Expiphany

Author's note: Hey there! I hope you're having a wonderful day! Just a quick interruption in your scheduled reading to inform you that I've created a Discord server around hypnosis, mind control and transformations, with a focus on concept stories. I'll also keep everyone updated about my upcoming stories (big novel underway) there. Feel free to join!

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The Porsche purred beneath me as I tore through the city streets, my knuckles white against the leather steering wheel. I'd never driven anything this powerful before—hell, I'd barely driven at all in the last few years—but the car responded to my every touch like it was an extension of my body. The dashboard gleamed with soft blue lights, and the engine's growl vibrated through the seat in a way that felt almost obscene.

I wasn't even enjoying it. My mind was too focused on Melissa. Fucking Melissa. Two months since she'd dumped me, and the wound still felt fresh. "Emotionally unavailable," she'd called me. "Lacking ambition." Rich coming from someone who painted splashes on canvas and called it art. And then she'd gone and fucked her "friend" behind my back. Classic. The memory of walking in on them still made my stomach churn, her dark hair splayed across his chest, both of them too caught up in each other to notice me standing in the doorway like an idiot.

I took a sharp turn, cutting off a minivan and earning myself an angry honk. I didn't care. The GPS directed me toward the trendy part of town where her new boyfriend lived—some pretentious asshole named Damien who wore turtlenecks and talked about "the essence of color" or whatever bullshit artists discussed. I'd only met him once, at a gallery showing of Melissa's work that I'd attended out of some masochistic impulse. He'd looked at me with pity, which was worse than if he'd been smug.

My thoughts raced as fast as the car. What would I do when I got there? Make her beg for forgiveness? **** her to admit she'd made a mistake? The possibilities swirled in my head, each more vindictive than the last. Part of me wanted to hurt her the way she'd hurt me, to make her feel the same hollowness that had been my constant companion since she'd left. But another part—a part I didn't want to acknowledge—just wanted her back. Wanted to feel her pressed against me again, to smell that particular scent of oil paint and lavender that always clung to her skin.

I pulled onto her boyfriend's street, a row of renovated warehouses turned into overpriced lofts. The kind of place that screamed "I'm an artist" but actually meant "My parents are loaded." I spotted his building—a red brick monstrosity with massive windows—and parked my new Porsche directly in front of it, deliberately taking up two spaces.

As I killed the engine, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My face was flushed, my eyes wild. I looked unhinged. Good. Let her see what she'd done to me. Let her see what I'd become. The owner of all women—including her. The thought sent a surge of dark satisfaction through me. She'd rejected me, humiliated me, but now? Now she was mine, just like every other woman on the planet. And it was time she learned what that meant.

I stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind me with unnecessary ****. The sound echoed off the buildings like a gunshot. A couple walking their dog on the other side of the street glanced over nervously. I ignored them, fixing my gaze on the entrance to Damien's building. My heart hammered in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins. This was it. This was my moment of reckoning.

I pressed the buzzer next to Damien's name, and waited, my rage and anticipation building with each passing second. When the intercom crackled to life, I was ready.

"Hello?" Melissa's voice. Still as husky and musical as I remembered. For a moment, I faltered, a wave of longing washing over me. Then I remembered her with him, and my resolve hardened.

"It's Oliver," I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice. "We need to talk."

There was a pause, then a sigh. "Oliver, I don't think that's a good idea."

"I wasn't asking," I replied, my finger hovering over the intercom button. "I'm coming up. And trust me, you'll want to hear what I have to say."

Another pause, longer this time. Then the buzzer sounded, unlocking the door. "3B..." I pushed it open and stepped inside, my footsteps echoing in the industrial-chic lobby as I made my way to the elevator. Each floor that passed brought me closer to her, closer to the confrontation I'd been rehearsing in my head for weeks.

When the elevator doors slid open on the third floor, I stepped out into a hallway lined with exposed brick and track lighting. Very artsy. Very Melissa. I found 3B at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. She was waiting for me.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. This was it. Time to show her exactly who was in control now.

