Cheerloathing, Part Seven
- Lisa X Lopez
- Mar 10
- 23 min read
Cheerloathing is an epic-length erotic novel of betrayal, seduction, and duplicity. As something of a spiritual successor to The Second Place Sister, this story features lots of kink and deep characterization. Enjoy!
Chapter Thirteen: The Twisted Sister
Carrie understood that the kinds of things she masturbated to were not exactly normal things. When she watched porn or read stories, they weren’t romantic. They were deviant and dirty. And yet, those things tripped Carrie’s switch more than the things that were supposed to feel normal.
Normal things, she found, were like drinking a vanilla milkshake. They could taste alright, and on a hot day, they might even do the job. But they didn’t ignite the tastebuds like chocolate. If Carrie was going to get lost in a fantasy, she needed chocolate.
At first, it was the vanilla that had made her curious. Her pussy liked the fucking and the sucking, the cute girls and hot guys, but there was nothing novel about those things. It was like Fight Club. Sure, there were plenty of disenchanted people out there and that part of the human condition was interesting. There were, likewise, underground street fighters. That, too, was an intriguing thing for someone that found people’s behaviors of interest. When the two of them were put together and they resulted in a dark and gritty worldview, that was chocolate.
Over time, Carrie had found her chocolate. The things she explored, alone, while she touched herself had progressively strayed further from the vanilla. Because those things, she’d found, didn’t just make her pussy wet. They made her heart hammer and her throat tight. They gave her stomach a hot feeling and her mind detached in a way that only being on the tennis court could equal.
Therefore, Carrie sought out and found other people like her. They were the people that wrote fantasies or experiences of crossing forbidden boundaries. They were people that found it erotic and exciting when they were groped and molested in public places without consent. The things that did it for Carrie were those things that spoke to people who allowed their desires to override their better judgment. And when she watched or read those things, they built a fantasy in her head that was just as intriguing as the best books.
Today, it had begun in the same way it usually did, which is to say that Carrie had no idea how it had begun. She’d been having breakfast with Diana, and her sister was wearing her cheer uniform. That was normal on days when she had practice in the afternoon or evening. What was also normal, for Carrie at least, was her own reaction to that uniform.
Carrie had a similar feeling when she wore her tennis skirt. It was a feeling of exposure that sent a hot rush through her. The thought of people looking at her bare legs or exposed tummy, imagining what was under that little skirt, gave her that sexual thrill that stayed with her until she could satisfy it and make it go away.
As she watched Diana get up from the table and rinse a plate, then bend over to put it in the washer, she wondered two things. Did Diana get the same feeling, being out there in front of those people in her little skirt? And, if she did, did she also come home and do the same thing to make that feeling go away?
Of course, Carrie would never talk to her sister about that. That would be admitting it to someone and that would make another of her weird fantasies too real. If she told someone, they might judge her. They’d think she was a pervert. They might call her a slut or a weirdo, and if they did that, Carrie would be ashamed, humiliated, and so horny.
She imagined what it would be like to watch Diana on top of her pyramid, putting one of those flexible legs behind her back, everyone in the stands looking at her, their eyes focused on her hidden pussy. And then, a wardrobe malfunction. Diana’s spanks would tear and expose her pussy to the assembled crowd. The flush of humiliation as it happened, as she realized that hundreds or even thousands of people were staring at her pussy, gave Carrie that sexy feeling.
She had the same feelings about herself, the same fantasies. In a rush, she’d forget to wear anything under her tennis skirt. On the court, she’d be so into the game, running and striking the ball, that she’d become oblivious to the way her skirt flipped up with her movement. The people watching would forget about Carrie’s athletic ability and the score. Instead, they’d start watching her pussy, watching her skirt as it flipped up, waiting for the next flash. Then would come the photos, the videos, people capturing images of her embarrassing predicament. It would be horrible and it would make her so hot.
That was how it had begun. Those little imagined scenarios were what triggered the need to hurry to her room when Diana left. The need to continue building the fantasy, to feed it, was what made her sit in the computer chair and begin to surf. The fantasy spun out, becoming a kind of mishmash of all the things about it that Carrie found exciting.
