"I was going to make your favorite breakfast," Devon says. She should turn around and look at him. But suddenly, she can't move at all. She knows he's approaching her. He sounds amused. "But if you're not hungry, we can do something else."
That's not right. That doesn't make any sense. How could he know her favorite breakfast? She's certain it didn't come up the night before. Okay, Jasmine, you're focusing on the wrong thing. Just a figure of speech or something. Doesn't matter.
He's at her back, close enough that she can feel him. He pulls her shoes out of her hand, her purse off her shoulder.
She should stop him.
Why doesn't she stop him?
There's a tugging at her stomach, and then the belt comes off. He pulls at the dress's neckline. "Take this off, Jasmine."
No, of course she's not going to take it off. She might not be able to stop him from taking her shoes and purse, but she definitely won't--
The fabric slips off her arms and torso, and then the dress falls, bunching around her feet.
She didn't even think about it. It was like her arms were moving independent from her conscious mind.
"Turn around."
Her cheeks burn as she turns her topless form to him. She folds her arms, trying to cover up her chest, but he gently takes her hands and stretches them in front of her, revealing her breasts in all their glory.
He smiles at them. He smiles at her. She wishes she didn't feel that ping in her groin at the thought of his approval. He's topless, wearing only a pair of jeans, and he looks, as always, infuriatingly attractive.
"I wonder if you've even noticed," he muses, "that you haven't said a word since you woke up."
Her eyes widen. Her hands are still in his. He's right. She's had plenty of thoughts, sure. Plenty of conversations in her own head. But not a single word spoken aloud.
"Or that the panties you're wearing aren't the ones you were wearing at the party."
She looks down, but she doesn't need to. She can feel the fabric against her skin, and knows now it's completely different from the white floral-patterned cotton briefs she wore to the party. The ones she's wearing now are black, a thong with a lace waistband.
"Why'd you put them on, Jasmine?" he asks.
"They were..." Her voice almost sounds foreign in her ear, like it's been ages since she's used it. "They were on the chair."
His reaction isn't at all what she expected. He leans over and kisses her cheek, so tenderly. "Yes, they were," he whispers.
She lets out a soft moan as he cups her breast, squeezing it firmly. The back of her head rests against the door.
"My poor girl," he says. He weaves his fingers through her scalp. The way he says, "My."
My poor girl.
It's so subtle, but she can feel the possessiveness of it. It's not just an affectionate epithet. She moans again. "Did you try to take off the cuffs?"
"Yes."
He puts his hand around one of the ones on her wrist, squeezing the leather against her skin. "But you couldn't, could you?"
"No." She whimpers, half from the pleasure of his touch, half from the confusion.
"Let's hear it, Jasmine. Tell me what you remember. Tell me what you think is happening." He pulls back, just enough for his face to meet hers, placing two fingers under her chin.
She inhales. "We were at the party, no, in your dad's office. With your friends. And I let you...you made me..." She remembers how hard it was for her to think then, and now her hand goes to her forehead. Tears form at her eyes.
"It's alright," he says softly. "What did I do to you, Jasmine?"
"You hypnotized me," she says, her voice so small.
"And why was that so hard for you to say?"
"Because...because it wasn't real. Hypnotism isn't real. Brainwashing isn't real. But I can't get the cuffs off. I couldn't unlock the door. You did something to me, and there's a room--"
He waits a beat. "Go on."
"There's a room. Downstairs."
"What's it for?"
"I don't know."
"Did you go into it?" Devon asks.
She shakes her head.
"But you know it's important."
She nods.
"Show me," he orders.
She turns and heads down the stairs, Devon following close behind her. Her dress, her purse, her shoes, and her belt all stay on the landing. She can't explain why, but she has the distinct feeling that she'll never see any of them again. She walks past his bedroom and goes to the door that gives her the strange feeling, which intensifies when she stands before it.
He twists the handle and pushes the door open.
There's barely any furniture in the room; it's definitely not being used as an office or a guest room.
