Dear Jacob,
I'm hoping this letter reaches you soon. Really soon, in fact. Because I think that if it doesn't reach you really soon, you won't recognize me when you finally see me again. I need your help bad, Jacob. I know we haven't talked in a long while, and that we didn't exactly part on good terms. But that's the only thing that's letting me write to you at all. You might hate my guts for what I did to you, and I won't pretend you don't have good reason to. But I can't talk to friends or family or the police about this.
I don't mean I can't talk to them like, "It'd be really embarrassing," Jacob. I want to make that clear. I can't talk to them because every time I walk up to my sister, or every time I think about running up to a policeman and asking them for help, I get this little voice in the back of my head that says, "You know it'd feel better not to mention any of this." And my resolve just weakens just a little, and that's when the tingle starts. It's this little hot itchy tingle right down in my pussy, right on my clit like there's someone blowing on it, and I just pause for breath for a moment to feel it.
And when I pause, that makes it feel even better. I know the pleasure is tied in with the pause, that the longer I pause the better it'll feel, I know that the little voice in the back of my head is what's making me feel not just good but really good, all hot and squirmy and sexy, but I'm not squirming. I'm just standing there like normal, like a pretty young woman who's forgotten exactly what she was going to say, and all the tickles on my clit are even better because I'm not letting anyone know anything's out of the ordinary. I have to keep this a secret, and that feels so fucking good when I keep it a secret, and it feels so fucking hot and when the pause turns into silence it gets so good that I can't fight it anymore, and I finally give up and lie and pretend everything's alright and just walk away back to the people who are brainwashing me. And that makes me cum, I cum so...
I'm back now. Sorry. I had to put the pencil down to masturbate. I'm sorry in advance if this letter doesn't make much sense, Jacob. I'm having a lot of trouble concentrating these days. I'd go back and try to take out some of the weirder stuff, but whenever I try to look back over what I've written, I just start getting all dopey. My eyes get all glassy, and I just sort of scan down the page without really reading it, until I focus in on the bits that reinforce my conditioning and just start re-reading them, over and over and over again. I actually came three times before I got it together enough to finish this paragraph.
I just have to try to write whatever I can, just to keep the pencil moving. Because every time I stop to think about what to write, every time I start thinking that you'll never care what happens to me after the way we broke up, every time I think about just crumpling this letter into a ball and throwing it in the trash and lighting it on fire, I get these surges of pleasure straight into my cunt. (And oh fuck, every time I think of it as a "cunt", it feels so good. It's really hard to think about what sex is like for normal people now, what's appropriate to put into a letter and what isn't. So there are some bits here that are going to shock you.)
Sorry, I know I'm having a hard time coming to the point. Part of me is trying to avoid saying it because it sounds weird and crazy, and I'm afraid you won't believe me. But I know that's not the real reason I'm not getting to it. The real reason is that I know I'm writing this to ask you to help me break free of my conditioning, and the parts of me that are already brainwashed want to stop me from doing it. So it's trying to make me not write about it. It's not exactly working, because I've mentioned to you that I'm being brainwashed, but you have no idea how hard it is to write this right now.
Okay. I am going to tell you what happened now. No more circuitous writing that just hints at it, I swear. I'm going to explain everything, and...
Fuck. I'm doing it again. Sorry. I know, this is coming out all stream-of-consciousness, but it's the only way to circumvent my programming. If I stop to think about what I'm writing, then I'll keep stopping, and I'll stay stopped, and I won't put anything important in, and fuck! I'm still not telling you!
Sorry, it's so hard to fight it now. The first few days, it wasn't so bad. I probably could have gotten away, then. But then again, I didn't notice it much either. I noticed that it felt good to come in to work at Transcendent Technologies, I noticed that the elevator music they played through the headphones between calls was a lot more pleasant to listen to than at any of the other phone centers I'd worked at. I even kind of noticed that most of the girls ignored the dress code and wore tight, skimpy outfits all the time. (I wish I'd noticed all the girls who vanished, but come on, this was a call center. Turnover is killer in this business.)
But I didn't notice that I was starting to get horny a lot. (I know, Jacob. You probably think I'm nothing but a slut anyway. And I am a slut. I'm a hot, horny, submissive fuckslut who loves to do what she's told and cum like a bitch in heat when she's all naked and panting in front of her owner
Shit. Sorry, Jacob. Hazards of stream-of-consciousness writing when your mind isn't your own anymore. And I can't even go back and cross it out, because that means reading it again, and you have no idea how many times I masturbated between the end of that paragraph and the beginning of this one. That's just it. They use your sex drive against you. Because we're all wired to want sex. You and that bullshit about how sleeping around was "against the natural order", you didn't know what the fuck you were talking about. Yeah, it was cruel and it violated your trust and I shouldn't have done it, but biologically speaking, it was perfectly normal.
But I'm rambling. I'm trying to stay on-topic, but my brain keeps derailing me. See, big parts of my brain don't belong to me anymore, Jacob. (Oh, God, that was so hard to write!) There was something in that music they piped into our ears. Getting horny was just the beginning of it. I was masturbating like crazy, jilling off every night, and I even took a few guys home and balled them until they couldn't walk straight, but it was doing fuck all good. I was going to bed horny every night, waking up horny every morning, and coming to work and listening to music that just made me even fucking hotter. By the time I'd been here a week, damn near everything was setting me off.