Jasmine's Last Stand, Pt. 03

"I was going to make your favorite breakfast," Devon says. She should turn around and look at him. But suddenly, she can't move at all. She knows he's approaching her. He sounds amused. "But if you're not hungry, we can do something else."

That's not right. That doesn't make any sense. How could he know her favorite breakfast? She's certain it didn't come up the night before. Okay, Jasmine, you're focusing on the wrong thing. Just a figure of speech or something. Doesn't matter.

He's at her back, close enough that she can feel him. He pulls her shoes out of her hand, her purse off her shoulder.

She should stop him.

Why doesn't she stop him?

There's a tugging at her stomach, and then the belt comes off. He pulls at the dress's neckline. "Take this off, Jasmine."

No, of course she's not going to take it off. She might not be able to stop him from taking her shoes and purse, but she definitely won't--

The fabric slips off her arms and torso, and then the dress falls, bunching around her feet.

She didn't even think about it. It was like her arms were moving independent from her conscious mind.

"Turn around."

Her cheeks burn as she turns her topless form to him. She folds her arms, trying to cover up her chest, but he gently takes her hands and stretches them in front of her, revealing her breasts in all their glory.

He smiles at them. He smiles at her. She wishes she didn't feel that ping in her groin at the thought of his approval. He's topless, wearing only a pair of jeans, and he looks, as always, infuriatingly attractive.

"I wonder if you've even noticed," he muses, "that you haven't said a word since you woke up."

Her eyes widen. Her hands are still in his. He's right. She's had plenty of thoughts, sure. Plenty of conversations in her own head. But not a single word spoken aloud.

"Or that the panties you're wearing aren't the ones you were wearing at the party."

She looks down, but she doesn't need to. She can feel the fabric against her skin, and knows now it's completely different from the white floral-patterned cotton briefs she wore to the party. The ones she's wearing now are black, a thong with a lace waistband.

"Why'd you put them on, Jasmine?" he asks.

"They were..." Her voice almost sounds foreign in her ear, like it's been ages since she's used it. "They were on the chair."

His reaction isn't at all what she expected. He leans over and kisses her cheek, so tenderly. "Yes, they were," he whispers.

She lets out a soft moan as he cups her breast, squeezing it firmly. The back of her head rests against the door.

"My poor girl," he says. He weaves his fingers through her scalp. The way he says, "My." My poor girl. It's so subtle, but she can feel the possessiveness of it. It's not just an affectionate epithet. She moans again. "Did you try to take off the cuffs?"

"Yes."

He puts his hand around one of the ones on her wrist, squeezing the leather against her skin. "But you couldn't, could you?"

"No." She whimpers, half from the pleasure of his touch, half from the confusion.

"Let's hear it, Jasmine. Tell me what you remember. Tell me what you think is happening." He pulls back, just enough for his face to meet hers, placing two fingers under her chin.

She inhales. "We were at the party, no, in your dad's office. With your friends. And I let you...you made me..." She remembers how hard it was for her to think then, and now her hand goes to her forehead. Tears form at her eyes.

"It's alright," he says softly. "What did I do to you, Jasmine?"

"You hypnotized me," she says, her voice so small.

"And why was that so hard for you to say?"

"Because...because it wasn't real. Hypnotism isn't real. Brainwashing isn't real. But I can't get the cuffs off. I couldn't unlock the door. You did something to me, and there's a room--"

He waits a beat. "Go on."

"There's a room. Downstairs."

"What's it for?"

"I don't know."

"Did you go into it?" Devon asks.

She shakes her head.

"But you know it's important."

She nods.

"Show me," he orders.

She turns and heads down the stairs, Devon following close behind her. Her dress, her purse, her shoes, and her belt all stay on the landing. She can't explain why, but she has the distinct feeling that she'll never see any of them again. She walks past his bedroom and goes to the door that gives her the strange feeling, which intensifies when she stands before it.

He twists the handle and pushes the door open.

There's barely any furniture in the room; it's definitely not being used as an office or a guest room.