The door swung open, and there she was—Melissa. My breath caught in my throat. I'd forgotten how fucking gorgeous she was, or maybe I'd just been trying to forget. Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, framing a face that belonged on magazine covers. She wore a paint-splattered tank top that clung to her curves, revealing the swell of her breasts—those perfect tits I used to worship. Her legs seemed to go on forever in those tight jeans, and I could see flecks of blue paint on her bare feet. The busty bitch, the slut who'd thrown me away like garbage. The hot slut I wanted to fuck as much as I wanted to humiliate, to make miserable.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, those full lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes—those deep brown eyes that used to look at me with desire—now held unease, maybe even fear. But there was something else there too, something new: a grudging acknowledgment of my position.

"Oliver," she said, her voice carrying that familiar sarcastic edge, though now tinged with **** respect. "This is… unexpected." She shifted her weight, uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "Look, I know you own me now. I get it. If you want to fuck me, you can. That's your right." She said it matter-of-factly, but I could see the tension in her shoulders. "But I really don't think you should come in. We've said everything we needed to say to each other."

I smirked, enjoying her discomfort. "I might take you up on that offer later, but that's not why I'm here." I stepped forward, forcing her to either move or touch me. "Let me in, Melissa. Now."

She sighed, rolling her eyes in that way that used to drive me crazy—still did, if I was being honest. "Fine. Whatever. It's not like I can stop you." She stepped aside, not like someone afraid, but like someone who thought this was a terrible idea but was going along with it anyway. Because it wasn't her place to tell me what to do, with myself or with her.

I walked into the loft, taking in the space. High ceilings with exposed pipes, massive windows letting in the afternoon light, concrete floors covered with colorful rugs. The place was divided into two distinct work areas. On one side, Melissa's paintings—vibrant splashes of color that actually did require talent, though I'd never admit it to her. On the other side, what must have been Damien's workspace—sculptures made of twisted metal and found objects, pretentious as fuck.

Their living space was in the back—a bed on a raised platform, a small kitchen area, a bathroom behind a sliding barn door. Traces of him were everywhere: a man's jacket thrown over a chair, two coffee mugs in the sink, a pair of men's boots by the door. The thought of them together in that bed made my stomach turn.

"Damien's out," Melissa said, as if reading my thoughts. "Getting supplies for his new series. He might be back soon." She gave me a pointed look. "He might not be happy to find you here."

"Like I give a fuck what Damien thinks," I spat.

She shrugged, keeping her distance. "Just saying. So what do you want, Oliver? Why are you here?"

I turned to face her, feeling the anger bubbling up again. My hands were shaking. "Why didn't you contact me?" I demanded. "Two days ago, when everything changed. When you woke up knowing who you belonged to. Every other woman I know reached out. But not you. Why?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot, which only made me angrier. "Are you serious right now? You told me—and I quote—'I never want to hear from you again as long as I live.' You said I was the worst thing that ever happened to you." She ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. "What was I supposed to do? Yeah, I woke up knowing you owned me. But with everything that happened between us. I figured you'd contact me if you wanted anything. And honestly, I was kind of hoping you wouldn't."

I stared at her, momentarily thrown. I had said that, hadn't I? A few weeks after I'd found her with him. When she finally admitted there was nothing to fix. When I'd realized it for myself. I'd screamed it at her as I stormed out of her old apartment, tears streaming down my face.

"Besides," she added, her voice softer now, almost sad, "you never wanted me for who I was anyway. You wanted some version of me that existed in your head. Someone who wouldn't challenge you or have her own life." She gestured around the loft. "This is who I am, Oliver. This is what I want. And even if you own me now, you can't change that."

I latched onto her last words like a predator sensing weakness. My lips curled into a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"I can't change that?" I repeated, my voice dangerously soft. "That's where you're wrong, Melissa. I can change anything about you now. Anything I want."

