I can feel it starting to happen again. I'm looking over at Tracie, seeing the sparkle in her bright blue eyes as she stares in rapt adoration at her perfect husband and his perfect body and his infuriatingly perfect smile, and before I can even consciously realize I'm about to tell her the truth about him I feel a phantom cock slide between my parted lips and fill up my mouth so completely that speech becomes impossible. I try to tell myself it's not real, the same way I do whenever my treacherous subconscious gags me with an impeccable sensory impersonation of Gage's dick, but it doesn't do any good this time either. I can't speak at all.
I know how to change that. I know that if I simply turned my mind away from the topic of Gage's infidelity, and my own hypnotically commanded part in it, the compulsion in my brain would unlock and I'd find conversation coming to me just as smoothly and easily as it ever did. I'd be able to chat with Tracie about my new hairstylist and how right Tracie was that I'd get a lot more attention as a blonde, I'd be able to mention my latest disastrous blind date and my terrible luck with men, I'd even be able to smile and nod and agree with her that someday I'll find someone like Gage if I just keep looking. I simply won't be able to tell her that I've already found someone like Gage. Someone exactly like him, in fact.
And she deserves to know. Even if I have my suspicions about her constant, rapt adoration of her admittedly charming husband, I feel like she should at least get the chance to pit his hypnotic programming against her conscious, deliberate awareness that her best friend is his obedient blowjob puppet whenever she isn't in the room. She might brush it off as nonsense--hell, for all I know she'd give me one of those bright, beaming smiles and say, "Well then Emmy, why don't we just have a threesome?"--but I want to give her the opportunity to try to think for herself.
But how can she, when I'm so completely unable to? The more I try to blurt it all out, the more I feel that rock hard shaft plundering my throat and choking off my ability to speak. It's not exactly like the actual blowjobs I give to Gage whenever he decides to snap my fingers and turn me into his cocksucking bobblehead; there's less spluttering, for one thing, and none of the guttural moans of pure delight I can't help releasing when his dick is in my mouth. But it's enough to completely and totally silence me despite my best efforts.
And I can't escape the lingering suspicion that Gage knows whenever it happens. I'm not sure how, and he certainly doesn't show any kind of outward acknowledgment of my sudden and inexplicable silence, but something about the expression on my face or the slight parting of my plump red lips must give it away. I suppose once you've gotten as deeply into someone's head as Gage has gotten into mine, you just know all their tells without even needing to think too hard about it. I'm an open book to him, and he's scrawled his annotations on each and every page.
The new lips were Gage's idea, of course. Five milliliters of polytetrafluoroethylene injected over the course of three visits to give me the kind of plump cockpillows he's been fantasizing about ever since he first hypnotized me that sunny Sunday morning at the little cottage we rented on the beach last summer. I don't consciously remember who paid for them, but if it was me I certainly didn't notice the missing cash and if it was him Tracie never said anything to me about it. Then again, I don't think he allows her to handle the finances anymore. She's become a lot more submissive to him now that he's gotten his hooks into my mind as well as hers, and it frustrates me to no end that he knows I can't call him out on any of his patriarchal bullshit anymore without sinking into a deep, helpless fantasy of getting my face fucked by his stiff prick.