It's kind of Stanley Kubrick-esque. That's the closest way she can describe it. The walls are painted a stark white, the windows covered with thick curtains, and there's a white table in the center of the room with a chair. Short metal chains have been fastened to each side of the table and on the floor, near the front legs of the chair. The chair is facing a wall with a giant screen, and a projector is mounted to the ceiling. On the other side of the room there are more chains, perfect for keeping her upright against the wall. Each corner of the ceiling features a black speaker, facing down to the center of the room.

"Do you remember this room, Jasmine?" he asks. He leans against the table casually, one knee over the other, just like he did when he was resting on the armrest of the chair in his father's office.

"No." She shakes her head, too horrified to take more than one step inside. "But you did something to me in here, didn't you? After the party, you took me here and--"

"After the party?" His eyebrows raise as if in surprise, but she can tell by his smile that he's not surprised at all. "That's what you think? I hypnotized you at the Christmas party, then took you here, brainwashed you, and then you woke up half an hour ago?"

Her jaw tenses. She knows he's mocking her. But what else can she do but answer honestly? "Yes."

He laughs, like he's delighted by her. "Oh, Jasmine." He crosses his arms. "That party was three months ago."

A knot forms in her gut at the revelation, and she's so shocked that she gains enough temporary autonomy to move her foot as if to step back, but her body remains still. The air is sucked out of her lungs. Three months? She's lost three months? No. No, that's not possible.

"But you did so well, Jasmine. So, so well." He stands, approaches her, then grabs her upper arms, moving her to the wall with the chains. "You're a fucking masterpiece."

She whimpers. "Please," is all she can get out.

He locks the chains to the cuffs on her wrists and tugs them, keeping her arms in a Y shape, then he leans down and locks her ankles to the chains on the floor. He stands and runs his hands along her arms, admiring them. "Work of art. Every inch of you."

There's a pounding in her cunt. She wants to kick him in the groin. She wants him to shove his tongue down her throat.

"That first night..." he grins and takes in a breath through his teeth, "did a lot of the legwork. But the programming, the full programming," he puts his mouth to her neck, "that took awhile. That's what this room is for, Jasmine. What did I do to you here?"

"You programmed me," she says, though she still can't remember any of it. But she knows that it's true, and she knows it's what he wants her to say.

"That's right. Once I confirmed you were receptive, it took me about a week to put together this room. Your mind was already pretty liquid, even if you didn't realize it when you were out of the first trance; it wasn't hard to convince you to come in here and let me take you deeper, and the whole process became much more streamlined." He rubs her back. Every time he touches her, it's like an electric shock. "And, of course, there were other matters to attend to in the meantime. Doctors' appointments to make sure you're healthy, and that you stay that way. Cosmetic stuff, like permanent makeup and laser treatments for your body hair. We still have a few sessions for that, by the way." He dances his fingers along her mound, and she realizes that it's hairless. Nothing stands between his fingers and her skin.

She moans. "Good girl," he says, and she moans again. She sounds like a porn star in her own ears, even though she's never seen a porno in her life, as far as she knows. "And we had to take care of your apartment, your job. You quit three weeks ago, moved in with me last week. Oh, the look on the faces of those old ladies when they realized you were seeing me." He growls and chuckles at the same time, and nibbles at her ear. "I think the old Jasmine would have cared what they thought. But the new Jasmine just laughed and told them they were jealous hags."

She gasps, shocked. She believes him, even though she can't remember it.

"What's wrong?" he asks with a smirk, hands on her waist.

"That was my job. That was my career."

"Your career?" He laughs. "What were you making, twenty an hour? Barely enough for a shitty apartment with shitty roommates in the shittiest part of town."

"But it was mine. My life. I wanted to go to grad school, I wanted--"

"You had no future. Not compared to the one I've given you." He plants his palms against the wall, boxing her in and somehow making her feel even more trapped. "You've known that from the moment I took you. There is no life for you more fulfilling than this. Remember what I told you that night, Jasmine. I couldn't hypnotize you to do anything you didn't want to do."

"I didn't want to be a sex slave," she protests. "I don't want to be--"

He kisses her neck, eliciting another moan.

"You did," he says simply. "Some tiny part of you, maybe, but you did. Or it wouldn't have worked."