The first video was two girls, who resembled each other enough to be twins. They were in short skirts inside what looked like a school gym. The two of them were blushing and embarrassed because a group of men had the two of them in wooden stocks. The girls’ skirts were held up by two of those men, and the rest of them were all staring at the two wet, puffy little pussies and laughing. While Carrie touched herself, drawing out her arousal, she watched the men each take turns rubbing and touching the girls’ pussies. The two humiliated girls squirmed and gasped, whimpering as the group of men pushed their fingers into their cunts. The girls couldn’t help but cum from their shame and arousal, and that led Carrie to the next video.
In this one, another girl in a short skirt stood on a crowded bus. She was surrounded by men and, as Carrie pushed her fingers into her cunt, she watched the men begin to touch the girl’s body. First, it was one hand casually brushing a hip or an elbow accidentally bumping a breast. When the girl didn’t complain about these light touches, they became bolder. Within a few minutes, they were stroking her legs, her tummy, the sides of her boobs.
Rather than protest, the girl pressed her legs together with arousal and allowed them to go further. Carrie’s fingers squished in and out of her cunt as she watched the men begin to knead and grope the girl’s tits or put their hands under her skirt. She was so hot now, observing the girl’s weakness against the feelings those touches created inside her. Allowing strange men to molest her in public was a recipe for disaster, and the girl understood that. And yet, her pussy was wet and the hands felt good. The sense of danger and loss of control gave her that hot, sexy feeling that Carrie herself felt right now.
Soon, one of the men was behind the girl with both of his hands on her breasts, squeezing them through her shirt. Another man stood in front of her, with his tongue in her mouth as his fingers worked between her legs. Carrie watched the girl’s body quake as this stranger helped himself to her cunt and her mouth. The girl squirmed between the two of them and then made little whimpering noises into the man’s mouth. Her hand clung to his wrist, caught between allowing him to make her cum and the knowledge that if she did, it would mean she was the kind of slut that let random men fingerfuck her on a bus. When she gave in, and she became that kind of slut, Carrie came at the same time as the girl.
***
Had she managed one more good, hard cum, Carrie may not have been thinking slutty thoughts before she went to the gym. With the image of the girl in the skirt being molested on the bus in her mind, though, Carrie was thinking slutty thoughts. Because of those slutty thoughts, she was also thinking of the way that Brett had casually given her ass a little squeeze on the court just a couple of days ago.
Those two things combined, made Carrie forgo her compression shorts for today’s tennis match with Brett. Instead, Carrie wore little panties that were in no way appropriate for the tennis court. By the end of the workout, she might regret it, but Carrie’s pussy was thinking for her, and so panties it was.
Upon arriving at Hank’s, Junior at the desk waved her in without a membership.
“Call it your free trial week,” he said. “Having some women around sure couldn’t hurt with sign-ups.”
“Thanks,” Carrie replied and went through the doors.
She found Brett in the back, on the court, hitting balls from the machine. He waved between shots when he saw her and Carrie limbered up a bit as she waited. Inwardly, she got a little flutter in her stomach when Brett’s accuracy took a noticeable dip while she stretched nearby. When the machine was empty, he switched it off.
“Can I help you pick up your balls?” Carrie asked, indicating the tennis balls strewn across the court.
She blushed immediately at the implication and the raised eyebrows from Brett.
“You’re welcome to pick up my balls any time,” he shot back, twirling his racquet.
“I guess that didn’t come out quite right.”
He shrugged, kept his grin on his face, and said, “More’s the pity.”
Carrie’s blush deepened and the pussy buzz in her head deepened along with her complexion. Again, had she not been thinking slutty thoughts, she might have made a conscious effort to watch how she was bending to scoop up the balls. However, as a result of her perverted pussy, she gave Brett a little bit of a show that made the hot feeling only increase. She was sure he’d looked.
Good sense told her, of course, that flashing her panties to a man over twice her age was a silly and stupid idea. The image of the girl on the bus, though, letting her slutty desires betray her common sense, had Carrie’s pussy telling her this was okay. What was the harm in showing off a little? Brett was nobody important. This was just a casual game at the gym. It was an easy way to play with her fantasy, in an environment where the consequences were minimal or nonexistent.
