Sophie lives her life as Jerry lays the groundwork

-Present-

Jerry told himself to run, to get out of town. He prepared himself every day to be scooped up by the police or those labcoat creeps who put him in the funny farm. But nothing happened. Night after night he sat up late in the musty basement apartment he rented, trying to research online anything he could about the Magnussons and their minds. Very little luck. Sophie's Facebook was private, as was her Instagram, and no she didn't accept the friend requests from the fake accounts he made. There was nothing online about people who did whatever they were told besides a lot of very interesting porn.

By the time a week had gone by, Jerry was wanted to believe that he had made it all up. His dick still ached from the hours and hours of **** he had given it thinking about the Magnussons.

Then Sophie returned to his workplace one afternoon. She had come looking for some oatmilk for her morning smoothies and found it, buy-one-get-one, and recovered two cartons. As she processed her small purchase at the self check-out, Jerry stared at her backside. Compelled to memorize every curve of her ass in her yoga pants. Then, as it always does, something went wrong with the self-service machine and a red light began flashing. "Please wait for an attendant," chirped the machine.

Sophie turned and his eyes widened, drinking in the profile of her body as she twisted. Then she saw him, of course. He was right there.

She blinked. Right, this guy. Was there anybody else? But the other cashier was with a customer. "Can I get some help?" she asked.

Jerry stammered an unintelligible response and shuffled his feet, making no actual movement across the floor. His eyes, and mind, were fixed on the what Sophie was doing with her hands.

Sophie held her bankcard between two fingers, she just wanted to pay and leave. But the machine didn't like some thing and required an attendant, as it always does. Unfortunately, the only help available was this familiar pervert. Without dropping the card she cupped her boobs through her dirty work shirt and squeezed. "Please?" She asked incredulously.

As though in a dream, Jerry moved. His gaze flitted back and forth between her increasingly annoyed expression and her titillating display. The reflection of light off her glossy bankcard only added to the specatacle. She lifted, pressed together, and dropped. Lifted, pressed together and dropped. His fingers entered his code on the terminal and the red light turned green.

"Look," she read his nametag, "Jerry." Her words startled him out of his tit trance and he looked her right in the eyes, terrified. "My eyes are up here. You need to control yourself."

He sputtered another unintelligible response, eliciting a scoff from her even as she jiggled her melons like she was being paid. He retreated to his lane, overwhelmed. Shaken. Meanwhile, Sophie paid and collected her milk. Her free hand roved her chest as she strode to her car, garnering her some looks but those were easy to ignore.

What wasn't easy to ignore was the niggling worm in her head. Who was he? How did she know him? The thought stayed with her the rest of the day.

Later that week she received an email from her bank, warning her about possible fraud. Sophie followed the link and rolled her eyes at the page that loaded. 'Not so fast! Following links from an untrustworthy source can compromise you and your data. This has been a Phishing test from your local bank!' But it wasn't a test. It was Jerry. He'd taken note of the name of the bank on her card. He couldn't help himself, he had to try. Right?

Late at night, Jerry sat hunched over his computer screen, illuminated only by the dim blue light. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his pudgy finger hovered over the 'Enter' key. The moment had finally arrived. He took a deep breath and pressed down. The malware began its silent infiltration into Sophie's phone.

He sat back, the low whir of his computer filling the room as he waited, his heart pounding in his chest. Minutes crawled by in what felt like an eternity before the first piece of data trickled onto his screen - texts, emails, photos, appointments from Sophie's calendar. It was as though he had suddenly unlocked a door to a into her world.

He clicked opened an album; snapshots of Sophie's life danced across his screen. Her green eyes sparkled in some photos, her curly brown hair shifting hues with the sun's rays in others. Het big, beautiful tits. The pictures told tales of birthdays, holidays, her daughters, and her work; a vibrant life full of fun, it seemed. It was a stark contrast to his existence in this dim, dank, cluttered room.

Jerry jerked like a man possessed as he looked through photo after photo. His breath hitched as he stumbled upon a folder filled with voices—voice notes and recordings of her calls. He clicked on one of them titled 'Daily' and her voice filled his room, breaking the otherwise stifling silence. He had longed to hear that voice — so confident, assertive, warm — speak the most depraved and sexual things to him. But what he heard was far better. His body convulsed in another orgasm as he listened again and again. Things finally made sense. And he had a plan.

