No end to the humiliation...

Chapter Four: The Cruel Exhibition

The world had become a stage, and I was its unwilling star. Every step outside my apartment triggered Dr. Victor Kane’s new command: my clothes vanished, my skin glistened with baby oil, my cheeks burned a humiliating red, and my body danced in a provocative, uncontrollable sway. The vibrator, an insidious addition, kept me teetering on the edge of ecstasy, never granting release, amplifying my shame with every public outing. My life was a headline, my nakedness a viral sensation, and my colleagues at the Tribune ensured every mortifying moment was broadcast globally. I was Elise Harper, once a respected journalist, now a glistening, blushing spectacle for all to see.

Kane wasn’t done with me. I received an invitation—hand-delivered, no less—to a gala hosted by the Global Hypnotherapy Association, where Kane and a cadre of the world’s most renowned hypnotists would gather to celebrate their craft. The note was clear: my presence was requested, a “special guest” to demonstrate the power of their work. My stomach churned. I knew what it meant. But refusing wasn’t an option—my triggers didn’t care about my will.

I arrived at the Grand Ballroom of a Manhattan skyscraper, dressed in a conservative black dress, clinging to the hope I could stay clothed. The room was a sea of tuxedos and gowns, the air thick with champagne and smug superiority. Kane stood at the center, flanked by a dozen hypnotists—men and women whose names I’d seen in academic journals and tabloids alike. Their eyes locked onto me as I entered, a predator’s gaze that made my skin crawl.

The moment I crossed the threshold, my phone buzzed in my purse. The original trigger. My hands betrayed me, tearing off my dress, bra, panties, until I stood naked, arms raised high, in the middle of the glittering crowd. Gasps turned to murmurs, then applause, as if my degradation were performance art. But it didn’t stop there. The new trigger kicked in—my skin glistened with oil that appeared from nowhere, my cheeks flushed a searing red, and my body began its humiliating dance. I swayed, hips rolling, every curve exposed under the chandeliers, the vibrator humming to life inside me, pushing me to the brink of climax without mercy.

Kane and his hypnotist cohort watched, their faces a mix of clinical fascination and cruel amusement. “Magnificent,” Kane said, raising a glass. “A testament to our craft.” The others nodded, jotting notes, some filming with their phones. I was their experiment, their trophy, displayed in the most indecent circumstances imaginable—naked, oiled, dancing, teetering on the edge of orgasm in a room full of strangers who saw me not as a person, but as proof of their power.

My mind screamed, but my body obeyed, twirling through the crowd, the vibrator’s relentless hum driving me mad. Guests parted to let me pass, their eyes devouring me, some whispering my name—Elise Harper, the naked reporter. A giant screen behind Kane flickered to life, projecting live footage of me, my glistening body magnified for all to see. The Tribune had a crew there, of course, Mark’s camera capturing every detail for tomorrow’s front page. My family, my friends, the world—they’d see this, too, my most intimate shame broadcast yet again.

The trance lasted an hour, but the gala wasn’t over. As the first trigger released me, I collapsed, trembling, only for another call to ring out. My phone, left in my discarded purse, was being dialed by one of Kane’s colleagues, a smirking woman with cold eyes. I stripped again—if there was anything left to strip—and resumed my dance, the vibrator restarting its cruel torment. Kane leaned close, his voice a whisper over the music. “You’re the best advertisement we’ve ever had, Elise. Why would we ever stop?”

I tried to run, to hide, but the triggers held me captive. When the trance finally ended, I was outside, stranded on a busy Manhattan street, my clothes gone, my keys locked in my car as always. The hypnotists had followed, a small entourage watching from a sleek black van, Kane at the forefront, his smile unwavering. I danced again, naked under the city lights, oil gleaming, cheeks burning, as pedestrians filmed and jeered. A taxi pulled up, and I climbed in, the vibrator still humming, keeping me on that agonizing edge through the entire ride. The driver stared, his phone already out, streaming my shame to the world.

I was trapped, a plaything for Kane and his peers, my body a canvas for their twisted art. They watched, always watched, as I danced, stranded myself, and teetered on the brink of ecstasy in the most public, indecent settings—airports, buses, now this gala, with their eyes on me, relishing my powerlessness. My life was no longer mine, and as the city swallowed me in its glare, I knew the hypnotists would never let me go.