Trigger Point

The highway mechanic emerged from under the hood of the car, wiped his hands, and said, “Oh, it is no problem at all, miss. All we have to do is charge the battery now, and we will have you back on the road in no time.”

He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t—how could he? But that didn’t matter. It happened.

Five years ago, I had married Luke—and three years ago, I had divorced him. For two explosive years, he had conquered me in BDSM bliss… he took me like a storm, made me submit to him as a ****. With my full consent, I should add… he created magic for me. He ruled me, I obeyed him, and that delicious premise had turned into a tremendous boiling vat of exploration and delight. He tore down my boundaries one by one, and I felt the joy of losing all my petty limits in an overwhelming journey of splendid submission. I knelt for him, wore his collar, did his bidding. He controlled my daily activities and social life— heck, he told me how to dress and what food to eat. He directed an active and saucy sex life, deciding when, how, and where I was allowed to cum. Indeed, if I could cum.

After two years, I found him in bed with my best friend. I yelled and shouted. I banged his chest with my fist. But he didn’t show guilt, regret, or shame. He simply told me that since I was his submissive, it was his natural right to consort with anyone he wanted and that it wasn’t my place to forbid him anything.

That was a bridge too far for me. I wanted him to be my master, my lord, my demigod. And I didn’t want to share that feeling with anyone.

We tried for a few months longer, but the magic was gone. In a way I felt selfish that I couldn’t cross this boundary. I told myself that he was right, that if I was his ****, it should make me happy to please him in every way I could—and if it made him happy to sleep with other women, of course I should do my best to facilitate it. But I never felt it. I felt wrong and beaten and lost in dark thoughts. Divorce was imminent.

It was just that, in those two years, he had also subjected me to an exceptional piece of mind control. He called it “neuro-linguistic programming,” but I don’t really think it is the correct word. He trained me for all of those two years. It wasn’t easy, but in the end he succeeded. He rewired my brain—I was hypnotized to be his neuro-rewritten ****.

And no matter that I had left Luke years ago, the rewiring wasn’t lifted. Even now, there were still two words, which had a defining impact on my sex life.

The first one was “Charge“. Whenever I heard it, strong pornographic imagery flooded my head, and an actual wave of arousal ripped through my pussy. My juice came as a torrent, setting off an embarrassing state of dripping crotch. I heated up in seconds like a bitch, all the way up to the point that it was hard for me to suppress the urge to throw myself into the arms and under the cock of the first man that I saw.

And even worse, I couldn’t get rid of it. I couldn’t just rub myself to orgasm or find a man to fuck me to one. Oh no, no no, Luke had wanted to control that as well… So he had set up a second trigger in me. I couldn’t cum unless I heard the second word: “Release.” If I didn’t, I could only dangle on the edge, overhornified, ready to cum any second, but programmed to be unable to. No word, no orgasm, it was as simple as that. My god, I yearned to hear “release”, and no one ever said it when I wanted to. Frustration was at the core of my sex life now—no matter how horny I was, no matter what lucky guy I dragged back to my apartment, I simply couldn’t cum except by the crazy chance that someone would say “release“ after first “charging” me.

Luke had chosen the words with an admirable yet devious skill. “Charge” isn’t a word you hear often in daily conversation. Sometimes months would go by without firing the trigger. Those would be quiet months, sexually. Luke had done a complete job: he hadn’t just placed the triggers, but their inverse as well—without a “charge,” I could hardly feel stimulated at all. I had dated some guys after Luke and had sex with them, but I only pretended to enjoy it to please their masculine pride. In reality, nothing much happened to me when I was with them: no disgust, no resistance, but no arousal either. In the end I had just stopped dating altogether, resigning myself to my single and mostly sexless life… until, until, in a youtube movie, a conversation with a colleague teacher at school, an overheard chat between strangers in the park… somebody used “charge” in a sentence, and ignited me with it. It always happened completely unexpected, it isn’t really a word you can “see coming”, it just pops up in the middle of a sentence in one of its meanings, and poof, down the rollercoaster rails I went. One moment, you’re just moving along your perfectly normal day. The next, you are on fire and aching for “release”.

