No. Just the start.

Tangled in a Trance - Chapter 9: Barely Concealed

The morning light slices through my apartment’s blinds, casting stark shadows as I huddle on the couch, wrapped in a robe, my heart pounding with dread. The TV blares The Metro Pulse’s morning broadcast, Tara’s voice sharp and gleeful as she leans into the camera. “We’ve confirmed the explosive story: Elise Harper, our star reporter, made a daring bet with Dr. Julian Voss, renowned hypnotherapist, to test if hypnotherapy is real or fake. Sources confirm Voss planted triggers in her subconscious—activated by texts or calls to her phone—that could prove his craft’s power. Here’s the fun part, viewers: we invite you to test it! Send texts or calls to Elise’s number and see what happens. But stay tuned—we’re revealing her number one digit per day, starting with 5. Keep watching for the rest!” Jake, beside her, grins, holding up a notepad with my name scrawled across it. “Is hypnotherapy real? Let’s find out together!” The screen cuts to a photo of me, poised and professional, and my cheeks burn with rage at Julian’s betrayal—his triggers turning my life into a public spectacle.

Mortification grips me, the thought of strangers texting or calling, triggering unknown responses, a vise around my chest. My skin prickles with paranoia, my breath shallow, yet a shameful pulse of arousal flickers at the idea of Julian’s control, his dark eyes on my unraveling, my body quivering with fear and primal desire. I can’t let this spiral. I grab my phone, powering it off, the screen going dark—a **** shield against triggers I don’t fully understand. What has Julian planted? Texts unbutton my clothes, calls strip me bare, but what else? The uncertainty gnaws, the sensuality of my vulnerability a dark undercurrent. I rush to my closet, packing a bag with extra clothes—blouses, skirts, underwear, a coat—my hands trembling as I add handcuffs, a last resort. If a call comes, I’ll cuff myself somewhere safe to stop myself from prancing naked in public. The thought of being **** to strip, to walk bare under the city’s eyes, sends adrenalized fear through me, my cheeks flushing, my body tingling with a forbidden thrill. I hate Julian—his lies, his power—but his triggers ignite a shameful arousal, my mind warring with my body as I head to work.

At The Metro Pulse, the newsroom buzzes, my colleagues’ eyes tracking me as I set up for a live broadcast in the city square, covering a local arts festival. Tara and Sarah hover, their smirks gleeful, predatory. “Elise, you’re looking… nervous,” Tara says, her tone playful but sharp. “Voss spilled some juicy details about your session.” Sarah giggles, leaning in. “Yeah, he hinted at some wild triggers. Care to share?” Their eyes glint, toying with me, not revealing how much they know, their playfulness a cruel game. My cheeks burn, paranoia gripping me—what do they know? Are they texting me now, waiting to see me crack on air? I **** a smile, my voice tight. “Nothing to share. Let’s do this.” But my heart races, the fear of exposure a living thing.

Earlier, in my locked office, I turned my phone on, cuffing my wrist to my desk to check messages, learning the triggers only activate if I hear the ping or see the text. I sent work texts, made a call, then powered it off, uncuffing myself, my hands shaking with relief. But now, at the broadcast, I realize my mistake—I didn’t double-check the power button. My bag bulges with extra clothes and cuffs, but my phone, buried inside, is a hidden threat. I step into the square, the camera rolling, the festival crowd buzzing, and begin my report, my voice steady despite the dread coiling in my gut. “We’re live at the city’s annual arts festival, where—”

A ping cuts through, Sarah’s name flashing in my pocket. My breath catches, my fingers moving before I can stop them, unbuttoning the top of my blouse on live air, revealing a glimpse of my lacy bra. My raven hair cascades over my shoulders, framing my flushed cheeks, my emerald eyes wide with panic, my full lips parting in a gasp, the sensuality of my exposure undeniable as the crowd murmurs. Tara and Sarah watch with eager anticipation, Sarah bursting into laughter, a knowing cackle as if confirming the trigger’s truth. “Oh, Elise!” she calls, her voice gleeful. My cheeks blaze, the embarrassment searing, my beauty amplifying my vulnerability—the blouse gaping, my lithe figure accentuated. I **** a laugh, my voice trembling. “Just a wardrobe slip,” I stammer, my hands diving into my bag, frantically searching for the phone, my fingers brushing clothes, cuffs, but not the device.

I prolong my composure, my voice wavering as I continue, “The festival features local artists…” but my hands tremble, digging deeper, the crowd’s whispers growing. “What’s she doing?” a man mutters. Another ping—Sarah again—and I step out of my heels, my bare feet touching the warm pavement, my toes curling in embarrassment, my slender legs exposed, the sensuality of my barefoot stance drawing eyes. Sarah laughs louder, Tara’s camera zooming in, their playfulness relentless, as if daring me to unravel. My heart pounds, the adrenaline surging, the embarrassment crushing, yet the thought of Julian’s triggers, his control, sends a shameful thrill through me, my arousal pulsing despite my terror. “One moment, folks,” I blurt, pointing the cameraman toward a nearby street performer. “Look at that juggler!” I dash behind a city work truck, my bag clutched tight, the camera momentarily distracted.

I crouch behind the truck, my breath ragged, my fingers still searching for the phone, the blouse half-open, my bare feet slipping on the pavement. My phone rings—a call—and my hands betray me, stripping off my blouse, skirt, underwear, leaving them scattered on the ground in a trail leading to my hiding spot. I’m naked, my sweat-slicked body pressed against the truck’s warm metal, the sensuality of my vulnerability overwhelming—my smooth skin glistening, my curves exposed, every nerve alight with fear. I scramble, my fingers finally finding a small utility container nearby, its door ajar. I dive inside, slamming it shut and locking it from within, my heart racing as I curl into the cramped, stifling space, barely out of view. The festival crowd’s voices rise, their comments filtering through on the live broadcast. “Her clothes!” a woman gasps, embarrassed. “Those are Elise’s—oh my God, she’s naked somewhere!” A man laughs, “She’s hiding, blushing red, completely bare!” Their surprise turns to glee, their voices on air. “She must be mortified, naked and trapped!” another says, as they search, their footsteps nearing.

The camera keeps rolling, Tara’s voice gleeful. “Where’s Elise gone, folks? Her clothes are here—she’s hiding, likely naked and red with shame!” The crowd tries the container’s door, rattling it, but the lock holds, my naked body trembling inside, sweat beading, the adrenalized fear of discovery crushing. “She’s in there!” a man calls, banging the door. “Come out, naked girl!” a woman laughs, their playfulness mirroring Tara and Sarah’s cruelty. The embarrassment is unbearable, my beauty a curse—my flushed skin, my trembling curves, my vulnerability a spectacle. The thought of Julian’s triggers, his power to strip me bare, pushes my arousal to a fever pitch, my body quivering on the edge of climax, my mind warring with rage, fear, and desire. Tara and Sarah’s smirks haunt me, their refusal to drop this a sadistic game, their cameras waiting for my next fall. I clutch the cuffs, ready to lock myself to the container’s frame if another call comes, my paranoia a relentless pulse—the crowd’s laughter, their search, the live broadcast all closing in, Julian’s victory a public trance I can’t escape.