Unsent

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.

I was dressing just like the other girls, too. Short, tiny little skirts, no panties, tube tops and halter tops and eventually just bikini tops. If anyone had paid attention to the dress code, I'd have been fired a long time ago. But instead, I got moved to a nicer section of the building. I kept getting hornier and sluttier ohsh it i shuouldnt haveuse d that wordd

Sorry, back again. The point is, I kept getting worse and worse, but I just kept getting positive feedback from management.

'Positive feedback' felt really good, Jacob. Pretty soon, I felt like I'd do anything to get positive feedback from my bosses. After about two weeks, I found out that I really would. They'd tell me to bend over, and I'd do it, because it felt so good to hear them say, "Good girl," even as I was giving them a nice big beaver shot. And then they'd finger me, right there at work, finger bang me right there in my cubicle and I just loved it, and I loved that they loved it. All the experienced girls did. We weren't even taking tech support calls anymore. We were doing phone sex. And when we weren't pretending to fuck strangers over the phone, we were fucking our bosses for real. And each other, too. God, I can't tell you how many times I'd stand up and lean over the cubicle walls so that the girl next to me could fondle my titties at work. When we finally finished our shifts, it took us about forty-five minutes to get out of the building just because we kept getting each other off.

Outside of work, it's not quite so bad, but it's getting worse. I'm not acting so sl--sexy, but I know I'm finding tiny ways of being a bitch that are gradually alienating people close to me, and unlike with you, Jacob, this time it's not my fault. My brainwashing is making me cut ties to everyone else. Pretty soon, there's going to be a point where I don't have anyone who'll miss me. I know what's going to happen then.

Some of the really experienced girls, the ones who were up in my current section when I got there, they've vanished too. There are other floors to the building, ones where I can't go. My brain won't let me, it just directs my feet elsewhere whenever I think about heading up that way. I think that's where the other girls wind up. I don't think they ever leave, I think they just live there and get the music pumped into their heads all day and all night, sinking deeper into the brainwashing, deeper into the conditioning until there's nothing left but sex and obedience and they just want to be used, used by anyone and everyone and...

Fuck. It's really hard to think now, Jacob. I can't fight it much longer. I can't talk to anyone, I can't run away--just writing this letter only works because I'm really carefully compartmentalizing it in my head. A phone call wouldn't work anymore, it's too immediate, but a letter, I can break that down into steps. I'm not talking to friends or family or the cops, I'm writing to an ex who really hates me. I'm not telling him the company secrets, I'm just writing them down in a letter. No harm in that, I might never send it. When I'm finished with the letter, I'm just going to seal it in an envelope. No harm in that, it can just sit in the sealed envelope. When I put the stamp on it, that doesn't actually mean I'm going to mail it out. When I drop it in the mailbox, that doesn't necessarily mean anyone's going to deliver it. The Post Office is so unreliable, right?

(I'm a little worried about that last part. I can justify all the other steps, but that one's going to take some real work to convince the brainwashed parts of me to believe. But I have to, Jacob, or I'll turn into a brainwashed fucktoy for the rest of my life. And I want that. I really do. I want to fuck, fuck men or fuck women or suck or lick or take it in the ass or spread my tight cunny for anyone who wants it or offer them my hot little slutty titties for whatever they want to do, be a good little horny slave and obey obey obey obey obey obey

Fuck. Sorry, Jacob, my brain is like a goddamned minefield now. I never know when I'm going to hit a trigger, and half the time I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. That brings me to the most important point. When you come and rescue me, don't fuck around. Don't come marching into the office and tell them that you know everything and you're going to be my fucking knight in shining armor. You do this smart, because I don't want you winding up just as fucked-up in the head as me. Because you deserve better than that. You deserved better than me. Funny, we spent nine months fighting and three years on the opposite sides of the country and now I'm telling you just what you wanted to hear all along. You were right, I was wrong, all my justifications were bullshit to make me feel better about myself for hurting you. I'm sorry. Even if you can't save me, I want you to read this bit and know it's true.

And when you're done reading this letter, I want you to be smart. Go to the...I dunno, the FBI or the Department of Labor or something. Maybe the media, get it all out in the press. Get people to look at the employment records, find out how many of the girls are either on the payroll for ridiculously low salaries or vanished completely. Just get some leverage before you go in, or they'll roll right over you.

I hope this letter makes some sense to you, because it feels like gibberish to me, and I want to just take a lighter and burn it to ashes because it's so terrible. But I know that's not the real me speaking, that's the part of me that's under their control already. It's a big part of me, now, but the real me isn't totally gone yet. I'm hoping it won't be totally gone when you read this.

OK, time to seal this up in the envelope, and put a stamp on it, and just drop it in a mailbox and not worry about where the mailman takes it. If you get this, you'll know I've succeeded. If you don't...

I'm trying hard not to think about 'if you don't.' Because that's making my pussy real wet.

Praying for help,

Justine