Chapter 5: Desperate Bargain
The scream never left his throat. It stayed there, a frozen knot of horror, as Jared bolted upright in his bed. His sheets were tangled, damp with cold sweat, but his body was his own. The phantom fullness on his chest was gone. The desperate, clutching ache between his legs was absent. The silence in his head was absolute.
He scrambled for his phone on the nightstand. 8:17 AM. Saturday.
He calculated frantically. He’d triggered in the office around 4:30 PM yesterday. The episode on the couch… that had lasted. He’d finally fallen into a numb, exhausted sleep sometime after midnight. More than four hours. The protocol should have left residue, the ghost of the bimbo clinging like a scent. But there was nothing. Just the hollow, yawning memory of what he’d done, and the crisp, clinical terror of the text message.
He felt clear. Terribly, treacherously clear.
It was a trick. It had to be. A lure into a false sense of security. But the clarity was a drug. It sharpened his resolve, cutting through the post-violation fog that had plagued him after the rooftop. He was Jared Miller again. And Jared Miller needed to end this.
He didn’t shower. He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a hoodie, his movements stiff and determined. He found the number in his call log. Unknown. It glowed on the screen like a live wire. He didn’t call. He knew where she was. The convention ran through the weekend. The Grand Regency Hotel. She’d be holding court.
The city outside was bright and vulgar in its weekend cheer. He walked, the cold air biting his face, a welcome anchor to reality. Every step was a rehearsed argument. You will remove this. It was a performance. It’s gone too far. I will expose you. The words felt thin, childish even to him. He’d seen the look in her eyes. She didn’t care about exposure. She thrived on it.
The Grand Regency loomed, a monument of brass and marble. The lobby was still dotted with convention attendees clutching lanyards and programs. He didn’t see her. He went to the front desk, his voice a low, tight monotone.
“Vivienne Sinclair. Madame Mystique. What suite is she in?”
The clerk, a young man with impeccably gelled hair, gave him a polite, wary once-over. “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t give out guest room numbers.”
Jared leaned in, the edge in his voice crumbling. “Please. It’s an emergency. A personal emergency. Just call the room. Tell her Jared Miller is here. She’ll see me.”
Something in his eyes—the wild, sleepless desperation—must have convinced him. The clerk sighed, picked up a phone, and murmured into the receiver. He listened, nodded. “Suite 2240. The elevators are to your left.”
The ride to the 22nd floor was a slow ascent into a tomb. The elevator music was a soulless violin piece. His reflection in the brass doors was a ghost’s.
Suite 2240. The door was a slab of dark oak. He knocked.
It opened almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting right behind it. Vivienne stood framed in the doorway, not in stage leather, but in a simple, expensive-looking black cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. Her platinum hair was down, swept over one shoulder. She looked like a CEO, not a carnival hypnotist. Her green eyes took him in, tracing the lines of panic on his face, the tension in his shoulders. A smile, small and knowing, touched her lips.
“Jared. You’re early. I didn’t expect you until you’d suffered a little more.” Her voice was a warm contralto, utterly calm.
“We need to talk,” he said, the prepared speech evaporating.
“We do. Come in.”
She stepped back, and he entered a space of breathtaking, sterile luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of the city’s grid. The furniture was minimalist, all sharp angles and cream-colored upholstery. It smelled of lemons and clean linen. There was no sign of the mystic, the performer. This was a control room.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a low sofa.
He remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides. “Remove it. Whatever you did. The trigger. The… the protocol. Get it out of my head.”
She walked to a chrome sideboard, pouring herself a glass of water from a crystal carafe. She didn’t offer him one. “Remove it? After all the work we’ve done? You came to me for a story, Jared. I gave you a firsthand experience. The most vivid story of all. Isn’t that what a journalist wants?”
“This isn’t a story!” The shout echoed in the serene room. “You… you violated me. On that rooftop. And now it’s in me. It happens to me. At my job. In my home. You have to fix it.”
She took a slow sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Fix implies it’s broken. It’s not broken. It’s functioning perfectly. It’s you who’s malfunctioning. Fighting against your own nature.”
“My nature isn’t to be some… some brainless slut!” he spat.
Her eyes glittered. “Isn’t it? Your body seems to disagree. Quite emphatically.” She set the glass down. The click of crystal on chrome was final. “But I appreciate your directness. Pleading is boring. Demands are refreshing.” She moved closer, until he could smell her perfume—something dark and botanical, like crushed nightshade. “So I’ll be direct. I’m not going to remove it.”
His heart slammed against his ribs. “I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell every media outlet that isn’t my shitty magazine.”
