And that makes her pussy feel so very good.

Sometimes she notices that she's responding. She hears herself saying first "yes sir" and then "yes Master" at every pause in the flow of his calm, soothing monologue, her voice a somnolent drone that betrays no thought or emotion at all. Even the pleasure pulsing through her body in great, pounding waves doesn't come across in her drowsy tones; Amanda's so wet now that his fingers are slippery with her musk, her arousal soaking through her panties until they're practically translucent, but she sounds like she's talking in her sleep. Maybe she is. Maybe this is all just a dream, a wonderful dream that she never has to wake up from. Amanda likes that idea.

It's so much nicer if she doesn't try to wake. Every time Amanda tries to surface from that sea of blank, compliant bliss she finds the same old fears waiting for her. She doesn't know where she is, she doesn't know where she's going, she can't open her eyes, there's a strange man playing with her pussy, he's inserting thoughts into her mind and she can't tell anymore what parts of her are really Amanda and what parts are the vacant, obedient fucktoy that he's turning her into... it's exhausting just contemplating them. The empty space inside her doesn't have any of those fears, and it's wonderful.

It's even better than that, Amanda realizes, her first unprompted thought in almost an hour now. The empty space doesn't have any fears at all. There are no anxieties about her job, no worries about politics or environmentalism or the complicated web of friendships and familial ties. Fucktoys don't need to think about anything but sex and obedience, and those both feel so easy and natural to Amanda right now that she could literally do them in her sleep. The stranger is promising an end to uncertainty, an end to doubt, an end to everything except the pleasure of pure, perfect surrender to his will. Amanda is quietly amazed at just how badly she craves that.

The realization makes it even easier to sink into blank, placid compliance to her Master's will. Her eyes close gratefully, the pleasure becoming a void behind her eyes that tugs her deeper down into its center. She hears herself whimper and moan, feels her cunt tingle with orgasmic bliss as her Master pushes the sheer fabric into the channel between her labia and rubs her clit until she can't resist the relentless stimulation anymore. Her hips strain and buck against the seat belt, and the sensation of helplessness she feels every time it holds her in place and forces her to simply accept her Master's touch empties her out further. Amanda is becoming a fucktoy, she knows it. She hears herself say it. She feels herself coming to believe it, and believing it to cum.

The car eventually stops. Amanda's eyes flutter open, unable to truly focus on anything beyond the dark, hypnotic gaze of her new owner. He's standing next to the open car door, and Amanda's foggy brain immediately elides over all the steps that must have happened while she was too deep to realize that he was getting out and going around to the passenger side. She doesn't need to think about those things. They're not important to a fucktoy like her. The only thing that's important is obedience, and obedience right now is taking Master's hand and letting him help her out of the car. She does so.

The moment she's standing, her legs still wobbly with the after-effects of what she vaguely realizes must have been multiple orgasms, Master tears off Amanda's clothing. Literally--he grabs her dress at the seam of her plunging neckline and pulls until the fabric shreds into a wide gap that he can pull down and off of her body without raising her arms over her head. He then yanks down her panties, leaving her completely naked in the cool, open air. Amanda's muscles twitch, her hands reflexively moving to cover herself, but Master takes her wrists in his hands and says, "You don't have to worry, pretty pet." Slowly, the moment of shock passes, smoothing her mind back into placid relaxation.

There's no one around to see her anyway. The car is parked outside of a vast mansion in the middle of a vast, empty stretch of countryside, far away from any town or city or even the tiniest village. Amanda doesn't know where she is; her sense of time vanished into the endless stretches of dazed, mindless bliss, and they could have crossed entire nations while she floated in hypnotic ecstasy. She doesn't remember what the road signs said when she was gazing emptily out the tinted windows, and even then her eyes slipped shut for a long, timeless while. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Amanda has simply disappeared.

But then Master reaches out to take one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, lightly tugging on it like a leash as he leads her up to the huge double doors that lead into the mansion's foyer, and Amanda knows exactly where she is. She's home. She's an obedient fucktoy now, Master's blank and horny sex slave, and she needs to be where Master can take care of her at all times. Where better for that to be than his wonderful great big house? The last little wrinkle of worry in Amanda's placid head finally smooths itself away into mesmerized ecstasy. Master's got her. Master's always going to have her. And Amanda never needs to think about anything again.

She only needs to obey. Like good little fucktoys do. And as Master guides her down to her knees the moment they walk through the door, placing her fingers on the bulge in his trousers and nodding gently to her, Amanda finds that she knows how to obey already. She undoes his fly and pulls out his hard, throbbing cock, her empty mind glowing with contented bliss as she nuzzles it all over. It's as if the empty place in her head was made to be filled, designed to be stuffed with thick, warm flesh, and Amanda finally feels her programming lock in completely as she swallows her Master's shaft.

THE END