Chapter 17: The Deepening Trance
The record player’s needle found its groove in the silent loft, a low, sultry jazz standard crackling to life.It was a deliberate sound, a mood-setter, and it made Elena’s skin crawl. Derek was still on his knees before her, his wet, open mouth hovering over her exposed breast, his body trembling like a plucked wire.
Marcus watched, a connoisseur savoring a fine wine.Then he spoke.Not a shout. A calibrated, calm command that sliced through the music.“Stop.”
Derek flinched as if struck.His entire body locked. The muscles in his neck corded, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the latex squeaking in protest.A vein throbbed in his temple. He was a statue of conflicting impulses, the programmed bimbo fighting the last shreds of Derek Holloway. A low, animal groan ripped from his throat, a sound of pure anguish.
“You can try to run,” Marcus said, strolling closer, his shoes clicking on the concrete.“But where would you go, darling?Dressed like that? Feeling like this?”
With a sudden, convulsive jerk, Derek shoved himself back from Elena. He stumbled to his feet, the huge false tits bouncing grotesquely. He took one wobbly step toward the dark expanse of the loft, then another. His breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps.“Run, Derek!Please!” Elena screamed, hope surging despite the ropes.
He made it three more steps before Marcus’s voice, softer now, curled around him. “Freeze.”
Derek’s left foot hovered in mid-air. He wavered, a teetering doll in six-inch heels he wasn’t even wearing. Then he crashed down, his knee buckling, hitting the concrete with a sickening crack. He cried out, but the sound was muffled, swallowed by his own humiliation.He couldn’t move. His body simply would not obey the screaming commands from his mind.Marcus knelt beside him, all faux compassion. He produced a small, silver pendulum from his pocket.It caught the single light, a mesmerizing chip of white fire. “Look at you.You thought a little struggle meant you were free? The struggle is part of the program, Derek. It makes the surrender so much sweeter.”
Derek tried to wrench his eyes away.His head trembled with the effort. But the glint of silver was everywhere, reflecting in the mannequin’s glass eyes, in the polished leather of the chair, a universe of captivating sparks.His gaze, helpless, latched onto it.
The pendulum began to swing.A smooth, metronomic arc.Left to right.Right to left.
“Watch it,” Marcus murmured, his voice blending with the lazy saxophone.“Your mind can scream all it wants. Let it.It’s a tiny voice in a very deep, very dark well. But your body… your body knows the truth.Your body is a bimbo’s body now. It wants to be pretty.It wants to be used.”
Derek’s eyes tracked the silver disc. His breathing began to slow, to deepen.The tension bled from his locked jaw.
“You will always obey,” Marcus continued, the rhythm of his words matching the pendulum’s swing. “You will feel the need to act slutty.To pose. To show off your tits and your ass.To beg for cock. Your mind is Derek’s, a little ghost screaming in the dark.But your body… your body is mine.It’s a bimbo’s body. Empty and eager.”
As the words seeped in, Derek’s posture on the floor changed. The defensive hunch softened. His free hand, the one not bracing his fall, lifted and cupped the outrageous silicone breast strapped to his chest.He squeezed it, a slow, exploratory knead. A moan trickled from his lips—long, low, and shameless. It was the sound of a switch flipping deep inside, a circuit closing. His hips, still pinned on the hard floor, made a small, circular grind against nothing.Elena watched, nausea rising in her throat. This was worse than the blankness.This was him being present, aware, and utterly conquered.
Marcus stood, satisfied.He turned the pendulum toward Elena. “Your turn, my dear.”
“No,” she spat, squeezing her eyes shut.“I won’t look. You can’t make me.”
“I don’t need to make you,” Marcus said, his voice suddenly right beside her ear.She felt his breath on her neck. “You’re already looking.”
Her eyes flew open. The silver glint was trapped in the polished buckle of her own restraining rope, right in her peripheral vision.It was unavoidable.A tiny, oscillating star. She tried to focus on Derek’s broken form, but the shimmer pulled at her sight, a neurological lure.
“Every time your husband acts like the beautiful, dumb slut he’s becoming,” Marcus whispered, the pendulum now swinging deliberately before her wide, resisting eyes, “you will feel a surge of arousal. A deep, thrilling heat.You will find it beautiful.Exciting.Right. His transformation will become your deepest, most secret turn-on.”
“No, it won’t,” Elena gasped, but her denial was thin, brittle.
“You will resist at first,” he acknowledged, as if reading her mind.“Out of habit.Out of petty morality.But the urge will grow. It will itch under your skin every time he swishes his hips. Every time he moans for a thick cock.Until one day, you’ll give in.You’ll help him. You’ll buy him prettier lingerie.You’ll call him your good girl. And you’ll love it.”
As he spoke the final words, Elena felt it. A traitorous, unwelcome pulse between her legs.It was faint, a mere echo, but it was undeniable. It coincided with Derek, on the floor, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He tossed the platinum wig back, a clumsy, provocative gesture, and looked at her through smudged mascara.His lips were glistening and parted.Her body shuddered.Not just from fear. A hot, slick shame bloomed inside her. Her thighs, bound as they were, pressed together involuntarily.Marcus saw it.He smiled. “See?”
