Becoming Staci

And every time I started to feel a climax building, I'd look over at the mirror, and be looking in that direction as I came, my shuddering body communicating my orgasm into the cocks in my cunt and my mouth. I had no idea if they were still recording -- they'd be idiots if they were! -- but, on the off chance that they were, I wanted the future generations of cops who watched this to be as turned on as possible. I wanted them to see me cum.

But the steady stream of cocks eventually ceased, and I found myself in the room with only one or two final stragglers. I felt weak; spent. Used -- happy. More and more, I was starting to view myself as a place where cocks go; this morning had been a perfect manifestation of that.

I lay there, on the steel table, legs hanging over the side, covered in cum, cum leaking out of my pussy, cum in my hair... I wanted to stay there, and sleep in it.

But one of the cops finally told me that it was time to go. He helped me up onto unsteady legs, and waited patiently for me to get my clothes back on as best I could.

"Would you like a ride home, ma'am?" he asked, and I said that would be great.

He and a couple others escorted me out the back door of the station to a cruiser, and we piled in. There was another cop in the back with me, and I just couldn't help myself: as we started moving, I leaned over, freed his cock, and started sucking.

He came when we were still a few blocks from my place, so I sat back up, wiped some of his cum from my lips, and leaned contentedly against the window for the rest of the ride.

One of them escorted me upstairs to my apartment door, and made sure I got in safely, but he didn't join me inside. He'd probably already fucked me, or gotten a blowjob -- or both! -- and wasn't up for another round. But it was OK; I was serene. Like a well fed cat.

I didn't bother with a shower, I just fell into my bed again, covered in what were formerly clothes (but were now basically cum-soaked rags), and was asleep almost instantly.

Friday Afternoon: The Answers I'd Been Waiting For

I woke up sometime after noon. It hadn't been a long sleep, but I was so satiated from all of the ways I'd been used over the last few days that I still woke up feeling rested. Sore, but rested. It was a good kind of sore, like how you feel after a vigorous workout.

I tossed my clothes into the garbage, threw the sheets from my bed (which now had flakes of dry cum all over them) into the laundry, and went to stand under a hot shower. Earlier this morning, I'd thrilled at the feeling of being covered in cum; now I thrilled at how pleasing my clean, fresh young body would look to any men who saw me. There was a time and a place for "cum slut," and there was a time and a place for "girl next door."

I made myself another smoothie for lunch, and then checked my emails on that mysterious new account. There was a single message, from StudentSir:

It's time. Come over when you get this.

Who was this? I wondered. And why did I even have this weird "special account" that I had to check? And who the hell was "StudentSir"?

But even as I wondered about these things, I was also in movement: As soon as I'd seen the message, I finished getting dressed -- skirt and top, but no panties or bra -- grabbed my purse, put on a pair of heels that I normally only wore to the strip club, and headed out the door. My mind was racing, but my body was on autopilot.

In the hallway, as I was locking the door, I noticed my neighbour just coming home, apparently from doing groceries. Without thinking, I was compelled to approach him.

"Excuse me, I... Please?" was all I was able to manage, before getting down in front of him, pulling down his sweatpants, and taking his soft cock into my mouth.

He started to splutter something, in his shock, but he wasn't able to say anything more intelligible than I had managed. It didn't matter: I got him hard with my mouth, and then worked him until he came down my throat.

"Th-- Thank you," I managed to say, as I got back up, and left him.

I left the building, and got back on my way to... wherever it was that I was going. I live in a quiet neighbourhood, and it was the middle of the afternoon on a Friday, so I didn't see too many people, but I did occasionally come across a lone guy, walking in the other direction, and each time I did, without thinking, I pulled him aside, asked to suck his cock (more with actions than with words), and swallowed his cum, right there on the sidewalk.

At one point I came across two guys, and before I could successfully get one of their cocks out they pulled me into an alley and spit-roasted me.

But finally, I found myself in front of a nondescript house. It was my destination; I just don't know how I knew that.

---

I went up to the door, and knew I didn't need to knock, I was expected.

