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Chapter 2
by Joe Joe
What's next?
It the Dr 'Demo'
Dr Kane Smug voice filled my ear "so did you like my DEMO" the voice the Dr filled with glee at my misfortune. "Ok so you've proved your point, what do you want?" my voice becoming more **** with each octave that has raised.
"turn on your camera phone" Dr Kane said, "what" I respond, just trying to process what he requested. "Careful or someone might send you back into the street again" this more thinly veiled warning then an actual threat made it all the fearful. As I turned on my camera so that he probably could see. 'I don't remember giving him my number and yet I must have while I was under'. "do you mean the red or the pink one Dr."
"the red one, now hurry up" Dr Kane barked from the speaker
"Sigh, what do you want Dr?" I say more than a little worried that mad man had plan to do with my body.
"see that box behind the crate," as I look behind the box only to find something
what is be hind the red box
The Hypnotherapist
A Journalist gets more than she bargained for.
I’m a tenacious blonde journalist, determined to expose hypnotherapy as a sham. My target: Dr. Victor Kane, a world-renowned hypnotist whose reputation precedes him. Confident in my skepticism, I strike a bold deal with him—if he can’t hypnotize me to do whatever he wants for as long as he chooses, I’ll use my platform to debunk his craft. But if he succeeds, it’ll prove hypnotherapy’s power and serve as a global advertisement for his industry. I’m certain I’ll win. Under the dim glow of his office, Kane’s voice weaves a spell I can’t resist. I sink into a deep trance, unaware of the command he implants: every time my phone rings, I’ll strip completely naked, no matter where I am, and strut through public spaces with my arms raised high, exposing myself for a full hour. The trigger is unbreakable, etched into my subconscious. The first call comes during a crowded press conference. My phone buzzes, and before I can stop myself, my clothes hit the floor. I parade through the stunned crowd, arms up, body bare, a spectacle for all to see. My colleagues, sensing a viral story, gleefully dial my number during live broadcasts, at galas, in busy city squares—each ring stripping me of dignity as cameras flash and headlines scream. The world watches my humiliation, and my own newsroom profits from the coverage, turning my ordeal into their gain. , I beg Kane to undo the trance. He refuses, his smirk reminding me of our deal. I ditch my phone, but it doesn’t matter—the trigger persists. Any call to my number, from anywhere, sets me off. I strip in parks, malls, even during interviews, leaving my clothes behind as I march naked, helpless, for an hour each time. When the trance lifts, I’m left scrambling, often finding my clothes stolen, forcing me to navigate the city exposed, again and again. The world knows my shame, my career is in tatters, and yet, a strange thrill pulses through me each time I obey the trigger—a secret I can’t admit, even to myself.
Updated on Jul 2, 2025
by Joe Joe
Created on Jun 15, 2025
by joseph4668
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