"Why can't I remember?" she asks, her larynx tight with a sob.

"The last few months has been a lot of trial and error," he says, as if he's a scientist explaining an interesting experiment to an investor. "Making you forget some trances, remember others. Making you forget all of them some days, and remember them all the next. I wanted to be sure that your mind was really mine, that I could manipulate your memory at will. But last night was the final night of your training, and this was your last test. I needed to know that even when not in your trance, even with the memory of most of your trances temporarily removed, the most important parts of your programming would still stick."

"No." No, he's lying. He has to be. It can't be three months later. She can't have quit her job, moved in with him. She can't be brainwashed. She can't, she can't, she can't. Wake up, Jasmine. Wake the hell up. Stop thinking about how good it feels when he tugs at the waist of the thong, when the fabric falls down your legs, when he rubs your--

She moans again, realizing how much of this is part of her programming. More than she ever would have guessed.

But if she knows, if she knows what he's doing, what he's done, doesn't that mean she can resist it? It has to. It just has to. She doesn't want whatever vague luxuries he's offering. This pleasure can't be worth her soul.

Can it?

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a remote. For a moment, she wonders if it's some device to control her, but he points it at the ceiling, and the projector blinks to life.

"It'll take a minute to warm up," he says.

"Please," she says. Her heart is beating so hard that she can feel it against her ribcage. "Please, Devon, just let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone. Please, don't play it."

"Jasmine, listen to yourself." He almost sounds sympathetic. "You know, if you watch whatever I'm about to play, that it's game over. Doesn't the fact that you know that mean that you've already lost? If all someone needs to take over your mind is to play a video, how can you still call yourself a free woman? How could you have ever called yourself that?"

His words have a horrific logic to them, and he stares at her, as if expecting an answer.

He is expecting an answer.

"I don't know," she whispers.

"You can't," he says. "That's the answer."

The projector completes its warmup routine, and an image appears on the screen behind him. He presses a button on the remote again, and a video starts playing.

The Newton's cradle.

At first, it's just the marbles. Their clinking plays over the speakers as they move. So soft, so soothing. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Her eyes glaze over instantly, and she turns her head away, but all he has to do is nudge her cheek, and she's locked onto the image, her neck paralyzed.

"You tried to look away, once or twice." She hears his belt and pants come off. "Remarkably late in the process, honestly. It might have been the last gasps of your free mind, but part of me suspects you wanted me to see you resist." She can hear the sneer in his voice. "You wanted me to punish you. I admit, that was fun, but we can't have stunts like that anymore if this is going to take."

His words echo in her, very far away and yet somehow too close.

"But you came around quickly, especially after I reminded you how beautiful you are in your trance." He runs his thumb along her parted lips. "You like to feel beautiful, don't you, Jasmine?"

"Yes." She feels the cuffs tug at her wrists as her arms relax, feels his cock harden against her hip.

"Then listen, beautiful girl. Let me give you all those memories back, and take everything else away."

Another sound comes from the speakers. A woman's voice. Her voice. And as she hears it, her memories come flooding back. Being in this room. Watching the marbles. Listening to Devon, letting his voice and instructions become her world. And her life outside of his apartment, her former life. Quitting her job. Laughing at the reception ladies who would have rather seen her grow old and bitter like them. Leaving her crappy apartment. Cutting out her friends and family who never supported her anyway, according to Devon. Accepting her new role. Even Devon telling her to forget it all so she could take her final test. She remembers it now.

She remembers recording this voice for her future self, reading off Devon's script as she sat at the table. She remembers how blissful she felt reading it, how Devon said she should be careful not to sound too aroused as it could make her hard to understand.

He enters her. Without even thinking, she thrusts her hips to meet his cock, though she furrows her brow at the words. They're her, but they're not, right? They can't be.

They can't...

"Devon owns me," says past Jasmine.

"I am Devon's property.

"I am Devon's living sex doll.

"I am Devon's fuck toy."

He thrusts. She thrusts. Every time she does, as the words go on, it feels more and more right. The words she spoke become irrefutably true, and unbelievably comforting. Fuck toy. God, why does thinking about herself that way make her so happy? What has he done to her?

"My body is for Devon's use.