“And say what?” she asked, genuinely curious. “That a stage hypnotist made you feel horny? That you had a powerful, consensual sexual fantasy? You signed a waiver. There are witnesses who saw you volunteer. Who saw the eager look on your face when you followed me backstage.” She tilted her head. “The story is: Skeptical reporter gets more than he bargained for, can’t handle the heat. It’s a fun little footnote. It doesn’t hurt me. It only destroys you.”
The truth of it was a physical blow. He sagged, the fight bleeding out of him, replaced by a cold, sinking despair. “Please,” he whispered, the word raw.
She studied his defeat like a scientist observing a successful experiment. “However… I am an artist. And I dislike unfinished work. The trigger, as it stands, is a blunt instrument. Crude. You fight it, it overwhelms you, it fades. It’s messy.” A new light entered her eyes, one of genuine, avid interest. “I have a better idea.”
He looked up. “What?”
“A refinement. You want to be free of the discomfort, the lingering shame? The answer isn’t removal. It’s integration. Strength.” She reached out, and before he could flinch, her index finger touched the center of his forehead. It was cool. “Let me make you stronger, Jared. Let me perfect the protocol.”
“No more hypnosis,” he breathed, but there was no force behind it.
“Just one more session. To create… stability. To give you clear rules. Boundaries. So you’ll know exactly what’s happening, and exactly when it will end. No more nasty surprises. Wouldn’t you prefer that?”
It was a lie. Every neuron in his brain, the ones still under his command, screamed that it was a lie. But the alternative was the endless, unpredictable terror of the trigger—in line at the grocery store, during a family visit, in a meeting. Clear rules. Boundaries. The words were seductive.
He was so tired.
His gaze drifted past her, to the dazzling, indifferent city through the windows. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Her smile widened. It held no warmth. It was the smile of a surgeon picking up a scalpel. “Good. Sit on the floor. Right here.” She pointed to a spot of flawless cream carpet in the center of the room.
He obeyed, lowering himself stiffly. The carpet was dense and soft.
“Comfortable? Good. Now, look at me.” She didn’t sit. She stood over him, a tower of calm authority. “Just listen to my voice. There’s no need to fight this time. You’re here for clarity. For peace. Listen, and watch the light on my pendant.”
She wasn’t wearing a pendant. He stared at the hollow of her throat, at the simple silver chain that rested there. A flicker of reflection from the window caught on a tiny charm—a spiral. His eyes locked onto it.
“That’s it. Your breathing is already slowing. Your eyelids are getting heavy. You’re so tired of fighting, Jared. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To constantly be at war with yourself. Let that war go. Just for now. Let your mind drift… down… into a quiet, deep place where nothing can bother you. A place where you only hear my voice.”
It was different from the stage. There were no flashing lights, no dramatic gestures. It was intimate, invasive. Her voice wove around him, seeping into the cracks in his resolve. The panic, the anger, the humiliation—they all seemed to recede, muffled under a thick, soundproof blanket. He felt his body go lax, his head lolling slightly forward, his gaze still glued to that tiny point of silver light.
“You are so deeply relaxed. And in this state, we can adjust the parameters. We can make everything… cleaner.” Her voice became a soft, relentless murmur. “The trigger phrase, ‘bimbo time,’ will function as the primary activation and deactivation command. When you hear it, the protocol will engage fully for a period of… four hours. A clean, predictable duration. Do you understand?”
From somewhere deep in the warm, woolly silence, a part of him whispered yes.
“Good. During those four hours, the bimbo persona will be in control of your body, your voice, your sexual responses. You, Jared, will be conscious. You will be aware. You will be able to fight, to rage, to scream inside. That conflict is part of the design. It makes the submission so much more potent. But you will be unable to stop the physical and vocal expressions until the four hours have elapsed… or until the trigger phrase is spoken again to deactivate the state. Do you understand?”
Yes.
“Now, the important refinement. The progression.” Her voice dropped, became conspiratorial, as if sharing a delicious secret with his subconscious. “Each time the trigger is used… the bimbo persona will grow a little stronger. Her impulses will become a little more pronounced. Her desires, a little more daring. Her actions, a little more… expressive. It’s a learning algorithm. Practice makes perfect. Every episode builds upon the last, deepening the neural pathways, making the transformation smoother, more complete. Do you understand?”
A faint tremor went through his limp body. Yes.
“Wonderful. This is for your strength, Jared. For your peace. The rules are clear now. The boundaries are set. No more lingering confusion. No more ambiguous after-effects. When it’s on, it’s on. When it’s off, it’s off. You will remember these rules perfectly when you wake. Now… sleep deeply for a few moments. Let these instructions settle into the very core of your mind, binding themselves to your instincts.”
