Damaged Property

Dr. Sinclair’s eyes shift from hatred to shock as I glance between her and the chunks of my phone that go tumbling. The circuit board lands on the still-wet floor of the shower as if to emphasize how annihilated my precious device--my key to this new life--is broken. Ivette releases me, now that Jane is here a third time, and her voice loses both sexiness and any hint of Ivette’s own tone.

“S-She was warned of the consequences! She should’ve… oh no, this is… this is not supposed to happen!”

I cough as I massage my aching throat; my words are strained as I **** them through, “What the… fuck did you tell her?!”

“Well, we advised that you could now freeze her body with a word because she tried to grab your phone, and that the consequences would only get worse if she... tried again…”

“Aren't you supposed to protect- why didn’t you protect me from being hurt?!”

“She was so fast! And our focus is always on the app and its container, we didn’t realize until your timest- eh, until it was too late!”

I’m too woozy to pick up on whatever she stumbled over in that sentence. Instead I head to assess the damage… and it isn’t pretty. The impact cracked open and bent the casing, which was of course terrible, but at some point the strike had also snapped the main board inside. The screen was a spider-webbed, useless mess too, hanging from one half of the board by a ribbon and doing nothing to protect either half from the small puddles and droplets of water left in the shower.

The phone is done for… and the fact that Jane-Ivette seems so worried isn’t reassuring me-

“Dave,” she grunts suddenly, “I can’t hold her much longer. You… have to find… your next Focus. We’ll install Custom Girls on it, but until you do… you can’t change… ugh- find it fast!” Jane-Ivette leans on the bathroom counter as she struggles to maintain control.

“What about Ivette?! She tried to kill me!”

“Use your new powers, and… one of the punishments that’ll be picked at random, it’ll either be-!” Her last word is almost yelled… before Jane is clearly ejected from Ivette’s body.

Ivette’s eyes do a wild scan of the bathroom, but I don’t hesitate. “Freeze!”

Ivette was about to launch herself up from where she leans on the bathroom counter... and ceases movement so suddenly that I almost can’t believe is real. Maybe it isn’t? She might be tricking me. With my guard up and hands ready to intercept any foul play, I approach her unmoving, leaning body and, with a dainty touch, find her clitoris. This close, I notice how her breaths quicken and her body trembles ever so slightly, and ever so slightly do I rub her clit to see both reactions increase. A sudden leak strikes my fingers from her overdriven sex... and a smaller leak appears at the corners of her eyes. Despite these signs of anger or trauma, she does nothing to stop or reprimand me.

So she really is frozen… but the damage is done, and I only have her like this for a bit more than two hours. “You… fucking ruined…” I’m almost on the verge of tears when I stop myself and think it through. My phone is dead and gone, yes… but I’m not screwed yet. I scoop up the wet, shattered remains of my phone and leave Ivette in the bathroom as I get ready to go shopping. I’ve never heard Jane or the others call my phone a “Focus” before, but the solution is obvious: buy a new phone. I check my bank account online at my computer as I hastily type, hoping I have enough money for the down-payment on a new contract… if they’ll even let me. It depends, I guess, on where I-

ACCOUNT BALANCE: $4,924.92
XXXXXXXXX914 CUSTOM-G PAYMENT $3.92
XXXXXXXXX914 CUSTOM-G PAYMENT $1.93
XXXXXXXXX914 CUSTOM-G PAYMENT $7.87
…

Oh…. Oh! The transactions sheet on my bank’s website collapses over a thousand “deposits” by “Custom-G” into an expandable selection, making the entire thing more readable… but more importantly, I’m fricking rich! Well… wealthier than I was- no. I made over $4,000 in less than a day… carrying that over the year, I’m…

I’m going to be rich.

And I’m going to be dead or imprisoned if I don’t find a way to get the app—and Ivette—under control fast. Now that I know I can buy even the latest models cash, I pluck my SIM card out of my phone and run to my car.

Dr. Ivette Sinclair is a woman who has, all her life, aspired to be someone who sought freedom by understanding the human condition.

Born with **** albinism and sickly besides, she grew up with parents both ignorant of what afflicted their child and ignorant of how to help her. They turned to God to answer their prayers, but Ivette’s flesh could not be “cured” anymore than Ivette could be turned towards this alleged benevolent overseer. They shunned her desires to go outside--the sun would burn her--or to meet new friends--the strangers would bully her--with no excuse the young Sinclair could accept. This fed her early budding of rebellion; even before puberty, Ivette challenged authorities wherever they arose, and she was unhealthily obsessed with her independence and her physical form: she exercised prior to puberty, sought martial arts training from rogue corners of the community, and had years spent fixated on the miraculous feats of certain monks and martial arts masters whose deeds were recorded for her consumption.