So, Carrie opened the game with a powerful serve, which Brett failed to return because he was focused on the way her skirt flipped up to reveal her panties. He shook his head in dismay, retrieved the ball, and Carrie called out, “15-love,” with a shit-eating grin. Brett grumbled something as he tossed the ball back and bounced on his feet. Carrie served again and, this time, Brett managed to return. Carrie hit it back easily, with only a short dash to intercept the ball.
Brett, however, was focused on her legs and the sway of the skirt, hoping for another flash. Carrie’s pussy got even more excited, knowing from his obvious miss of an easy shot, that his attention was elsewhere. She served again. This time, though, Brett did something she wasn’t familiar with, displaying his experience with a quick, short return that Carrie missed. For a moment, she forgot about her pussy because the shot was an excellent one.
“Show me that again,” she said, pausing the game.
“Liked that, huh?”
“Not so much but yes.”
“Come on.”
Carrie retrieved the ball, served it exactly the same way, and watched Brett repeat the move.
“Can I try?” she asked, tossing him the ball.
Brett served and Carrie tried to copy it, standing in much the same place as Brett had been on her serve. Her shot, though, clipped the net and fell on her side.
“Almost,” Brett said. “A little lower and more power.”
He served again with the same result. Brett crossed the net, uninvited, and stood behind her. In much the same way he’d done before, he rested one hand on her hip. Carrie’s body gave an involuntary tremble as he touched her and then put his hand on her own.
“Like this,” he said, his voice deep in her ear.
He guided her hand through an arc slowly, while the hand on her hip slid lower, his fingertips brushing her bare leg just below the hem of the skirt.
“Show me again,” she said and it came out as more of a croak.
“Like this,” Brett said, pulling her arm back, “you need to start a bit lower,” his fingertips curled under the hem of the skirt, “and then follow through, going higher,” and then they slipped higher and traced the edge of her panties along her hip.
Carrie made a small gasp as he completed the arc with her.
“The arc and the power make the difference,” he said in her ear, his fingers still tracing the edge of the panties. “When you find the right balance, you’ll be able to drop them before they know what’s happening.”
His finger dipped just inside the leg band of the panties as he said it, giving a subtle indication of his not-so-hidden meaning.
“Got it?” he asked, extracting his finger and releasing her hand.
“Yeah,” Carrie whispered. “I… I want to try again.”
“As many times as you need to.”
He returned to his side and took up his racquet again. This time, Carrie landed the shot and Brett gave her a fitting round of applause.
“Pretty soon,” she said, “I’m gonna know all of your tricks.”
She tossed the ball back to resume the game and Brett chuckled.
“Girl, I’ve got all kinds of tricks you ain’t seen.”
Carrie blushed and Brett slammed the ball past her with ease.
“Don’t get distracted now, thinking those thoughts,” he said and winked. “You ain’t the only one knows how to cheat.”
“Pressing an advantage isn’t cheating,” Carrie said, and Brett grinned wider as Carrie showed her realization at admitting to showing off in order to distract him.
She tossed the ball back and readied herself this time. The two of them fell into the flow of the game, Brett putting aside his distraction and regaining his focus. Carrie, though, won the match and they took a break, sitting to the side on a bench.
Brett took a sip from his water bottle and asked, “What’s with the cheating? Didn’t feel like you could pull off a win without it?”
Carrie choked on her own water, recovered with a cough, and asked, “What?”
“You know what I’m talking about, smart girl.”
The red in Carrie’s cheeks wasn’t from exertion as she answered, “I did win.”
“Right, you did. And you might have, regardless of your little showoff. That wasn’t the question. The question was why you did it.”
Carrie sipped again and then admitted, “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do,” Brett said. “It’s alright. Everyone’s got their thing, girl. You wanna know why you did it?”
Carrie averted her eyes and her common sense told her that she should get up and leave. It was a stupid idea, put in her head by a hot cunt. If she continued to talk about that stupid idea, with a cunt that was still hot, it might lead to another stupid idea.
Instead, her pussy made her say, “Why?”
