I am loosing all control! Gasp!...

Tangled in a Trance - Chapter 4: Naked Confessions

The newsroom pulses with frenetic energy—phones ringing, keyboards clattering—but Miranda’s voice slices through my focus like a guillotine. She looms over my cubicle, her eyes glinting with the thrill of a blockbuster story. “Elise, this bet with Dr. Voss? A hypnosis session where you either tear him apart or he owns you? That’s front-page dynamite.” My heart plummets, my pen frozen mid-scribble. My cheeks blaze, and I muster a brittle smile, masking the panic clawing my insides. How does she know about our bargain? I’ve dodged Tara and Jake’s relentless probing, guarding my triggers—texts unraveling my clothes, calls stripping me bare—like a shameful secret. If they uncover them, my dignity’s as good as gone.

“It’s just a story, Miranda,” I say, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “I’m writing the exposé to bury him.” Inside, I’m a wreck, terrified they’ll discover how a single text makes my blouse gape or a call leaves me naked, utterly exposed. The thought sends a wave of mortification through me, tinged with that dark, forbidden thrill I can’t shake.

Miranda’s unconvinced, her gaze piercing. “There’s more to it, Elise. I know it.” She turns to Tara and Jake, circling like sharks. “You two, dig into this. Find out what Voss planted in her. If there’s a trigger, that’s the story. Let the viewers test it—prove hypnosis is real or fake. They’ll be hooked.” Tara’s grin is predatory, and Jake’s already typing on his phone, smirking. My stomach churns. They’re turning my private shame into a public circus, and I’m trapped.

“Miranda, please,” I beg, my voice low, ****. “There’s nothing to find. Just let me finish the article.” I’m squirming, my fingers gripping my blouse’s collar, checking every button. The fear of exposure makes my skin prickle, but beneath it, that illicit thrill flares, sparked by the thought of Julian’s control, his dark eyes watching me unravel. Tara leans in, her tone playful but ruthless. “Come on, Elise. What’s he got on you? You’re a mess.” Jake adds, “Maybe we should just call Voss. Get the dirt straight from him.” My blood freezes. If Julian reveals the triggers, I’m done—stripped bare for the city to gawk at. I mumble an excuse and flee to the bathroom, my phone a live grenade in my hand.

That evening, I seek sanctuary in St. Mary’s Cathedral, hoping the solemnity of the Sunday service will steady my frayed nerves. The pews brim with worshippers, heads bowed, eyes closed as the priest’s voice weaves through a prayer. I’m here to sharpen my resolve to destroy Julian, but my phone, set to silent, vibrates in my purse. A call. My breath catches, and my body betrays me, hands moving with languid, sensual precision. My blouse unbuttons, the fabric slipping off my shoulders with a soft sigh, baring the curve of my collarbone. My skirt unzips, pooling at my ankles, and my undergarments follow, each piece drifting to the stone floor in a scattered trail of my disgrace. The congregation prays on, unaware, but my skin sings under the cool air’s caress, every nerve alight with the erotic thrill of exposure. My heart pounds, my body trembling with humiliation and a primal, shameful arousal as I stand naked, the cathedral’s sanctity amplifying my vulnerability.

I bolt to a confessional, my soft, tender feet slapping against the cold floor, my clothes left where they fell—a chaotic testament to my shame. I slam the door shut, pressing my naked feet against it, my toes curling to hold it closed. My bare skin presses against the cool wood, every curve exposed in the confessional’s dimness, my breath ragged with adrenaline and mortification. The sensuality of my nakedness—raw, unguarded—sends shivers through me, my body quivering with the intoxicating risk of discovery, Julian’s control a phantom touch on my skin.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I lean toward the screen. I need to drag this out, to keep the confession going until the congregation clears out, hours from now. The priest, his voice warm and patient, responds, “Speak, my child.” Outside, whispers erupt, punctuated by giggles. “Her clothes! Look—right there!” a woman exclaims, her tone gleeful. “That’s Elise Harper’s bag! Oh my God, she’s naked somewhere in here!” Laughter ripples, more voices piling on. “Where’s she hiding? Blushing like crazy, I bet, all bare!” The gossip stabs at me, each word intensifying my humiliation, my cheeks burning red. Yet, the thought of them picturing me, naked and cornered, stirs a dark, lustful thrill, my body betraying me with a flush of heat.

