How evil Garrett can be

Her head was completely shaved. Smooth, bare scalp gleaming under the bathroom lights, no stubble, no hint of regrowth. Just pale skin where thick dark hair should have been.

Owen’s stomach twisted. He’d looked into it once, years ago, curious about the women he found so captivating. Hijabs, he’d read, were about modesty, about keeping hair private, reserved for husbands or family, hidden from other men. A choice, a protection, a quiet boundary. This woman, whatever her name used to be, had that boundary stripped away completely. Shaved bald, exposed, turned into a joke. Whoever Garrett was, he wasn’t just controlling them. He was humiliating them on every level.

Owen spotted the words right away. Thick black marker across the center of her bald head: TOWEL STAND #6.

He got it. The towel wasn’t decoration. It was part of her purpose.

He turned back to the sink, twisted the tap again, soaked the towel under cold water until it dripped. Then he stepped close, cupped the back of her head gently with one hand to steady her and started rubbing.

The marker smudged immediately, black streaks spreading across her scalp like wet ink. He worked in circles, pressing harder, water running down her temples, dripping onto her bare shoulders and tits. The letters blurred, faded, became illegible smears. He kept going until nothing readable remained, just faint gray residue that might wash off with soap, but for now, gone.

He dropped the towel into the sink and stepped back half a step. Looked straight into her eyes.

Hope flickered in his chest, sharp, ****. Come on. Wake up. Blink. Frown. Scream. Anything.

Nothing.

Her smile stayed exactly the same, soft, serene, unchanging. Dark eyes still glassy, still fixed on some middle distance. No flicker of confusion, no widening in terror, no tightening of anger. Just the same vacant peace.

Owen’s jaw clenched. Anger surged up hot and sudden. He took the soaked towel from the sink and threw it down hard, it slapped against the tile floor with a wet smack. He stepped away from her, back hitting the counter.

She moved.

For a split second his heart jumped, maybe it worked, maybe the words were the anchor, maybe–

But she only bent at the waist, slow and graceful, tits swaying forward. She picked up the dripping towel from the floor, straightened, and began wrapping it around her head again. Precise folds, the long end draped down the front just like before. When she finished, she stood exactly where she had been, naked except for the hijab-towel, serene smile back in place, waiting.

Owen exhaled hard through his nose. A long, defeated sound.

She hadn’t woken up. She’d just reset to her role. The tape might have been the trigger, but once it was there, the programming stuck deeper. Erasing the words didn’t break anything.

There was less hope now. A lot less.

But he wasn’t leaving Paige here. Even if she never knew what was happening, even if she stayed smiling and vacant forever, he wasn’t walking away. He’d drag her out, tape or no tape. Find a doctor, a hypnotist, someone who could undo this shit. Anything.

He turned away from the towel stand, walked back into the bedroom. The cock warmer was still on the bed the same way he had left her, unchanged. His cock had softened some, but the sight still stirred a faint, guilty twitch.

He ignored it. Bent down, grabbed his boxers and jeans from the floor, pulled them up fast. Buckled the belt with shaking fingers. The shirt was still half-open, but he didn’t bother fixing it.

He crossed to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and listened.

Hallway sounds, distant footsteps, a soft clink of dishes, low voices somewhere far off. No one seemed to be close.

He opened the door just enough to peek out. Empty corridor. Maid #13 or any of the others nowhere in sight.

He stepped out, pulled the door shut behind him quietly with a soft latch.

In the halls again, heart hammering, he started walking.

Deeper into the house.

He had to find Paige.

Before Garrett came back.