Why would he want to stop the best free marketing on earth?

Chapter Three: The **** Plea

I stood outside Dr. Victor Kane’s office, shivering in a borrowed trench coat I’d scavenged from a thrift store donation bin after my last trance left me stranded naked in a Brooklyn alley. My phone was off, buried in my pocket, but the fear of it ringing clung to me like damp cloth. The world knew my shame—every news outlet, from tabloids to CNN, looped footage of my naked marches, my arms raised, my body a public spectacle. My colleagues at the Tribune had turned my humiliation into a ratings bonanza, and my inbox overflowed with messages from friends, family, even strangers, all having seen every inch of me. I was a walking headline, and I was ****.

I stormed past Kane’s receptionist, ignoring her protests, and burst into his office. He sat at his desk, calm as ever, sipping tea as if my life weren’t unraveling. “Elise,” he said, his voice infuriatingly smooth. “You look… distressed.”

“Undo it,” I demanded, my voice cracking. “Please, Victor. I’m begging you. Take this curse off me. Every time my phone rings, I—” My throat tightened, the memory of my last public strip burning fresh. “I can’t live like this. It’s destroying me.”

Kane leaned back, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Why would I? Your little performances are the best marketing my industry’s ever had. The world’s talking about hypnosis now—my name, my work. You’re proving it’s real, Elise. Every naked strut is a billboard for me.”

I slammed my hands on his desk, tears streaming down my face. “I’ll give you anything. Money, my savings, my apartment—name it. I’ll write a glowing piece, call you a genius, anything! Just make it stop.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You think your savings compare to global exposure? Your humiliation is worth more than anything you could offer. The world sees you, Elise, and they see me. My phone’s ringing off the hook with clients. You’re priceless.”

I sank to my knees, my pride shattered. “Please,” I whispered. “I’m begging. I’ll do anything.”

Kane tilted his head, considering me. “Anything?” A slow smile spread across his face. “Alright, let’s make another deal. One more session. If your mind is strong enough to resist my next trigger, I’ll reverse the first one. Your phone will stop controlling you. But if you can’t resist…” He paused, his smile darkening. “You’ll be subject to a new trigger, on top of the first. And I won’t tell you what it is until it’s done.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. Another gamble. But what choice did I have? “Fine,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Do it.”

He gestured to the recliner, and I sat, my body trembling. The lights dimmed, and his voice began its seductive pull. “Relax, Elise. Let go.” I fought to stay sharp, to resist, but his words were a tide, dragging me under. My vision blurred, my thoughts dissolved, and then—nothing.

When I woke, I was alone in the office, the clock showing an hour had passed. Kane was gone. I felt… normal. No urge to strip, no pull in my mind. I stood, cautious, waiting for the trap. Nothing happened. I left the office, my steps tentative, expecting my phone to ring and ruin me. It didn’t. For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe I’d won. Maybe I was free.

The next week was a dream. I stayed home, avoiding calls, but no trances came. I ventured out, clothed, untriggered, my confidence creeping back. I began to believe I’d beaten him, that my mind had been strong enough. I even started drafting a new story, one that would expose Kane without mentioning my ordeal.

Then, on the seventh day, it hit.

I stepped out of my apartment, heading for a coffee shop, when my body seized. My hands tore at my clothes, ripping them off with frantic urgency. My skin glistened, slick with baby oil I didn’t remember applying, my cheeks burning a vivid, embarrassed red. I tried to stop, to cover myself, but my body danced instead—a wild, sensual sway that drew every eye on the street. I twirled, naked, in the morning rush, my movements uncontrollable, my humiliation absolute.

It didn’t stop there. I walked to my car, my keys slipping from my hand as if guided by an invisible ****. I locked them inside, leaving me stranded, naked, glistening, my cheeks flaming as passersby gawked and filmed. My phone, now useless to me, buzzed with a call, and the original trigger kicked in—arms up, strutting for an hour, the new dance merging with the old in a grotesque performance.

The next day, I had to travel for a story. At the airport, I stripped at the gate, my body gleaming with oil, my cheeks crimson as I danced through security. A vibrator—God knows where it came from—hummed to life inside me, pushing me to the edge of orgasm, teetering there without release as I boarded the plane. Every passenger stared, their phones capturing my shame. The Tribune ran it as breaking news: “ELISE HARPER’S NAKED AIRPORT SCANDAL!” My mother called, sobbing, having seen it on NBC. My colleagues, my editor, my old college friends—they all knew, all saw, every glistening, blushing detail.

On buses, trains, taxis, it was the same. Each trip, the vibrator kept me on that agonizing brink, my body dancing, naked, oiled, cheeks red, as strangers watched and the world broadcasted my ruin. I was a prisoner to Kane’s new trigger, layered over the old, my life a relentless cycle of public degradation. I’d lost the bet, and now, with every step outside my door, I was his masterpiece—a glistening, blushing spectacle, forever at the mercy of his cruel design.