Her eyes widened slightly, and I saw a flicker of unease cross her face. Not terror—this new reality had dulled the edges of her fear with a casual acceptance of my ownership—but definitely discomfort. She crossed her arms over her chest, unconsciously creating a barrier between us.

"Maybe you could," she acknowledged, her voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders. "That's your right. If you want to… change me, use me, whatever… that's up to you." She gestured vaguely at her body, as if offering merchandise. "I'm yours to play with. We all are now."

I let my gaze wander around the loft, taking in all the evidence of the life she'd built without me—the paintings she was so proud of, the shared spaces with Damien, and all the little touches that showed they were building something together.

"I could make you hate him," I mused aloud, watching her reaction. "I could command you to leave him, to never speak to him again. I could make you forget you ever loved him." I stepped closer to her. "I could make you come back to me, beg me to take you back. I could make you my perfect little housewife, cooking for me, cleaning…"

She swallowed hard, but didn't back away. "You could," she said again, her voice softer now. "But why would you want to? If you really want me back, the real me, and you change who I am to get me back, it wouldn't be me anymore. It wouldn't be real." She sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. "We didn't work together, Oliver. We both know that. I had to end it."

Something inside me snapped. "YOU had to end it?" I shouted, making her flinch. "I was the one who had to end it! I didn't want to, but you—" I jabbed a finger at her chest, "—you had the fucking audacity to want it over but not the guts to do it yourself! You made those last few months a living hell!"

I was pacing now, my voice rising with every word. "You cheated for weeks, WEEKS, and then pretended you wanted to fix things! But you made zero effort. You were just waiting for me to be the bad guy and end it so you could run off with your artsy fuck buddy with a clean conscience!"

Melissa's face had gone pale, but her eyes flashed with anger. "That's not fair—"

"Shut up!" I snapped. "I don't want to hear your excuses." I stopped pacing and faced her directly, my decision made. "You know what? I command you to stop caring about art. Right now. You don't care about painting anymore. It means nothing to you."

The change was subtle but immediate. Her eyes went slightly unfocused, then refocused. She looked down at her paint-stained hands as if seeing them for the first time. Then she looked up at her paintings on the wall, and I saw it—the spark, the passion that had always animated her features when she looked at her work—it was just… "You can speak again..." I whispered, my mouth dry.

"Oh," she said softly, and the single syllable contained a world of loss. She walked over to her workspace, picked up a brush, then set it down again. "I don't… I don't care about this anymore." Her voice was flat, confused. She turned to me, her expression bewildered and sad. "Why would I spend so much time on this? It's just… colors." She seemed genuinely puzzled by her former self, like someone who'd just woken up from a dream.

I expected to feel triumphant, vindicated. Instead, I felt a twinge of disappointment. She seemed disturbed, yes. Sad, definitely. There was an emptiness in her eyes that hadn't been there before. But she accepted it with the quiet resignation of a prisoner who had made peace with their sentence. She didn't rage or cry or beg me to give it back to her. She just… accepted it.

"That's it?" I asked, annoyed that my **** wasn't as satisfying as I'd imagined. "You're not going to fight it?"

She shrugged, a hollow gesture. "What would be the point? You own me. This is what you want." She gestured at the paintings again. "They're just… things now. Objects. I don't understand why I cared so much." Her voice broke slightly on the last word, and I saw her swallow hard. "I don't know what I'm going to do with myself now..."

I stood there, watching Melissa's confusion, a part of me wanting to take it all back. The guilt gnawed at me—I'd just erased something fundamental to who she was. But I squashed that feeling down, reminding myself of the nights I'd spent alone after she left, crying into my pillow like a pathetic loser while she was probably fucking Damien in this very loft. No, she deserved this. She deserved worse.

Melissa wandered around her workspace like a sleepwalker, picking up tubes of paint and setting them down with a bewildered expression. She stopped in front of one of her larger canvases—a swirl of blues and purples that I remembered her working on for weeks when we were still together.