"I love being Devon's fuck toy.

"I love having my slut holes used by Devon."

She lets out another moan, this one from the depths of her lungs. Her slut holes. Yes, that's right. How could she have been so silly? She's a slut. She's Devon's slut.

But wait, does that make sense? Isn't a slut someone who fucks more than one--

"I love when Devon shares me and lets others use my slut holes."

Oh, right. She smiles, remembering when pre-recorded Jasmine reminds her. During her training, after the first night, anyway, Devon kept her all to himself. But he promised her, once she was ready, his friends would have access to her too.

Silly Jasmine. Silly little slut, forgetting that. This is why it's so much better to let Devon do the thinking for you. This is why you wanted him to have control of your body and mind.

The programming from the past three months hardens like cement within her. How could she have ever wanted anything else? Belonging to Devon is the greatest joy she could have ever asked for.

Devon thrusts in and out of her pussy, grunting and covering her face with kisses. She kisses him back, using her tongue the way he taught her, twisting it around his, licking the roof of his mouth and his teeth, trying to entice him to stay inside her holes.

Slut holes. Jasmine has gorgeous slut holes. She giggles. He murmurs approvingly, running his hands through her hair. Pre-recorded Jasmine keeps talking as more of present Jasmine's independence melts away.

"I obey all of Devon's commands.

"I only speak to Devon, the ones he lends me to, or the ones he gives me permission to speak to.

"Only Devon decides what I wear.

"Only Devon decides where I go.

"Only Devon decides how I look.

"Only Devon decides what I think.

"Only Devon decides what I know."

She's mouthing along now, and the mantras repeat from the top. "I am Devon's property," she whispers in unison with her pre-recorded self. "I am Devon's living sex doll."

Her master pumps into her, harder and harder. He's so proud of her. She knows she's a testament to his hard work. She knows she has to show him how much it's paid off. She squeals with delight as his cock rubs against her clit. She thrusts her hips as hard as she can, helping him to drive even deeper into her slut cunt.

How lucky she is to belong to him. He could have made her into anything. He could have taken away her capacity for pleasure, locked her in a cage, forced her to beg for any small modicum of dignity. He could have let his friends mock her vulnerability that first night, made her the butt of the joke like Mitzi Blankenship. Instead, he asked them to help make her into the fuck toy she was always meant to be. He asked them to make her feel good.

She cums when he does, like a good slut. He groans with joy, and pulls back to see her sleepily happy face, basking in the afterglow of her climax, looking at nothing in particular. Then she turns to him with a contented hum, and gives him the easiest smile she's ever given anyone.

She doesn't need the trance anymore. It's done its job. Now, this is just who she is. A woman with a clay-like mind that only one person has access to, and that person isn't her. And that means Jasmine is free to just enjoy, free to just exist in this space that he's carved for her. Beautiful. Slutty. Submissive. No fears or worries or responsibilities.

He unhooks her cuffs from the chains. "We may do some fine-tuning in the future," he says, "but I think it's safe to say that your conversion is complete."

Mm-hmm. Yes. Absolutely. She knows he's right, but he hasn't asked her if she agrees, so she says nothing. It's so easy. It's so much easier than resisting, than anything she's done in her entire life.

He doesn't put her panties back on. Instead, he pulls them out from under her feet and smells them. "Think you've earned a fresh pair," he says. He puts a hand on the small of her back and leads her to the bedroom. Their bedroom. She remembers now, how in the last three months, she's spent more nights in his bed than in her own. She glances at the chair he'd placed her green dress on. His instructions during her training come back to her; if he places clothes on the chair, or hands them to her, she's to put them on. She smiles. She doesn't even have to worry about clothes anymore.

He opens the door to the walk-in closet. "Can't remember if I told you this, but Grace was the one who picked out most of your wardrobe. I have no head for women's fashion." He throws the thong into a hamper and selects another pair, this one similar but a deep red. She quietly examines her side of the closet. Most of the drawers are filled with lingerie, but there are a few nice evening gowns and even some casual clothes draped on the hangars, and some shoes as well. "You'll have to thank her the next time you see her, won't you?" He smirks and hands her the new pair.