“Because that’s one of your things. It’s one of those little switches in your head that gets the juices flowing, and you started the day in a state that made you wonder if you could do it. Sound about right?”
Carrie remained silent, willing herself not to admit it. Why should she admit it to some guy who was practically a stranger, one that was older than her dad? It would be gross and it would be slutty and, holy fuck, it would be hot. Still, she couldn’t make the words come out of her mouth. She pressed her hands together between her legs to stop them from trembling.
“It probably won’t surprise you that I’ve met a fair number of people, traveling around for matches,” Brett said. “Something I’ve learned is that everyone’s got a thing. Most of them have a lot of things. You know the things I’m talking about. If you don’t want to talk about it, we’ll go back to the game and forget it happened. But you’ve got the look of someone that wants to talk about it with someone that ain’t gonna make you feel bad about it. So, do you wanna go back to the game and forget about it?”
Yes, she thought. Going back to the game and not talking about the dirty thoughts in her head was the sensible and responsible thing to do. The dirty thoughts were what made her think even dirtier thoughts, the kind of thoughts that weren’t sensible. They were the thoughts that had led her to let Mike Castle record her giving him a blowjob. The dirty thoughts were what had made her tell Amory Nelson that he could take pictures of her pushing a dildo up her ass. Those thoughts were slutty and dark, and they made her think with her pussy instead of her head.
But Carrie shook her head and pressed her hands tighter between her legs as she looked at the floor. That buzz in her head was back and the knot of hot, guilty pleasure twisted her gut. Brett sounded like he understood. He might be old, but he had something that Carrie did not. He had experience and he didn’t sound like he thought it was weird. And, for someone like Carrie, who thought she was weird for thinking those things, actually knowing another person who didn’t think she was weird felt exciting.
“Look,” Brett continued when Carrie didn’t get up, “You’re not a weirdo.”
Carrie slowly met his eyes and her own widened. It was like he’d read her thoughts.
“What you are is a person with a natural curiosity about shit. You’re a damn fine tennis player, too,” he went on, and that made Carrie smile. “Do you want to know how to stop feeling like a weirdo?”
Carrie nodded.
“Learn what you like and explore it. I’m not talking just about those thoughts in your head. You explore everything. Otherwise, you’re limiting yourself and your potential to be great at things. You know why I liked traveling around doing the semi-pro thing? It wasn’t just the game. The game is great for a lot of reasons. Doing it is what helped me explore. New places, new food, doing shit that I was afraid of. You’ve got the skill to go places by playing the game. Along the way, you’re going to meet folks, like me, that accept the things you think about because they think the same things. There are more of them than you know. I’m sure looking online has shown you that. It’s just that most of them are like you. They don’t want to talk about it with other people because they’re afraid of that one person that calls them a weirdo, more than they’re excited about the hundred that will tell them it’s alright. Make sense?”
“I guess so,” Carrie whispered, looking back at the floor.
“Since we aren’t back out there on the court right now, I’m guessing that this is probably the first time another real person’s told you that it’s okay, right?”
Carrie nodded.
“There will be others. Lots of them,” Brett went on. “When I was doing the circuit, I’d read or listen to the critics afterward. Sometimes I’d hear the asshole that said I was shit and they didn’t understand why I even tried. For every one of those bums, ten more said that I was playing a great game and should try to go further. Instead of listening to them, I listened to the asshole. That’s how people are kind of wired. We put more weight on the opinion that says we're shit than on the ten that say we’re good at something. It’s a mental block that you’ll have to get around on your own. Once you can do that, and stop listening to the one voice that says you’re a weirdo, you start to free yourself and see what you really are. And you’re great.”
Brett reached out and put his finger under Carrie’s chin, tilting her face up to look at him. Carrie let out a small gasp as the odd power of that gesture made the hot feeling even hotter. It wasn’t exactly a command, but it was. Brett wasn’t asking her to look at him or to acknowledge what he said. He was making her do it and that felt exciting. It was such a small thing, but such a rush.
“You’re not weird for liking what you like. Are you?”
Carrie shook her head.
“Say it,” Brett prompted.
“I’m… not weird.”
“Do you want to explore it? Safely?”