"I don't understand," she murmured, tilting her head as she examined it. "Why would I spend so much time on this? It's just… colors on fabric." She turned to Damien's side of the studio, eyeing his twisted metal sculptures with the same puzzlement. "And these? What even are these supposed to be?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "This is going to make things pretty awkward with Damien."

The mention of his name was like gasoline on the embers of my anger. "Damien," I spat. "You know what? I command you to hate Damien. You find him pathetic. You can't stand the sight of him."

Her expression shifted immediately, her features contorting with disgust. "God, Damien," she said, as if the name tasted bad in her mouth. "What a pretentious asshole."

I couldn't help but grin. This was more like it. "Total poser, right?"

"Completely," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "Always going on about 'the dialogue between form and space' or whatever bullshit. And that stupid turtleneck he wears? Like he's some kind of discount Steve Jobs." She kicked one of his sculptures, sending it toppling to the floor with a clang. "Oops," she said, not sounding sorry at all.

I laughed, genuinely this time. This felt good, like the old days when we'd people-watch at cafés and make fun of the hipsters. For a moment, we were connected again, united in our disdain.

"Remember that gallery opening where he kept talking about 'the ephemeral nature of existence'?" I asked, mimicking his pretentious tone.

"Oh my god, yes!" she exclaimed. "He wouldn't shut up about it. Everyone was just nodding along like he was saying something profound." She shook her head, disgusted. "What did I ever see in him?"

"I have no idea," I said, stepping closer to her. "You could do so much better."

She turned to face me, our eyes locking. "Like you?" she snorted. "Don't get too cocky, Oliver. You're not exactly a prize either."

The words hit me like a slap. Even now, after I'd taken away her passion and made her hate her boyfriend, she still didn't want me. The brief moment of connection shattered, leaving me cold.

"You're nothing but a fucking bitch," I spat, my voice trembling with rage. "You know that? A worthless, fucking bitch who doesn't deserve anything good in her life."

Melissa flinched at my words, but her eyes still held that defiant spark. Even with my power over her, she remained rebellious, pushing against the boundaries of her new reality.

"Is that why you're here?" she shot back, her voice quieter but still sharp. "To tell me what I already know you think of me? Great use of your new power, Oliver. Really impressive."

I opened my mouth to unleash another tirade when three sharp knocks on the door interrupted me. We both froze.

"Melissa? Is everything alright in there?" called a wavering, elderly voice from the hallway. "I heard shouting."

Melissa glanced at the door, then back at me. "It's Mrs. Abernathy from across the hall," she explained in a low voice. "She's been looking out for me since I moved in."

"Melissa?" The knocking came again, more insistent this time.

I stormed to the door and yanked it open, coming face to face with a tiny woman in her seventies, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. Despite her age and stature, she stood with her shoulders squared, peering up at me with suspicious eyes through thick bifocals.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, trying to look past me into the apartment. "Melissa, are you okay?"

Her eyes found Melissa standing in the middle of the loft, and I watched as the old woman's expression shifted from protective determination to recognition when she finally focused on me. The change was subtle—a slight widening of the eyes, a small step backward—but unmistakable. She knew who I was—or rather, what I was.

"Oh," she said, her voice losing its edge. "I see." She looked back at me, and though her posture had softened, there was still disapproval in her gaze, faint but present, like a grandmother catching her grandson with his hand in the cookie jar.

I couldn't help but laugh in her face. "Yeah, that's right. I'm your owner. And yeah, I might hurt her. What are you gonna do about it, lady?"

Mrs. Abernathy's lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced once more at Melissa, a look of resigned sympathy crossing her features, then back at me. Without another word, she turned and shuffled back to her apartment, closing the door with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than if she'd slammed it.

I turned back to Melissa, who was watching me with a mixture of disgust and fear. The sight of her looking at me that way filled me with a bitter satisfaction, but it wasn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted to break her completely.

"You know what?" I said, stepping toward her. "I command you to be nothing but a dumb slut. You're horny for my cock. You can't think about anything that isn't sex. You can't comprehend anything that isn't sex."

