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Chapter 4
by Joe Joe
Where am I going?
for a walk
"Stop" My tormentor says which mean I'm about to turn another corner or something even worse, hopefully it's the lesser. "okey you can off your eye cover," As I try to take off my eye cover I found myself near the 'fish markets'.
"why would he send me here" despite every sailors giving me there best 'fish out of impression,' "whistling" in a derogatory way keep walking my sweet little 'Venus'. "good girl, go to the privately owned boats on the opposite side of the wharf and before you ask yes I want you to walk all the way there and yes you have to" he says
As I make my way up the Wharf I take as many detour as I can hiding were I can and but in the end I see many people had seen me that reputation was pretty much in shambles. A couple of people thought I was protesting something, had I full control I probably could have been able to say something along those lines.
Before I knew it I was at last was able to regain some control of my body but by this time I was such a tired mess I didn't even notice that it was still afternoon.
"good girl, see that fancy boat at the end of the Peer that's your next stop" him still egging on
what type of boat is it and what's the event
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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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