He walked back to Derek, offering a hand.Derek took it, rising with a submissive grace that was wholly alien. Marcus led him, this time, to the high-backed leather chair—the hypnotist’s throne. He didn’t sit Derek in it.He positioned him in front of it, facing Elena.
“Show your wife how a bimbo presents herself,” Marcus commanded, his voice casual, as if asking for a cup of tea.
Derek’s hands went to his inflated chest, hefting the false breasts, pushing them together to create a deeper cleavage. He arched his back, sticking his ass out, letting the tight latex dig into the cleft. He dropped one shoulder, tilted his head, and let his tongue dab at his glossy upper lip.A vacant, wanting expression settled over his features.
The pulse between Elena’s legs intensified.Arousal, vicious and unwanted, coiled in her belly. She hated it.She hated him.She hated herself. But her eyes were glued to the obscene parody of her husband.A whimper escaped her, laced with want.
“Good girl,” Marcus said, to both of them. He stood behind Derek, his hands settling on the latex-clad hips.“Now, my darling bimbo, you’re going to fuck your wife. You’re going to show her what you’re for.”
Derek’s eyes widened for a second, a flash of Derek-terror.Then it dissolved into a haze of bimbo-eagerness. He nodded, a clumsy bob of the blonde wig.“Yes, Master.Wanna fuck. Wanna be useful.”
Marcus’s hands went to the back of the latex dress. There was a zipper there.He pulled it down slowly, the sound loud in the room. The dress gaped open, revealing the lacy back of the garter belt, the taut straps, the smooth, masculine planes of Derek’s back now framed in lingerie. The dress slid down Derek’s arms, catching at the wrists, then pooled at his feet. He stood shivering in just the bra, garter, stockings, and a tiny, lace-front black thong that barely contained his erection. The cock was fully hard now, jutting angrily from the feminine fabric, a stark, leaking contradiction.Marcus guided him towards Elena.Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Don’t… please, Derek, don’t…”
But Derek was past hearing her. He knelt before her again, his hands fumbling with the button of her pants. His movements were frantic, desperate, his breath coming in hot, needy pants. He got the pants open, yanked them down along with her panties just enough.Marcus stepped in, a knife appearing in his hand. With a clean slice, he cut the ropes binding her ankles to the chair legs. “Hold her legs,” he instructed Derek.Derek’s hands, trembling, gripped Elena’s thighs, prying them apart. She fought, but the combination of the remaining ropes on her wrists and the terrifying, burgeoning heat in her own core made her resistance weak. Derek’s strength, the last relic of his old self, was undeniable.He opened her up, exposing her.
He looked up at her, his face a ruined painting of shame and need. “I’m sorry, baby,” he slurred, the Derek-mind surfacing in a gasp. “I can’t… I have to…”
“Do it, slut,” Marcus growled from behind him, and placed a hand on the small of Derek’s back.With a broken sob, Derek aligned himself. The head of his cock, wet with pre-cum, nudged against her entrance.Elena braced, her body rigid.Then he pushed inside.
It was nothing like their lovemaking.It was a brutal, single-minded penetration. He buried himself to the hilt in one rough thrust, a choked cry escaping his throat. The sensation for Elena was a violent clash of violation and intense, shocking pleasure. The unwanted arousal Marcus had planted roared to life, screaming in agreement with the invasion.Derek began to move. Short, sharp, frantic strokes.The silicone breasts in the bra jiggled wildly with each thrust. His makeup-smeared face was a mask of tortured ecstasy.He wasn’t making love to his wife. He was performing a function, proving his worth as a living sex doll.
“That’s it,” Marcus breathed, watching, one hand still on Derek’s back, steering him. “Use that cunt.Show her your purpose. You’re just a cock and a pair of tits, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Master!” Derek moaned, his rhythm becoming more ragged, more intense.“Just a cock!Just tits!Fuck! Feels so good to be empty!”
Elena’s head fell back.Tears streamed down her temples into her hair. A orgasm, vicious and compulsive, began to build in her depths, fuelled by the horror and the illicit thrill. She was coming, forced towards climax by her transformed husband’s desperate, mechanical fucking.“Cum for him, Elena,” Marcus commanded softly. “Cum for your pretty wife.”
The dam broke. A convulsive, shattering orgasm ripped through her, wracking her bound body.She screamed, a sound of despair and utter release. As she clenched around him, Derek’s own control shattered. With a final, deep grind, he emptied himself inside her, his body slumping forward, his false breasts crushing against her stomach, his cries muffled against her skin.
The loft was silent save for their ragged breathing and the hiss of the record player’s run-out groove.Slowly, Derek pulled out. He collapsed onto the floor beside her chair, a spent, ruined thing in lace and smeared lipstick. He curled into a fetal position, sobbing quietly.Marcus stepped forward, knife in hand again. He cut the ropes on Elena’s wrists.She didn’t move.Her arms fell limply to her sides, numb.
Elena stared at the ceiling, feeling his cum leak down her thigh.The seed inside her body. The seed inside her mind.She looked at Derek, weeping on the floor in his thong and stockings.
She didn’t feel the urge to help him up.Not yet.
But she knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that soon she would.