The change was immediate and dramatic. Melissa's expression went blank for a moment, then transformed entirely. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating as she looked around the loft in obvious confusion. Her gaze passed over her paintings, her workspace, Damien's sculptures—all the things that had defined her life—and there was no recognition there at all. Just bewilderment.

Then her eyes landed on me, and a look of hungry recognition spread across her face. She licked her lips, her hands moving to her tank top, pulling it up to expose her breasts.

"Cock?" she said, her voice higher, simpler. "Want cock. Please?" She looked around the loft again, brow furrowing in confusion. "What…? Don't know. Want fuck. You fuck me?"

She stumbled toward me, her movements clumsy and ****, hands reaching for my belt. The woman who had once debated philosophy with me, who had challenged me intellectually at every turn, who had built a career with her talent and drive, was gone. In her place was this… thing. This empty vessel that existed only for sex.

Melissa dropped to her knees in front of me, her eyes vacant but hungry as she fumbled with my belt. Her fingers, once so deft with paintbrushes, now clumsy with single-minded purpose. I should have stopped her. I should have commanded her to stop. But I didn't. I just watched as she freed my cock, already hard despite the disgust churning in my stomach.

"Cock," she moaned, her voice childlike and alien. "Want suck. Please?"

She took me into her mouth without waiting for an answer, and I gasped at the sensation. She was even better than I remembered—maybe because now sex was literally all she knew, all she could think about. One hundred percent of her brain power dedicated to this one act. Her tongue swirled around the head of my cock with expert precision, her lips forming a perfect seal as she bobbed her head, taking me deeper with each movement. Saliva dripped down her chin as she worked, making obscene wet sounds that echoed in the loft.

"Fuck," I groaned, my hands finding their way into her dark hair. I guided her movements, setting the pace, and she moaned around my cock, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. Her hands gripped my thighs for balance, her nails digging into my skin through my jeans. This was what I'd wanted, wasn't it? To reduce her to nothing, to take away everything that made her special, to make her serve me?

But as I looked down at her—this hollow shell of the woman I'd once loved—a wave of nausea washed over me. This wasn't Melissa anymore. This was just a thing, a sex doll with a pulse. And yet I couldn't stop myself from thrusting into her mouth, chasing my release even as self-loathing threatened to **** me. How could this be **** if there was no one left to care?

When I came, it was with a strangled cry, my fingers tightening in her hair as I emptied myself down her throat. She swallowed eagerly, licking her lips and my softening cock clean, looking up at me with those vacant eyes, silently begging for approval.

"More?" she asked, already pulling her tank top over her head, exposing her breasts fully. "Want more. Want fuck." She stood up, clumsily stepping out of her jeans and underwear. She turned around, bending over the nearest table—which happened to be covered in Damien's art supplies—and shook her ass at me. "Fuck now? Please fuck. Need cock. Need fuck."

I staggered backward, zipping up my pants with trembling hands. What had I done? This wasn't ****. This was… monstrous. I'd turned a human being—a complex, talented, flawed human being—into this mindless thing that could only beg for sex. The satisfaction I'd expected to feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, I felt hollow, sick, horrified at myself.

Melissa continued to babble, a stream of crude, simplistic pleas falling from her lips as she posed and writhed, trying to entice me. "Cock? Where cock? Need fuck. Please. Fuck me. Fuck slut. Good slut."

I almost left her like that. My hand was on the doorknob, ready to walk out and leave her in this state, abandoned to an absurd fate of her own making—no, of my making. But as I looked back at her, seeing nothing behind those once-expressive eyes, I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave her like this.

"Melissa," I said, my voice hoarse. "I command you to go back to normal. Be yourself again."

The change wasn't as immediate this time. She blinked several times, her expression shifting from vacant lust to confusion, then to dawning awareness. She looked down at her naked body, then around the loft, as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, she reached for her discarded clothes, pulling them on with shaking hands.