As she went through high school, that fixation turned to medicine as the ultimate means of understanding, curing, or destroying the human form. At the very least this was her immature, teenage view of the field, but that grew into a real appreciation for the good a doctor could do. She threw herself into the field with the same fervor she had thrown herself into the martial arts and mastery of the human body, elevating herself above those quaint, quiet albinos she had the rare displeasure to meet online. She was disgusted by their dispositions and those like them who had no excuse. She would not be reduced to such a state; she would not be a nurse or a mere envier of medicine, but a bona fide doctor in her own right.

Being strong meant something different to Ivette, and here it meant letting herself suffer a bit to further dedicate herself to the hours her field demanded. She didn’t burn out like others did, or at least she told herself that. Her latest group of martial artists, a ragtag bunch who practiced in the backyard of a retired master, would comment on her appearance at the risk of her sparring becoming just a bit more violent. After a while, none commented on her unhealthy appearance. She long stopped talking to her parents, a regret she still isn’t ready to address. Ivette Sinclair soared and mastered her arts at the expense of the shrine to which her mastery had been dedicated: her own, strange body.

And now a man, or a demon, or both, intended to shackle and morph that body into something gaudy for his private use. Her patient—the worst she ever had, as healthy as he was—already talked his way into sex… and then he tried to take some nice, ****-worthy photographs of the body she treated so poorly. She wouldn’t have it. She grabbed his phone with a sure hand... and from there, the waters became murky. The veil was peeled back. The illogical fears of her parents came roaring back with a weight that made the doctor's mind scream in panic as a voice--one not her own--whispered in her mind: her flesh would now warm at the touch of light, pleasure would come to her in all but darkness forever more, and she'd be a dripping slut for any who offered to relieve her stress if they got her naked enough to let that light shine on her near-translucent skin. The awareness bombarded her all at once, whispered in that taunting voice... whispered as punishment for trying to take the phone from the man who did this to her.

David Haines. He was the reason her flesh now tickled and excited her under the heat of the bathroom lamps; his meritless offer of sex for stress relief was accepted solely by his will, and not by hers. “This... this is because of you...” She could barely contain her anger, but more troublesome was the moan that wanted to sneak out with it. Ivette had only ever had to use her training in combat twice before: once at a concert with a pair of men who got too "handsy," and again with a patient who charged at her. The encounters could not have been more different in tone and need... and this encounter, now, was the perfect hybrid of both.

David Haines was some form of supernatural ****, and he was her patient. This required a fine touch to disarm and address, and so a simple wrist lock would have to suffice.

“H-Hey, don't grab it aga-ah-AH!” His body bends to follow the twist as she keeps his forearm near his chest, forcing his knees to fold in animal panic. She barely needs to apply **** to get the phone out of his grip now... and again the world falls away. Again those whispers... and now, as if the violation of her body, of her autonomy from this strange man, had not been complete enough, she hears her newest punishment for again taking the means of his control away: he could make her fall limp or still with a single word... and she would be unable to stop him. The whisper was a hissed shout, this time, an umbral, grasping blackness that held her body in that strange limbo to chastise her. She's told firmly this time to never touch the phone or him, that the phone was forbidden, that her interference was forbidden... and all the while, Ivette contemplates what that means. If they don't want her to touch the phone...

... then that must be the means of his power. He wasn't trying to take a picture, then, was he? He was issuing some new command or control... perhaps what's already overcoming her, perhaps something worse. Ivette can't bear to imagine this being how her life remains: ever at David's mercy, sometimes at the mercy of his tongue if he chose to command her to cease movement. The terror builds in her until she must strangle it into focused will... and in that heated moment of sure, hateful determination, she is returned to her body and faced with her oppressor.

What other reaction could he expect?

Her body twists as one to jab her index and middle knuckle in a focused blow on his throat, cutting off his words, possibly cutting off his breath, as she shifts to attack the phone. She can't ensure its destruction with a blow--it was steel and glass, and smashing inanimate objects was never the focus of her training--but she can at least throw it as hard as she can without truly grasping it. Until now, grabbing the phone has been what's thrown her back into that whispering darkness... so now, she'd have to destroy it while barely touching it. Just her fingertips touch the lip of the device... and again with her entire body behind it, she swings to launch it like a baseball at the far wall. She gets lucky: it doesn't even find the tile wall, but instead the steel beam of the shower door. The phone blossoms into catastrophic destruction as Ivette's hopes finally rise...