“I’ve been consumed by malice,” I confess, seizing the only topic that can stretch this session. “There’s a man, Dr. Julian Voss, a hypnotherapist. I want to destroy him, to humiliate him publicly with my article. I want him powerless, his career shattered, his name a joke.” The words pour out, dripping with sadistic lust. I picture Julian on his knees, his dark eyes pleading, and the image sends a wave of pleasure through me, my naked body trembling against the confessional’s wall. “I relish it, Father. The thought of breaking him, exposing his lies—it’s… exhilarating.”

The priest hums, a hint of amusement in his tone. “A strong confession. But let me ask, child, how would you feel if the tables turned? If Dr. Voss held such power, publicly exposing and humiliating you, perhaps for as long as he chose, given your bargain and your intent to do the same to him? Would he be justified?” The question pierces me, and I squirm, my bare feet pressing harder against the door as someone knocks. “Anyone in there?” a man calls, rattling the handle. I dig my toes in, my soft soles straining, my naked body taut with effort. “Yes, I’m here!” I snap, then soften my voice. “Please, Father, I need more time. Let’s explore this.”

I’m **** to answer, my voice low, intimate, as I bare my soul to stall. “If he exposed me… I’d be devastated. My reputation, my dignity—obliterated. I’d be naked, not just in words but…” I falter, the truth too raw, my skin tingling with the memory of my stripped state. “It terrifies me, Father, but there’s this… pull. The idea of being so ****, under his control, it’s shameful, primal. I’d feel powerless, yet… alive. Like every nerve is on fire. I hate it, but it draws me in, like I’m craving his power over me.” The confession is a surrender, my nakedness amplifying every syllable, my heart racing as I admit the erotic allure of Julian’s dominance. The priest probes deeper. “And if he chose to prolong your humiliation, as you plan for him, would that be fair?” I squirm, my body flushed, struggling to articulate the whirlwind of fear, shame, and desire.

Outside, the gossip continues, periodic bursts of laughter piercing the confessional’s walls. “Her blouse is still here!” a woman giggles an hour in. “She’s got to be hiding, naked and mortified!” Another voice chimes in, “Someone should take her clothes—teach her a lesson!” The crowd laughs, and I hear rustling, as if someone’s toying with my skirt. “Where is she? Bet she’s blushing, trying not to get caught!” a man teases. Each comment is a fresh wound, my humiliation swelling, yet my body responds, a shameful arousal coiling tighter with every taunt. My soft feet ache, holding the door shut, my naked form pressed against the wood, every nerve singing with adrenaline and erotic dread.

The priest tries to close the session. “My child, you’ve been heard. Let’s pray and conclude.” Another knock, more insistent. “Hurry up in there!” a woman snaps. I panic, my voice ****. “No, Father, please—I’m not ready. Let’s discuss… justice. Voss’s motives.” I ramble, diving deeper into my malice, describing how I’d savor Julian’s downfall, his practice in ruins, his name synonymous with fraud. The priest indulges, asking pointed questions about fairness, about Voss’s right to retaliate. “If he exposed you indefinitely, mirroring your intent, how would you endure it?” he presses, and I’m **** to confess my tangled emotions—fear, humiliation, and the dark thrill of being at Julian’s mercy—my voice trembling, my body quivering with the intensity of it all.

An hour drags by, the confessional a prison of my own making. The gossip outside persists, a relentless chorus. “She’s still not out? Must be naked somewhere, dying of shame!” a woman laughs. “Let’s take her bag—make her come get it!” The threat sends a jolt through me, my feet straining harder against the door, my nakedness a raw, sensual vulnerability. I’m trapped, my confession a lifeline, my malice toward Julian the only thread keeping me tethered. The priest’s questions cut deeper, forcing me to confront the justice of my own exposure, and I squirm, my body flushed with heat, my mind a storm of adrenaline, shame, and forbidden desire. The congregation hasn’t cleared, and I know I’m stuck here, naked and cornered, for hours more, Julian’s triggers binding me tighter with every passing minute.