Carrie’s hands twisted in her lap and she nodded.
“You take little steps like you did today. This was the first time you tried it, right? To show off?”
She nodded again and Brett released her, holding her gaze.
“Did it feel exciting?” he asked.
Carrie nodded and swallowed a lump in her throat.
“We’re going to take another step. Do you want to do that?”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“It’s a small step that’s a big step.”
She nodded.
“Take them off and give them to me. Don’t show me anything. Just take them off, and put them in my hand.”
He held out his hand, palm up. For a moment Carrie wasn’t sure what he meant, but the realization came quickly. Brett wanted her to give him her panties. He waited, looking into her eyes, palm out. The slutty thoughts, in control, made Carrie stand up and her fingers went to the hem of her skirt. They rested there, toying with the hem.
Brett sat and waited, looking, his hand out. That small, quiet voice of common sense was back and telling her that she should not give this man her underwear. She should not go out on the court with a bare, wet pussy in the gym. Only, the slutty thoughts said that there was no one else around. Brett was nice and he didn’t think it was weird. It was safe to experiment, just to see what it would feel like. No one else had to know.
Carrie reached under her skirt and slid her panties down her legs. Looking away from him, she picked them up and placed them in his hand. The reaction, in her gut, in her pussy, and in her head was a powerful one. It was such a small thing, and yet, it had such vast implications that it was like a punch to the gut. When his fist closed around her panties, taking them from her hand, and he pushed them into his pocket, it felt like he was somehow taking ownership of a piece of her.
She’d let a strange man take away her underwear and leave her with a naked cunt, hidden under a scrap of cloth. He was, even now, thinking about it, she could tell. He was thinking about her pussy, knowing it was wet and that she was excited. She thought about the girl on the bus and, in some way, she was like that girl now. She was the kind of slut that took off her panties and surrendered them to a man she’d met only two days ago. It felt dangerous and exciting, allowing her desire to override her common sense.
“Good girl,” Brett said as the panties disappeared.
Carrie’s face flushed and she felt her legs quake at the words. She couldn’t understand it. The words weren’t anything special, but they seemed to signal some kind of acceptance, a reinforcement that what she’d done was the right thing. Listening to the slutty thoughts was the right thing, the correct action, and it resulted in positive reinforcement and that feeling of pleasure.
“Let’s have another game,” Brett said, standing and taking up his racquet. “Don’t think about it. Play your best.”
Carrie took up her own racquet, unsure how exactly she was going to forget that her underwear was now in his pocket. It turned out that she could not forget. Not at first. At first, she thought about her pussy every time she moved. She watched Brett watching her pussy, looking for that flash of bare flesh, maybe some sign of her arousal. It threw her game off and Brett crushed her in the next match easily.
In the next game, she lost even more quickly. Her face flushed from embarrassment, she could hardly watch the ball because Brett played the match with her panties wrapped around the handle of his racquet. He grinned across the net at her as he did it. Carrie stumbled around the court like a first-week student against an olympic champ, the feeling of humiliation at having her underwear displayed like that focusing her thoughts right between her legs.
They took another rest, even though the games had been quick. Carrie stumbled toward the bench as Brett took a seat and drank.
“That wasn’t fair,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “It was downright dirty. Probably made you feel pretty embarrassed, didn’t it?”
Carrie nodded.
“It wasn’t all you felt though, was it?”
Carrie blushed.
Brett set his water bottle down, looked her in the eye, and said, “Show me.”
Carrie flushed, every bare inch of her skin turning pink. But her fingers moved to the hem of the skirt, where she dithered, fighting the common sense voice that was now so quiet.
“It’s your choice. You can see how it feels, or you can have these back,” Brett said and dangled her panties.
The sight of them instantly reminded Carrie—as though she could have forgotten—that she was about to pull her skirt up and show this man her nude, shaven cunt. And then she did, lifting the hem of the skirt and keeping it raised for Brett to examine her bare mound.
With one hand, he took her chin again and made her look down at his other hand. That hand slowly moved toward her pussy and Carrie did nothing to stop it. She was the girl on the bus. She was the kind of slut that was about to let a strange man touch her pussy in a public place. And all common sense was suddenly quiet. There was only the slutty thoughts and the hot feeling.