The silence that followed was absolute. He floated in a void of perfect, thoughtless surrender.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. Seconds. Minutes.
A sharp click of her fingers pierced the quiet.
He gasped, his body jolting as if given an electric shock. His eyes flew open. He was on the floor, his mouth dry, his mind scrambling to catch up. The clarity from the morning was gone, replaced by a new, ominous feeling—a sense of structure, of walls being erected inside his own psyche.
He looked up at her. She was watching him with a chilling, scientific satisfaction.
“What…” he croaked, pushing himself up onto his knees. “What did you do to me?”
Vivienne’s lips curved. It wasn’t a smile. It was a unveiling of teeth. Her green eyes held a wicked, victorious light. She leaned down, her breath ghosting over his ear, and she breathed the two words, the words that were now the law of his being, the words that were both the lock and the key.
“Bimbo time.”
The transformation didn’t hit him like a freight train. It unfolded. It was faster than before, smoother, a well-rehearsed dance his body now knew by heart.
A wave of heat, immediate and intense, washed from his scalp to his toes. A high, girlish giggle burst from his lips before he could even think to stop it. His hands flew to his chest, not hovering this time, but groping, kneading the firm muscle there as if searching for softness that wasn’t present. A shudder of raw need wracked his frame.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” the bimbo voice sighed, dripping with lewd gratitude. It was louder now, more assured. “That’s the stuff.”
Jared’s consciousness recoiled, screaming in the vault of his own skull. NO! FIGHT IT! But his body was already in motion. His hips began to rock in a slow, exaggerated circle, grinding his denim-clad crotch against the plush carpet. The friction was incredible. He could feel every fiber.
“What did you do?” Jared’s own voice, laced with terror, managed to claw its way out. It was a strained, desperate sound underneath the bimbo’s sensual purring.
“I gave you rules, sweetheart,” Vivienne said, stepping back to observe. She folded her arms, her head tilted in appraisal. “And I turned up the volume. Just a little.”
“Stop this!” Jared shouted, even as his hands left his chest and skimmed down his own torso, fingers clawing at the button of his jeans. “Please, Vivienne, don’t!”
“Uh-uh,” the bimbo persona interrupted, pouting. “We just got started!” The button popped open. The zipper rasped down. Jared’s hands, moving with a will that was both his and not his, shoved the jeans and his boxers down to mid-thigh, exposing his cock, which was already fully, painfully erect, thick and flushed and leaking.
Vivienne let out a soft, approving hum. “See? Stronger already. More… forward.”
The shame was a white-hot brand. Jared squeezed his eyes shut, trying to retreat into the darkness behind his eyelids. But the bimbo was in charge of the senses. The feel of the air on his exposed skin was a titillation. The scent of Vivienne’s perfume was an aphrodisiac. He couldn’t block it out.
“Need it,” the bimbo whined, his voice sliding into a higher register. Jared’s hand wrapped around his cock, giving it a long, slick stroke from root to tip. A moan, long and shuddering, filled the room. “So fucking hard. Need to be filled up. Need a big, thick cock to wreck this hungry little hole.”
“Shut up!” Jared roared, his face contorted in anguish. But his hand kept moving, the pace quickening, his thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over the sensitive head. “Make it stop!”
“It stops in four hours,” Vivienne said calmly, as if discussing the weather. “Or when I say the words. You know the rules now. Feel them. They’re in there.”
He did feel them. A new, awful understanding was part of his awareness. A countdown clock had started in some hidden part of his mind. He had 240 minutes of this. And the thing controlling his body was bolder, needier, more explicit than before.
“Wanna show you,” the bimbo voice cooed. Jared’s eyes fluttered open, but the gaze was vacant, lust-drunk. He looked right at Vivienne, a slutty, inviting smile on his face—his face. “Wanna show you how good I can be. How empty I feel.”
To Jared’s utter horror, his body began to move. He didn’t just kneel. He pivoted on his knees, presenting his bare ass to her, looking back over his shoulder with what he knew was a grotesque parody of seduction. He arched his back, forcing his ass cheeks to part slightly.
“See?” the bimbo breathed. “All ready. Just a dumb, empty hole waiting for a real fucking. Isn’t it pretty?”
Vivienne took a step closer. She didn’t touch him. She just looked. Her expression was one of rapt, clinical fascination. “Very pretty. And so articulate today. The progression is remarkable.”
“Fuck me,” the bimbo begged, Jared’s voice cracking on the plea. “Use me. C’mon, please?