It's kind of Stanley Kubrick-esque. That's the closest way she can describe it. The walls are painted a stark white, the windows covered with thick curtains, and there's a white table in the center of the room with a chair. Short metal chains have been fastened to each side of the table and on the floor, near the front legs of the chair. The chair is facing a wall with a giant screen, and a projector is mounted to the ceiling. On the other side of the room there are more chains, perfect for keeping her upright against the wall. Each corner of the ceiling features a black speaker, facing down to the center of the room.
"Do you remember this room, Jasmine?" he asks. He leans against the table casually, one knee over the other, just like he did when he was resting on the armrest of the chair in his father's office.
"No." She shakes her head, too horrified to take more than one step inside. "But you did something to me in here, didn't you? After the party, you took me here and--"
"After the party?" His eyebrows raise as if in surprise, but she can tell by his smile that he's not surprised at all. "That's what you think? I hypnotized you at the Christmas party, then took you here, brainwashed you, and then you woke up half an hour ago?"
Her jaw tenses. She knows he's mocking her. But what else can she do but answer honestly? "Yes."
He laughs, like he's delighted by her. "Oh, Jasmine." He crosses his arms. "That party was three months ago."
A knot forms in her gut at the revelation, and she's so shocked that she gains enough temporary autonomy to move her foot as if to step back, but her body remains still. The air is sucked out of her lungs. Three months? She's lost three months? No. No, that's not possible.
"But you did so well, Jasmine. So, so well." He stands, approaches her, then grabs her upper arms, moving her to the wall with the chains. "You're a fucking masterpiece."
She whimpers. "Please," is all she can get out.
He locks the chains to the cuffs on her wrists and tugs them, keeping her arms in a Y shape, then he leans down and locks her ankles to the chains on the floor. He stands and runs his hands along her arms, admiring them. "Work of art. Every inch of you."
There's a pounding in her cunt. She wants to kick him in the groin. She wants him to shove his tongue down her throat.
"That first night..." he grins and takes in a breath through his teeth, "did a lot of the legwork. But the programming, the full programming," he puts his mouth to her neck, "that took awhile. That's what this room is for, Jasmine. What did I do to you here?"
"You programmed me," she says, though she still can't remember any of it. But she knows that it's true, and she knows it's what he wants her to say.
"That's right. Once I confirmed you were receptive, it took me about a week to put together this room. Your mind was already pretty liquid, even if you didn't realize it when you were out of the first trance; it wasn't hard to convince you to come in here and let me take you deeper, and the whole process became much more streamlined." He rubs her back. Every time he touches her, it's like an electric shock. "And, of course, there were other matters to attend to in the meantime. Doctors' appointments to make sure you're healthy, and that you stay that way. Cosmetic stuff, like permanent makeup and laser treatments for your body hair. We still have a few sessions for that, by the way." He dances his fingers along her mound, and she realizes that it's hairless. Nothing stands between his fingers and her skin.
She moans. "Good girl," he says, and she moans again. She sounds like a porn star in her own ears, even though she's never seen a porno in her life, as far as she knows. "And we had to take care of your apartment, your job. You quit three weeks ago, moved in with me last week. Oh, the
look
on the faces of those old ladies when they realized you were seeing me." He growls and chuckles at the same time, and nibbles at her ear. "I think the old Jasmine would have cared what they thought. But the new Jasmine just laughed and told them they were jealous hags."
She gasps, shocked. She believes him, even though she can't remember it.
"What's wrong?" he asks with a smirk, hands on her waist.
"That was my job. That was my career."
"Your career?" He laughs. "What were you making, twenty an hour? Barely enough for a shitty apartment with shitty roommates in the shittiest part of town."
"But it was mine. My life. I wanted to go to grad school, I wanted--"
"You had no future. Not compared to the one I've given you." He plants his palms against the wall, boxing her in and somehow making her feel even more trapped. "You've known that from the moment I took you. There is no life for you more fulfilling than this. Remember what I told you that night, Jasmine. I couldn't hypnotize you to do anything you didn't want to do."