Brett’s finger went between her legs, where it traced the crease of her pussy, gathering sweat and girl honey along its length as Carrie gasped. He pulled back his hand and showed her the sticky, wet finger, coated in her arousal and sweat. And then he put the finger into his mouth. Carrie made a slutty noise as he did it.
“We’re finished for today,” he said.
Carrie suddenly realized that she was still holding her skirt and dropped it. Brett stood, close but still an acceptable distance. A safe distance. He pushed her panties back into his pocket and Carrie shivered.
“I’ll see you on Thursday. Don’t bother wearing panties for the next game.”
Carrie slowly nodded.
“Go home and take care of it,” Brett whispered. “I know you need to.”
Carrie snatched up her racquet and, without a look back, left quickly. Yes, she definitely needed to take care of it.
***
Chapter Fourteen: Day Zero
For sixty-three days, she’d been Lizzy. All it had taken was one slip, one moment, in which she was not Lizzy, to set the clock back to zero. Alone in her room at the hospital, Lizzy lay on her bed and stared at the prizes on the dresser. There was no prize from today.
Thanks to her disassociative episode, Dr. Marlow had not won her a prize. Another Fair Day ruined. Not even the hot feeling between her legs from the white pill could quite distract her from her misery as she played out her episode for the hundredth time.
It was a short one, lasting only long enough for Dr. Marlow to chase her down. That didn’t lessen the impact of it, and she knew that Dr. Welcome would agree. He’d see it as a sign that she was not getting better, and it would mean that the hospital was going to be home for a lot longer. Probably forever.
Though her room had no window, Lizzy knew that it was dark outside. After so many years here, she had a sense of these things. She could tell by the activity and the feeling of the place what time of day it was.
The door opened and Dr. Marlow stepped into the room, looking much more doctorly in his white coat than he had at the fair.
“May I come in, Lizzy?” he asked.
Lizzy nodded. Dr. Marlow closed the door and sat on the bed with her.
“I’m sorry that I had to put your episode in the file,” he said. “I hope you understand that it’s only because we want you to get better.”
“I know.”
“Dr. Welcome would like you to spend some time in the Immersion Room.”
Lizzy sat up.
“But, I did good!” Lizzy argued. “I... I didn’t get mad. You saw it. It was just for a minute. I’m okay now, I promise!”
“I know, honey. It’s just for an hour. Identity reinforcement so soon after an episode will help. You know it will.”
Lizzy knew that it would help. She’d been through it enough to know. Still, she didn’t like the Immersion Room. The room made her feel weird, even weirder than the white pill. She always came out of it feeling more like Lizzy, which was a good thing. But after the room, she always spent the whole night touching her pussy afterward, unable to make the hot feeling go away.
It wasn’t as though she had a choice, however. Fighting it would lead to anger and the anger would only make her feel less like Lizzy. The longer she wasn’t Lizzy, the longer she’d be in the hospital.
Dr. Marlow stood up and Lizzy followed. With her head down, she trailed behind him, making three rights, then a left. Another left, then a pause at the door to the stairwell. Dr. Marlow unlocked the door with his finger, then took her up the steps. Two more lefts brought them to the big, black door. Dr. Marlow opened this one, too.
Lizzy followed him in. The Immersion Room was small and white, the bare walls gleaming as if they were wet. In the center of the room sat the white chair. Lizzy tugged down her pants and let them fall to the floor, then sat in the chair.
Dr. Marlow put the straps on the arms around her wrists and they clicked shut. He followed it by putting two clasps around her ankles. They clicked. The seat of the chair began to warm. On each of her wrists, she gasped as the little needles in the arms lanced her skin and began to pump in the special drugs that would help her relax. The hospital had so many of those, all of them with weird names that she couldn’t pronounce.
Dr. Marlow’s voice took on a distant, echo-like quality as he said, “Just relax now, Lizzy. I’ll be right outside.”
“Yeah,” Lizzy said as her vision began to swim and she giggled.