... and sink into the inky black along with her. Ivette tries to focus on getting back somehow, on willing herself out of this dreadful darkness... and now the voices don't bother whispering. They merely hold her here as her indignant soul screams at the injustice of it all... until at last she feels a breach, a beam of light on her face, as she continues to will herself free...

... and back into the bathroom. She's folded over the bathroom sink, almost as if she had been struggling with something, or struck... but a quick look around told her she was right back where she had left-

“Freeze!”

She tries to erect herself out of combat reflex, but she can't. She tries to move anything... and panic fills Ivette as she realizes she can no longer will herself to move. Her body grows hot as the light continues to shine on its newfound sensitivity... on its unnatural, untenable sensitivity. As much as her mind reels and panics, her breaths do still quicken and her body trembles slightly... and these symptoms only worsen as her captor closes what little space exists between them. Her mind runs out of means to protect herself or to try and reason this situation away... so all she does is quietly beg in her mind for him to stop. His fingers do not stop, and her body trembles in orgasmic bliss at just his bare touch. Hopeless vulnerability finally finds Dr. Sinclair in the most bizarre setting she could never have imagined... and her captor doesn't even realize it.

“You… fucking ruined…” David himself seems upset... and the comedic insanity of that prospect, that this magical sex offender would somehow feel like the victim here as he fondles his prize--a professional woman, a self-made ass-kicker, reduced to a porcelain sex doll--makes Ivette laugh in her mind.

A ****, miserable laugh.

Her captor moves out of vision, and now she realizes she cannot even move her glare... or blink, as her stinging eyes soon come to realize. The pain never increases to the unbearable levels it normally would--another mysterious result of her captor's powers, Ivette has to assume--nor does it ever overcome the building pleasure inside her as she slowly approaches orgasm anew. Barely a minute passes as the light continues to **** her unmoving, unflinching body... and again she comes, feeling her vaginal lubrication further painting her thighs as she does nothing to move or clean herself. This is the miserable state she is to be left in? What will he do when he returns now that he's scooped up the bits of his broken phone? Ivette's question are many... but the only answer she gets, other than silence, comes in the form of those dark whispers, now speaking to her as she continues in that miserable pose. “Your punishment has been decided... for disobeying us, your random- what? But I'm in the middle of-!”

As if the disembodied voice were somehow cut off on an intercom, it abruptly ends... and a new voice whispers, “Your punishment has been chosen.” Ivette's mind reels. She attacked David again, and broke the phone that was meant to end this... so how? Why? Tears stream from her eyes as she realizes how little she truly accomplished to wrench her freedom back, but the new voice fills her with inexplicable terror. Whatever spoke before was... somehow **** than this presence. The newer, menacing voice fills her mind rather than covers her as the darkness did; it blossoms in between her ears, as inescapable as her own thoughts, and every tap and taste of tongue on teeth as the voice speaks is felt in Ivette's sinking heart. “He will not have a say in this. He cannot, after all, so it's only fair that I be the one decide it. Your punishment is of my making, and how unfortunate for you, you ungrateful little thing... because I know the hearts of selfish women, little Ivette Sinclair, and you have been most selfish.”

Who are you? Ivette tries her best to **** this thought into a spoken voice in her mind, to try and communicate with this presence. If her thoughts can talk back, the voice does not acknowledge it.

Instead, the voice continues, “I know your intentions: to report his crimes, to hurt him, to free yourself from his bondage... all to the end of freeing yourself even as you imagine you're ending some great menace. You obsess with freedom. Your freedom of movement, freedom of mind, and freedom from the infirmities of a corporeal body... be they virulent sickness or mindless, indulgent sex. So your punishment is decided, little morsel of flesh: you are free no longer. All will know you for what you are in mind, body, and soul henceforth: the property of David Haines.” Ivette's mind screams in horror as the threat is immediately made real... and the invisible brand of slavery is written on her being. The light makes her come again, but the pleasure does nothing to stop the flow of tears that offer the only moisturizing comfort to stinging eyes unable to close. Ivette was now a ****... no, less, for slaves enjoyed a moral conundrum or some measure of freedom upon escape. Ivette was property, and there is no freedom she could possibly win back now.