I went inside, found the living room, and there was a man there, sitting in an armchair.

"Hello, Jennifer," he said, and I felt something shift inside my head.

"Jennifer... Jennifer?" I mumbled, falling onto the couch across from him. "Jennifer?"

"Yes," he responded, "Your name is Jennifer. Perhaps it would help if I said... 'sardines'?"

And it did. Immediately, as if a veil had been lifted, I remembered. I remembered everything. I was Jennifer, not Staci. I was... holy fuck, I was a professor of Economics at Local College, not a student -- not a stripper! I was 35, not 23, or whatever age I'd been thinking I was. Though, honestly, I could pass for 23. I'd kept myself in pretty good shape. So all of those guys this past week were pretty luck-- oh shit! All those guys! How many of the guys who'd fucked me this past week were students of mine?

Were videos of me fucking and sucking my way through an army of cops being distributed around the police station at that very moment?!?

And this man... this was Matt. He was a TA of mine. And, if I was honest, not a very good one. He spent more time flirting with the students than he did doing any actual work, and once or twice I'm sure he'd accepted a blowjob in exchange for improving some coed's grade. He wasn't bad looking, but I think that was half the problem: he assumed he could coast through life on his looks. The problem was that he seemed to be right.

More importantly, I remembered Sunday afternoon. I remembered telling Matt that I didn't want him as my TA anymore, that it wasn't working out. And then... somehow... I remember the conversation changing, and him saying that I looked stressed, and I remember him convincing me that he could help relieve my stress with... hypnosis?!?

Oh shit. Yes, I remembered it all. Him putting me under, and then suggesting that a body like mine was made to be shown off; maybe I should consider stripping. He knew the owner of the strip club around the corner from my place, so he could easily get me a job there. (And good lord, I remember being so thrilled that he'd be able to get me that opportunity...) And, he asked, how did I feel about the name Staci? Jennifer was so stuffy; it was a name for smart women, not hot, bubbly girls like me. I remembered him telling me that a sexy girl like me shouldn't have to think too much -- and I remember blushing in pleasure when he called me "sexy." I remember him telling me that some girls can be more useful if they're used in other ways -- and yes, he used the word "used."

I remember him putting his laptop on the bed, opening up a video showing various cocks, and girls sucking those cocks, and getting fucked by them, and having wondrous, marvellous orgasms; I remember him bending me over the bed, so that I could focus totally on that video. (I don't remember him fucking me -- I must have been too engrossed with the video of the delicious, life-giving cocks -- but I do remember that, when he finally had me stand up, there was cum running down my leg.

And I remember going out Sunday afternoon and buying a bunch of slutty outfits; the type of clothes I figured a stripper would wear.

---

That conversation was an hour ago. Once he'd said that special word the hypnotic spell was broken, and I was me again: Jennifer. Professor Smith. I'd remembered everything: my life before, and my life over the course of the last week or so. Jennifer... and Staci. He let me remember all that had happened, gave me a choice, and then he left the room.

So for the last hour, I've been sitting here, pondering the decision he gave me. A simple decision, really: I can go back to what I was as Jennifer, and resume my life as a professor of Economics. I'd be me again -- Staci was, after all, kind of dumb, regardless of how much she enjoyed life -- and I'd be back to my good, respected job.

Or he could hypnotize me again, and make it permanent -- it wouldn't even be that difficult this time, having done it already -- and I would be Staci forever. Fucking and sucking my way through life, getting pleasure -- getting meaning -- out of being a cum slut for a never ending procession of dicks. I could keep my job as a stripper, and Matt even assured me that the owner would look the other way if I wanted to fuck men in the VIP room. As long as I wasn't charging for it.

In fact... he knew another guy who made pornographic movies. If I wanted, I could get paid for fucking and sucking -- and men all over the world could get off to it. This particular producer had a penchant for gangbang and Bukkake videos; when Matt had told me that, I could feel my pussy starting to leak.

But no. That's obviously not what I want. I don't want to be Staci, I want to be Jennifer again.

Though I have to wonder: if the decision is so simple, why am I still sitting here, after an hour?

haha!