Or will I be the one, publically humiliated?...

Tangled in a Trance - Chapter 3: The Edge of Exposure

I sit in the dimly lit corner of my favorite café, my laptop open to the latest draft of my article on Julian Voss. The headline screams: Hypnotist or Hustler? Dr. Julian Voss Exposed. Each word is a lash, crafted to flay his reputation and leave his career in tatters. I imagine him reading it, his confident smirk dissolving into desperation, his dark eyes pleading for mercy I won’t grant. The thought is intimate, almost tender—a private dance between us, where I hold the whip. My fingers pause on the keys, a sadistic thrill curling through me. To have him so powerless, so utterly at my mercy, is intoxicating. I want to ruin him, to see him broken and begging, and the erotic joy of it makes my breath hitch.

But Julian’s face lingers in my mind—his sharp jaw, the way his voice wrapped around my name like a caress. I shift in my seat, my thighs pressing together. I’m drawn to him, and it infuriates me. His challenge, his audacity, the way he looked at me like he saw through my armor—it’s all fuel for my desire. I want to crush him, but I also want him closer, his hands on me, his control undeniable. The contradiction twists inside me, a knot of rage and longing.

My phone pings, and my heart lurches. It’s Tara: Lunch meeting at 1? My fingers, traitors, undo the top button of my blouse before I can stop them. I gasp, ducking lower in the booth, my cheeks burning. The café hums with chatter, waiters weaving between tables, and I’m grateful for the high-backed seat shielding me. Another button pops free, revealing the edge of my bra. I fumble to refasten, my hands trembling. It’s nothing, I tell myself. I’m just flustered. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a man—months, maybe a year. That’s all this is. Not hypnosis. Not him.

I silence my phone, shoving it into my bag, but the memory of Julian’s voice—smooth, commanding—clings to me. The indecent thrill of unbuttoning in public, just out of sight, sends a shiver down my spine. I hate how it excites me, how I imagine his eyes on me, watching my unraveling. I’m stronger than this, I insist, but my body hums with a primal need to be ****, exposed, at his whim.

At the newsroom, Tara and our colleague Jake corner me by the coffee machine. “So, Elise,” Tara says, her eyes glinting with mischief, “spill. What’s the deal with this Voss guy? You’ve been cagey.” Jake leans in, his grin playful but sharp. They’re my friends, but they’re also sharks scenting a story.

I **** a laugh, stirring my coffee to avoid their gaze. “Just another fraud. My article’s almost done. He’s toast.” But my voice is too tight, and Tara’s brow arches.

“Heard you made a bet with him,” Jake says, sipping his latte. “Something about a hypnosis session? Come on, what happened?” My stomach drops. How do they know? I must’ve let something slip, a careless comment. I curse myself, my smile frozen.

“It was nothing,” I say, too quickly. “He tried, he failed. End of story.” But my blouse feels too snug, as if it might betray me again. I grip my mug, willing my hands to stay still.

Tara tilts her head, unconvinced. “You seem… off. Jumpy. What’s he got on you?” She’s teasing, but her journalist’s instinct is razor-sharp. Jake pulls out his phone, typing a quick text. My phone, still silenced, doesn’t ping, but I flinch anyway, my heart racing. They notice.

“See?” Tara says, nudging Jake. “She’s hiding something. Let’s figure it out.” Her tone is light, but there’s a glint in her eye—ratings, headlines, the thrill of a scoop. I want to scream at them to stop, but I can’t explain without exposing myself. If they knew about the triggers—texts unbuttoning my clothes, calls stripping me bare—they’d turn it into a circus.

“Guys, drop it,” I say, my voice sharp. “I’m fine. Just busy.” I push past them, heading to my cubicle, but I feel their eyes on me, plotting. My phone buzzes in my bag—a text from an unknown number: Enjoying the game, Elise? My breath catches. Julian. It has to be. My fingers undo another button before I can stop them, and I duck into the supply closet, my blouse gaping. I slam the door, leaning against it, my chest heaving. The closet’s dim light hides me, but the thrill of being so close to exposure makes my skin tingle. I’m furious, humiliated—and aroused.

I refasten my blouse, my cheeks flushed, and tell myself it’s just my imagination running wild. I’m not hypnotized. I’m in control. But as I step back into the newsroom, Tara’s watching me, her phone in hand, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sent you a text,” she says casually. “Check it.” My blood runs cold. I can’t look, not here, not with them watching. I mumble an excuse and bolt for the bathroom, locking myself in a stall. My phone pings again, and another button pops free. I bite my lip, stifling a moan—not of fear, but of something darker, more primal.

I imagine Julian orchestrating this, his fingers on his phone, his smile wicked as he pushes me to the edge. The thought of him controlling me, exposing me, should horrify me, but it sets my nerves alight. I want to destroy him, to see him powerless, but I also crave his power over me. The contradiction is maddening, and as I rebutton my blouse, my hands shaking, I know I’m losing ground.

Back at my desk, I open my article again, pouring my rage into it. I describe Julian’s office, his charm, his lies, painting him as a predator who preys on the weak. But even as I write, I picture him reading it, his eyes narrowing, his resolve hardening. The intimacy of our battle—my pen against his will—feels like a lover’s quarrel, charged with heat and spite. I want to ruin him, to savor his defeat, but the thought of my own exposure, of being laid bare by his triggers, makes my pulse race with a shameful thrill.

Tara texts again: Meeting in 10. Don’t dodge us. I clench my jaw, my blouse secure for now, but the tension builds like a storm. My friends are closing in, Julian’s toying with me, and I’m caught in the middle, rationalizing away the truth while craving the very vulnerability I fear. As I head to the meeting, my phone in my pocket like a loaded gun, I tell myself I’m still in control—but deep down, I know I’m teetering on the edge of surrender.