"Hello, Sophie. This is yourself speaking.

Reminder: 'I, Sophie Magnusson, have Facillicitorosis. My condition makes me **** to believing anything I hear. If I have not taken my skeptotrin, I will take it now. I will listen to this script in it's entirety to ensure the fidelity of my will.'

Reassurance: 'While my condition may challenge me, I am not incapable. I have the tools and the daily treatment that allows me to live my life normally.'
Encourage: 'Deciphering facts from fiction is important. It's okay to question, to inquire, and to doubt things I hear, even if it's from 'trusted' sources. There is no fact or new information that should not be considered carefully before believing.'
Assert: 'I control my life and not my condition. I am not merely a believer but my own thinker. Each day, I can be as skeptical and critical in my thought process as I deem appropriate. Nobody, not even myself, has the final authority over truth. Upon the conclusion of this script I will be able to critically assess any assertion any time I choose.'
Conclude: 'I can live my life the way I want to and rationally assess all new information. In a moment I, Sophie Magnusson, can begin my day. In twenty-four hours I must listen to this script again.'"

The following week was fairly normal for Sophie. Every morning she took her Skeptotrin and listened to her script, then read a similar script aloud for Mel over breakfast, happy to be able to help her daughter still living at home. She would text her other daughter, Harmony, and hope for a response but had learned not to expect one every time. The young goth woman was making her own way in her own apartment on the other side of town, and that made Sophie just as proud as her Mel's studiousness.

Her days were spent in her art studio in town, making beautiful ceramics and sculptures out of plaster, or volunteering with her art therapy group. She would interrupt her days with trips to the local yoga studio and lifting gym, something about toning her muscles like that made her feel strong and more confident. Then home to have dinner with Mel or by herself and, usually, binge on reality TV before bed.

Nobody, except Melody, made a comment about the occasional pawing at her breasts and the distant look she got in her eye. "Ew, mom," laughed Mel. "are you missing dad?" It was a sweet, but sad comment, but it redirected Sophie's train of thought and she dropped her tit.

"Every day, hun. Every day."

-Three Years Ago-

The police had broken Jerry's jaw and nose when they tackled him. He had been running naked down the sidewalk, suddenly aware of the concept of consequences.

The doctors from the Institute had arrived and sequestered her daughters in an unmarked van.

"We'll fix them up, I promise Mrs. Magnusson," said the small bespectacled man, Dr. Forrestal. "Did you hear him give any commands, explanations, or instructions?" She answered that no she hadn't. She had heard them having sex and heard him gloating about their condition. "Ok, great. Everything is going to be ok. Soon, you'll be able to forget all about this and this," Dr. Forrestal waved his hand as if searching for a medically appropriate word to convey his disgust. He settled on "boy." Sophie shuddered a sigh of relief.

The Institute's corrective reprogramming took two days and removed the memory of Jerry's manipulations from her girl's minds, mostly. They knew something had happened and they knew they had a condition. One of the doctors suggested reminding them of Jerry's identity, but Sophie only wanted to put this all behind her. Surely he would be in jail for a long time.

The twins got their prescriptions and received their scripts. Sooner than she had expected, they were all able to get their lives back in order and Sophie was able to forget all about the incident and Jerry. Problem solved. Her girls finished their exams over the summer. Melody got into the local college but Harmony decided she wanted to take a year off. That year off turned into three years off and no plans to further her education.

Jerry spent months in and out of the hospital, recovering from his police beatdown and receiving reconstructive surgery. The whole time strange doctors were injecting him with **** that made him delirious and woozy. From there, he found himself in a psych ward, where they gave him more ****. Sometimes an unfamiliar doctor or two would come by to ask him about the night he was arrested. He told them what they wanted to hear, that he couldn't remember what had happened, that he must have had a dissociative episode. A year and a half later he was brought into court where the Judge sentenced him to time served in the hospital and left him on 5 year probation.

But he did remember.