“I think it would be better if Mrs. Jenkins took charge of the library.”

“That guy wanted to charge me a thousand for fixing my roof!”

“I can’t reach him, maybe his phone isn’t charged.”

“Lord Tennyson wrote his famous poem only weeks after the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

“An additional charge may be debited from your account.”

The possibilities were endless, and each of them felt like a punch in the gut, sending me spinning without any warning. I had to deal with it at that very moment, in whatever social situation I happened to be in, preventing myself from moaning in delight or sinking through my knees. I couldn’t prepare for anything, I would suddenly have to fight a hopeless struggle for hornification suppression at any time.

It didn’t work completely. Among my colleagues I was known as “feeble”, as I often used a sudden fainting or asthmatic problem as an excuse for obvious symptoms. Once it happened when I was teaching in front of a full class, and I found myself rushed to hospital by ambulance just to be credible.

But if “charge” is a rare word in conversation, a subsequent “release” is even rarer. People aren’t talking about “release” when a young woman apparently has some sort of seizure in their presence. There are exceptions, of course. When I had come to the hospital after the ambulance ride, a nurse had said, “The doctor won’t release you until he’s sure it wasn’t something serious,” which simple phrasing had turned it into a delightful event although it had also convinced the doctor that he couldn’t release me at all until morning.

Then there was the weird case when I heard “The rapper was charged with inciting **** for the lyrics of his latest album release” being spoken on the news.

In the three years since I had left Luke, after being “charged”, the “release” word was used later that day three more times. But that was it. Thus, I had had a grand total of five orgasms since then. The vast majority of times, I simply had to come down from my high on the wrong side of the mountain, a needy and sad pussy fostering the hangover of yet another unsatisfied spike of dopamine levels.

You could tell me that the solution was so easy. I was a submissive, right? All I needed to do was find a man, a dominant yet loving man, tell him what my trigger words were, and allow him to control my sex with it. If I was a good sub to him, surely he would want to reward me and grant me “release”? Heck, wasn’t it a precious gift to him to bring into a relationship, that these triggers were already wired into my brain for his pleasure to play with them?

Yes, I considered it, but in the end, I decided against it. First of all, it was Luke who programmed me this way, and in a way that still made him the owner of the triggers. Even if he doesn’t use them and I never see him anymore, that doesn’t mean I can just pass them on to someone new.

Apart from that, it is kind of a total thing… once I divulge my secret to such a man, I can never undivulge it. Who knows what this man would do to me, if I delivered this tremendous power into his hands?

And lastly, there haven’t been any real candidates. After Luke, I left the city behind and moved to a small town. I took a job at the local high school, teaching English and History. The choice of men in these towns is limited, most interesting ones are already occupied, and dominance among the free ones is more of a fantasy to them than an actual aura. After Luke, it was hard for me to accept a man who was less dominant than him. And I could only ever consider revealing my secret to a man who was at least his equal. None of these villagers were. So I remained single, and surfed the waves of my predicament in the random way I have just told you about. I wasn’t unhappy, even if I got bored sometimes. It was a price I was willing to pay.

Ok, you’ll say, so if I wanted a sex life, why didn’t I use a bit of creativity? There’s millions of videos on Youtube, surely I could find ones where these words would likely be used? From the privacy of my home, without the risk of embarrassing myself?

It is kind of hard to explain that. You have to understand how deep this is engrained into me now. These words represent a complex emotional mix of taboo, trauma, shame, and danger. When I have the chance, I stay clear of them. It is like a reflex, they make me feel weak and **** and dependent. They steer me randomly, it could be very dangerous to interfere with them. I certainly wouldn’t dream of deliberately evoking them. You don’t play around with dynamite either.

I am sorry for the long introduction, I just wanted to make sure you know what it meant when the mechanic said he needed to “charge the battery” of my car. It gripped me like lightning, as it always does. I must have moaned when it overtook me, and a thousand hot needles ravished my pussy. I cringed.