"What… what just happened?" she asked, her voice back to its normal pitch and complexity. She didn't seem shocked, exactly—more confused, maybe a little disturbed, but nothing like the trauma I'd expected.

"Are you alright?" I couldn't help asking, guilt making my voice crack.

Melissa laughed—that familiar, sarcastic laugh that had once both charmed and infuriated me. "Am I alright? Let's see… You made me stop caring about art, hate my boyfriend, and then turned me into a brainless sex puppet. But yeah, I'm okay. Not great, but okay, for some fucked up reason."

She sat down on the edge of a chair, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "Maybe it's because I still know that I'm yours to play with." She shrugged, a gesture so quintessentially Melissa that it made my chest ache. "It just doesn't feel like a big deal. Like, sure, that sucked, but it's your right."

I sank down onto Damien's pretentious mid-century modern chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. The guilt was a physical weight in my stomach, making me feel hollow and sick. What the fuck was I doing? This wasn't who I wanted to be. I'd spent the last two months painting Melissa as this heartless monster in my head, but right now, I was the only monster in the room.

Melissa leaned against her worktable, arms crossed over her chest. There was still that rebellious spark in her eyes, but she seemed to have dialed back the hostility a notch. Maybe she didn't want to tempt fate after what I'd just done to her, or maybe—and this thought was almost worse—maybe she actually felt sorry for me.

"So," she said after a long silence, "this is what you're doing with your newfound power? Turning your ex into a sex zombie? Very supervillain of you."

Despite everything, I felt a **** smile tug at my lips. "Well, I did always say I'd make a better Lex Luthor than Superman."

"Because you're already halfway to bald?" she shot back, the ghost of a smile on her face.

It was an old joke between us—me complaining about my receding hairline, her teasing me about it. Before I could stop myself, I chuckled, and she did too. For a brief moment, it felt like old times again, like we were just Melissa and Oliver, trading barbs over coffee on a lazy Sunday morning.

But the moment passed, and I was left feeling wrong about how lightly she seemed to be taking all this. She was making jokes about it, like I'd just played a slightly tasteless prank instead of violating her mind.

"Melissa," I said suddenly, needing to know, "I command you to tell me the truth about what you think of me. The whole truth."

She blinked, surprised by the command. Then she took a deep breath, her expression becoming more serious. When she spoke, her voice was steady, matter-of-fact.

"You're a man-child, Oliver. You've got potential—you're smart, you can be funny and kind when you want to be—but you refuse to grow up. You'd rather sit in your apartment playing video games than face the real world. You're passive, waiting for life to happen to you instead of making it happen." She paused, as if considering her next words carefully. "But you're not a bad person. Not really. Just… stunted."

She shifted her weight, continuing. "You were comfortable, familiar. Being with you was easy in some ways. You never pushed me to be better, never challenged me. Which was fine at first, but eventually, it felt like I was outgrowing you. And yes, I handled it badly. I should have ended things cleanly instead of cheating. That was fucked up, and I'm sorry."

Her eyes met mine, unflinching. "But the way you handled it afterward? The angry texts, the drunk calls at 3 AM, showing up at Damien's opening to make a scene? That was fucked up too. And what you just did to me? That was beyond fucked up. If this were the world from three days ago, I'd be calling the cops right now."

She shrugged, that casual acceptance of her status creeping back in. "But it's not that world anymore. You own me. So what you did was just… a weird thing someone did with their... toy." That word again and again, just in a different mouth. She grimaced at it. "God, that sounds so messed up, but it's how it feels. Like, I know I should be more upset, but I'm not. I can't be." My command seemed to make her more self-aware than anyone else had been so far.

I sat there, absorbing her words like blows. Each one hurt, but in that clarifying way that only truth can hurt. She wasn't wrong. About any of it. I was a man-child. I was passive. I had handled our breakup badly. And what I'd just done to her was unforgivable. There was only one single man in the whole world who could hurt her now, me, and I had done it to her.

"For what it's worth," she added, her voice softer now, "I did love you. Just not enough to stay."