Dr. Marlow left the room. The seat of the chair was warmer now, sending the heat up her body, and within a minute the heat from between her legs intensified. The lights in the room began to dim and the familiar, pleasant pulsing from the chair sent little tingling waves of pleasure into her pussy.
The wall in front of her shimmered, drawing Lizzy’s eyes to it as it came to life. It started as a pale, blue dot that always reminded Lizzy of the pictures of the planet that Nurse Barbara had shown her. The dot grew slowly in front of Lizzy’s eyes, expanding into a ring. At the center of the ring, another dot winked in, following the same course as the first. A third dot, then a fourth emerged from the center, expanding to become their own rings until they faded at the edges of her vision.
The rings continued to appear, beginning as a colored dot and expanding, the blue turning to green, then yellow, then back to blue. The frequency with which they appeared became faster as Lizzy watched, entranced until her whole focus was on the expanding rings. The lights in the room were all off now, but Lizzy didn’t notice. The rings were all that mattered, growing, pulsing, and changing colors so quickly that they began to blur.
By the time the colors stopped and the rings became white, they were all that Lizzy could think about. The ring turned into images, images she knew. They were the memories, her real memories, the ones that mattered. They flashed through her vision, broken every second by another ring. Her body squirmed against the chair as the pulsing pleasure of it seemed to massage her pussy, making her whole body tingle with wonderful feelings.
Over the many years that Lizzy had been under Dr. Welcome’s care, she’d been shown the images many times. In those early years, they had been pictures on paper, photographs. Now, she saw them whenever she forgot who she was and had to go into the Immersion Room. The pictures followed an order, starting with herself as a child. In some of them, she was with a woman, but it was not the woman that she’d seen today. That was the wrong mother, the false mother, the one that belonged to the other person that sometimes lived in her head.
These pictures were of her real mother, the mother in front of the mobile home. With the pictures came the voice, deep and soothing, telling her her real name. Lizzy. She was Lizzy. She was the girl from the trailer park, and her parents had gotten into trouble. That was why she’d come here in the first place. She remembered that part clearly, even all these years later. It was the part from before that day that always made her confused, and made her think about the girl who was not Lizzy.
There were no pictures of that time because that girl wasn’t real. Only Lizzy was real. The pictures showed her year after year, as she aged, here in the hospital. There were pictures at the fair, pictures of her in the common room, pictures in the garden, and pictures of her with nurses and doctors.
With her mind drifting, Lizzy was not consciously aware of when the pictures changed. It had been only recently that the new pictures had been added to the Immersion Room. Within the last year. These pictures were still of her, but in them, she was often nude. Some of them were pictures of her touching herself in her room. The pulsing from the chair grew more intense, making Lizzy’s body tremble with the ridiculously good feelings she got when she did actually touch herself, or when Dr. Welcome put his cock in her or licked her.
In other pictures, her legs were spread and Dr. Welcome’s cock was in her. Sometimes it was another doctor. The images blazed by, interspersed with the colored rings that kept her attention focused. The words in the room still reinforced her name, her real self, but they also called her other names.
“Slut. Cunt. Bitch. Fuck doll. Toy.”
Lizzy’s pussy ground against the chair as the pleasure shocks pushed her closer to the big explosion. It came as the words began to appear in front of her, flashing by as quickly as the images and the rings, imprinting themselves on her suggestible mind. She moaned and came in the chair, her brain reaffirming the association between the words, Lizzy, the pleasure, and the images.
Lizzy was real. The other girl was not. Lizzy got pleasure. Lizzy was a slut. Lizzy was a cunt. Lizzy, the bitch, got to feel good. Lizzy was a fuck doll. Lizzy was a toy that got to feel good.
The images blurred past, the words with them, followed by the rings, and with them, the repeated pleasure was forced out of her body. She shook and squirmed in the chair, humping against it, moaning, and cumming again.
Lizzy is a slut. Lizzzy is a cunt. Lizzy is a bitch. Lizzy is a fuck doll. Lizzy is a toy.
***
Enjoying this story so far? Sprawling over 61 chapters, this story is set in the DomCo world, and features cameo appearances by both heroes and villains in the series! Follow Diana's descent at the hands of the seductive and evil Sara and see just how much of a bitch the competition can be.
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