You test Kennedy's strength

She turns toward the door and you have an idea. In order to walk she has to move her legs. As she swivels you pull the dress tight, wrapping her legs like you’d roll someone up in a rug. As expected, she topples onto her face.

"What was that for?"

Just reminding you that you’re not totally in charge.

Yes I am! You can only control things, not me.

The whole world is made up of things, and most of them aren't you. I’ve got you right where I want you.

No you haven't.

She pulls the gown straps off her shoulders and starts peeling the bodice downward. You make sure it’s snug so she has to work at it. You don't even have to roughen the fabric of the dress; its simple tightness means those nubs are getting a workout. By the time the dress clears them they're warm and tingly and touchable...

...but she doesn't touch them. She keeps working the dress down, more intent on getting out of it than anything. As she pushes the dress past her hips she has to stop and adjust her panty straps several times, but eventually the gown is around her ankles and then off. Finally she stands and stares at the mirror, hands on her hips.

Ha! Now what are you going to do?

You make her tighty-whiteys evaporate. As her hands cup herself you get a quarter-second view of her pouty slit with the wisps of carrot-red hair around it. The palm of her hand feels slightly damp from where she’s touching herself, or yourself, or you’re touching yourself, or whatever.

If you were going to do that, why didn't you just make the dress vanish?

I tried; I'm not powerful enough. Yet.

Humph! So what now?

Now I stare at those pert little nipples and you get more and more aroused by the hopelessness of your situation. And you know if you just rub your hand up and down you'll be heading in the direction of– what the?

The world goes dark as she closes her eyes. She pulls her damp finger away from your slit and sniffs it; it smells musky with a trace of sweetness. As she pulls the door open you can feel her sneering at you.

I'm the smart one, remember?

She makes her naked way along a corridor, left hand on the wall; when she reaches a doorway she steps through. Her hands sweep out at about waist level until she hits wood. She feels the flat surface until she finds a metal handle, which she pulls toward her until the drawer is against her waist. Finally she opens her eyes again.

You’re in a bedroom looking into an underwear drawer. There's nothing in there but tighty-whiteys.