That last part was like a knife to the heart, but I needed to hear it. Needed to finally accept it. Melissa hadn't been the perfect girlfriend, and I hadn't been the perfect boyfriend. We'd both fucked up, just in different ways. And now, with this insane power I'd somehow acquired, I'd fucked up in ways I couldn't even have imagined a few days ago. The worst part? There was no one to slap my hand, to take away my toys, to stop me from doing it again. Except for myself.

As Melissa's words hung in the air between us, I sat in silence, trying to process everything. But she wasn't done. It was like once the floodgates had opened, she couldn't stop the flow of truth pouring out.

"And you know what else?" she continued, pacing now. "You never cleaned the bathroom. Not once in our entire relationship. There was always hair in the drain—your hair—and toothpaste crusted in the sink." She was on a roll now, moving from the significant to the trivial. "And you chew with your mouth open. Do you know how disgusting that is? Especially when you're eating those spicy ramen noodles you love so much."

She kept going, listing every minor annoyance, every petty grievance. "You wear the same three t-shirts in rotation. You never remember anyone's birthday. You think ketchup is an acceptable condiment for everything. You—"

"Melissa, stop," I interrupted. "I command you to go back to normal again."

She closed her mouth mid-sentence, blinking rapidly as the compulsion to spill every thought about me faded away. A look of relief washed over her face.

"Thanks for that," she said, rubbing her temples. "That command was a bit too broad, no ending condition. I could have gone on all day. Next time, maybe try 'Tell me three things you don't like about me' instead of the full download."

I managed a weak smile. "I'll keep that in mind for my next interrogation."

Before she could respond, we heard the sound of keys in the lock. The door swung open, and Damien walked in, followed by a couple I didn't recognize—a tall, bearded man with glasses and a petite woman with short red hair. Damien froze when he saw me, his expression darkening.

"What is he doing here?" he asked Melissa, his eyes never leaving my face.

Melissa shifted uncomfortably. "He just… came by to talk."

Damien moved to her side, his hand gently touching her shoulder. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer. He was looking at her now, taking in her disheveled appearance, the slight redness around her eyes. But there was no anger in his concern, no possessive outrage—just worry for her wellbeing. It made me feel even shittier about what I'd done.

"I'm fine," Melissa assured him, and she meant it...

Meanwhile, the redheaded woman was staring at me, her eyes widening in recognition. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You're… you're him, aren't you? The owner." She took a step toward me, her movements slightly hesitant but determined. "I'm Lily. I'm… available to you, of course. Whatever you want." She glanced back at her male companion, who merely shrugged, completely unbothered by her offering herself to a stranger. Business as usual in this new world.

Damien turned his attention back to me, his expression hardening. "Look," he said, his voice level but firm. "I understand that you can do whatever you want with Melissa. That's… that's how things are. But this is still my home. My name is on the lease. If you want to… mess with her, you'll have to do it somewhere else. You're not welcome here."

I looked at Damien—really looked at him for the first time. He was just a guy trying to protect his space, his life, his lover, in a world that had suddenly changed the rules. And I was the asshole who'd barged in and tried to destroy it all out of spite.

I sighed, suddenly exhausted. "You're right. I'm sorry. I won't bother you again."

I stood up, heading for the door. As I passed Melissa, I paused. "I wish you the best, really." And I meant it, which surprised me. "And just so we're clear, you're allowed to have sex with Damien, or anyone else, whenever you want. That shouldn't even need to be said, but… yeah."

Melissa nodded, a small, sad smile on her face. "Thanks."

I walked out of the loft without looking back, the door closing behind me with a soft click. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, letting out a long, shaky breath. What the hell was I doing with this power? Turning women into sex puppets? Trying to destroy my ex's life? That wasn't who I wanted to be. That wasn't who I was.

As I made my way to the elevator, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a decorative mirror hanging in the hallway. I looked exactly the same as I had three days ago—slightly overweight, messy blond hair, pointy nose. But something had changed. I just wasn't sure yet if it was for better or worse.