The Collar 13

The collar did the work.

He only had to abduct her for three days. No one even noticed she was gone. He dragged her, kicking and struggling, his hand over her mouth, out of her home and over to his van on a Friday night, and he welded the thick metal collar in place around her neck right then and there. Then he bound her, gagged her, and spent the weekend driving her around while the collar did its work. He didn't rape her, of course. The first time he fucked her, she was going to ask for it.

The collar had two functions. The first was temporary, and it eventually wouldn't be needed. It simply ensured that when she raised her hands to the collar, to touch it or try and remove it, it would deliver a mild electro-shock, like a dog's obedience collar.

The second would continue for as long as she wore it. During set periods -- constantly at the beginning, but eventually only while she slept - it played quiet hypnotic white noise, just loud enough for her to hear, making it hard for her to think straight and embedding deep hypnotic triggers within her.

For now he only needed three thoughts in her head:

"Don't let your collar be removed."

"You will panic if someone tries to remove your collar."

"The collar was your idea."

By the end of three days she couldn't have touched her collar even if she wanted to - which she didn't. He tried to forcibly lift her hand to her neck before he returned her to her house, and she freaked out and started screaming into her gag, driven wild by the fear of electro-shock and the dictates of her conditioning. Satisfied, he released her, allowing her to return to her own home. And then he communicated with her collar by Wi-Fi, and uploaded her real conditioning schedule.

===

She didn't remember why she had wanted the collar, but she knew it had been her idea. She didn't like the not knowing, so she rationalised to herself that she liked wearing the collar and looked pretty in it, and soon she truly believed this to be the case.

Over the next few weeks she found herself in odd moments browsing porn on the internet, looking for pictures of girls in collars like hers. She would self-select among these pictures for the girls who looked most degraded, most humiliated, and who had the biggest tits, and then she would masturbate to the verge of orgasm while staring at them. This was new for her, as she had never been into either girls or porn previously, but the images of big-titted sluts in collars drove her wild. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she arranged colour prints of some of them and Blu-Tacced them to her bedroom wall. She would look at them each morning and note the ways in which she was different from, and therefore inferior to, the girls in the photos.

Her browsing patterns began to evolve. She would masturbate to pictures of girls with giant, obviously-fake tits, and then she would visit the websites of plastic surgeons. Some offered software that allowed her to upload a photo and morph it to see what she might look like with bigger breasts. She had no hesitation in photographing herself topless and allowing the site to show a version of herself with fake tits. She orgasmed on the spot the first time she saw herself with slutty fake melons.

She would intersperse her masturbation sessions with visits to the darkest corners of the internet, to the backwaters of Reddit and 4chan, and she would read long threads about how women with fake tits were whores and sluts who needed to be raped, and she would masturbate to this as well, flicking back and forth between the abuse and the picture of herself with breast augmentations.

The urge to get a boob job was rising every day, and after only a week she found herself booking in for surgery, telling a doctor that she needed her tits to look very round and fake, so that everyone would know what they were for. She wanted to masturbate right there in his office, and was only just able to control herself long enough to get to her car before fingering her cunt to a stupendous orgasm.

New words were circulating in her head, that she kept thinking of again and again: "bimbo", "fuckdoll", "sex pet", "slave toy". She blushed crimson at the bank while applying for a loan for her boob job when she realised she had written her name as "Tit Kitten" and her occupation as "rape pet". If anything, though, it seemed to help the loan manager understand why she needed the money, and he smiled broadly as he approved the loan, staring unabashedly at her cleavage.

She wore clothes around the house less and less, particularly after her boob job when none of her tops fit her anymore. She never stopped blushing when she answered the door naked - no matter how slutty she got, she never seemed able to lose her shame over her behaviour - and when she let guests into the house while she was nude she wanted to vanish. But instead she let them stare at her, and judge her in their minds. It got worse when she started to crawl instead of walk. Crawling was so much more embarrassing, but it felt right to crawl whenever she could, like that was where she belonged. "Good kittens crawl," said a voice in her head, and so she crawled. She wanted to be a good kitten.

She bought a cat bowl, and started to take her meals from it instead of sitting at the table. She would lap at bowls of milk with her tongue, naked on all fours, and eat little chunks of meat in the same manner, pushing her face down into the bowl.

She stopped going to work after she turned up naked for the third time and they fired her, but she was able to find work at a strip club instead, and even better, they allowed her to perform under the name "Tit Kitten", which just felt so much more honest than her real name. She didn't talk very much now, and mostly just meowed in answer to questions. It occurred to her that, given her behaviour, she was lucky that no one had ever raped her. But was she *really* lucky? And why did her pussy get so wet at the thought of that word -- "rape"?

It was two months since she had put on the collar when the man who had given it to her knocked on her door. She answered it nude, and immediately returned to a crawling position in front of her visitor, her tits hanging down under her.

She was confused as to who this was, at first, but then he spoke the trigger word that would give her full knowledge. She felt the consciousness rushing in, that *he* had put this collar on her without her consent, that it had hypnotised and conditioned her, that it had turned her into this degraded little rape-kitten. She felt the full shame of everything she had done, and what she had become. She blushed bright crimson and made a little meow of distress.

But it didn't take away any of her urges, or her needs. And when he reached into his pocket and took out a shiny steel-chain pet leash, she knew that it belonged on her neck - that she *needed* it on her neck. This man had abducted and violated her, and if she didn't run away he was going to rape her and do far more humiliating things to her than she had suffered to date. She wasn't going to be a person anymore, she was going to be a pet - his pet, to be used and fucked and punished at his whim. She should run away. She knew she should.

But - the leash would feel right. And she *was* a bimbo fuckdoll now, and this was where she belonged. And her cunt had been so wet for so long, and she knew when he raped her, she would cum. And maybe... he might find other big-uddered pets like her, and let her play with them, and suck on their big fake titties. Maybe he would make her friends into pets too. She wouldn't need to make any decisions or have any responsibility anymore, she could just be a good little Tit Kitten.

"If you want the leash, ask for it like a good kitten," he told her, and gestured to his cock. And it wasn't even really a hard choice for her. She crawled forward, and she raised her head, and she began to eagerly nuzzle at her rapist's crotch, keen to please him, hungry to finally wear the leash that so obviously belonged on her neck...

(END)