He takes her home.

The car door slammed shut, sealing Charlotte in darkness. The trunk smelled of stale fast food and old gym clothes, but she didn’t stir—her breath remained slow, her body limp, her mind adrift in the warm, syrupy haze of hypnosis. Every bump in the road jostled her, making her tits sway heavily against the corset’s strained fabric, her thighs rubbing together with a soft, slick sound.

Twenty minutes later, the car rolled to a stop. The trunk popped open, flooding the cramped space with the dim yellow glow of a single porch light. The man’s fingers dug into her thighs again, hauling her out with a grunt. Her head lolled back, her platinum curls spilling over his arm like spilled cream, her mouth still slightly open, still drooling.

“Almost there, Charlotte,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Her stockinged legs brushed against his waist as he adjusted his grip, her high heels clicking together uselessly. The front door creaked open, revealing a cramped, cluttered living room—dirty dishes piled in the sink, a laptop humming on the coffee table, the faint scent of sweat and cheap cologne hanging in the air.

He staggered toward the bedroom, his breath coming in short, excited bursts. The door was already ajar, the mattress unmade, the sheets rumpled. With one final heave, he dumped her onto the bed, her body bouncing slightly before settling into the mattress.

Charlotte let out a soft, airy moan, her eyelashes fluttering but not opening. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, her hips shifting instinctively, as if even in sleep, her body knew its purpose. The corset had ridden up, exposing the soft swell of her stomach, the lace of her panties peeking from beneath the ruffled skirt.

The man swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached out, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. Her skin was warm, slightly damp with sweat, her lips still parted in that perfect, mindless oh.

“Charlotte,” he whispered, testing the name on his tongue.

She didn’t respond—just sighed, her chest rising and falling in slow, hypnotized rhythm. One strap of her maid outfit had slipped down her shoulder, the swell of her jugs threatening to spill free. His fingers hovered, trembling, before he finally gave in, tracing the curve of her collarbone.

A shiver ran through her, a tiny, needy noise escaping her throat.

“Oui… maître…” she murmured, her French accent thick and dreamy, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man—Josh, let his fingers trail lower, tracing the edge of her corset where it strained against the soft flesh of her breasts. His touch was hesitant at first, then bolder as Charlotte arched into him with a sleepy, incoherent murmur. Her nipples were already stiff beneath the satin, pressing against the fabric like they were begging for attention.

“Mon Dieu… je suis désolée…” she slurred, her eyelashes fluttering as she fought through the thick syrup of sleep and recent hypnosis clouding her mind. She thought she had dozed off while polishing silver, that her maître would be furious—but oh, his hands felt so good, so warm, and her body was so heavy, so pliant.

Josh swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat as he cupped her fully, kneading the weight of her with shaky fingers. The second he squeezed, Charlotte gasped, her back bowing off the mattress, her plush lips parting in a silent oh. A thin string of drool escaped the corner of her mouth as she mewled, her hips rocking instinctively against nothing.

“T-trop bon… p-please…” she begged. Her thoughts were sludge, her obedience absolute. If her maître wanted to touch her like this, who was she to resist?

Josh’s breath came faster now, his fingers pinching her nipple through the fabric, rolling it until Charlotte whined, her thighs squeezing together. The lace of her panties was soaked, clinging to her skin, but she literally doesn't have the will to be embarrassed over that sort of thing. Too dumb to do anything but pant and whimper as he played with her.

One strap of her maid outfit slipped further, the swell of her milkers threatening to spill free. Josh bit his lip, his free hand fumbling to tug it down the rest of the way, exposing her fully. Her nipple was a deep pink, stiff and begging for his mouth. He didn’t hesitate—just leaned in and licked a slow, wet stripe over it.

Charlotte’s entire body jerked, a high-pitched moan tearing from her throat. “A-ah! Maître!” Her back arched violently, her fingers tangling in the sheets as pleasure crackled through her like electricity. She was too far gone to question why this felt so good, why her skin was on fire, why her cunt was throbbing.

Josh sucked harder, his free hand hiking up her ruffled skirt, his fingers skimming the damp lace between her thighs.