Instead, she suddenly crouched down below the screen. There was a flash of something dark red as her arms momentarily came into the picture. Then she stood back up close to the camera, her chest and face in view. She was wearing the Stanford crop top she had worn for their workout - a week later.

"What, you were expecting the bra that's in your hand right now?" she said with a coy smile, suddenly breaking the fourth wall on the pornographic production.

He reflexively scampered backwards up the bed and onto the headboard in surprise, dropping the bra from his hand. Was she in the house filming moments ago? Was she here now? He had to look around to make sure he was still alone.

In the video her head turned to one side, then the other. She smiled. "No, I'm not there at your house now. Well I am...just not your now."

Tom froze in shock.

"I can't wait for you to squeeze me," she continued seductively, grabbing her breasts and projecting her nipples outward to poke through the fabric.

He crawled back to the screen, confused. Everything seemed out of order, she was imposing a time distortion field on him, messing with his head. She began singing.

"So you want to play with magic..." her voice trailed off. "I know how badly you want to bury your little minnow in between my huge succulent tits."

She squeezed her breasts together on the screen and his brain reconstructed the sensation of his saliva-soaked fingers sliding between her fleshy mounds. Fantastic images of fucking her tits filled his head. He almost came as his cock touched the white satin bedspread.

"More than anything you want to suck on them. Just the thought practically pulls the sperm out of your little testicles."

He felt suction in his mouth as his lips puckered up to the vision. Cum boiled in his balls.

"But you need to be a good boy," she said mischievously. "You already ejaculated for me tonight."

His cock softened slightly and the urge to cum remarkably dissipated. How could she have known?

"All it took was my fingertips," she said breathily. She raised a hand to her cheek and walked her index and middle finger slowly along her smooth skin. Then she smiled broadly, displaying her perfect teeth. Her tongue protruded, then trailed across her top lip. "Lick your upper lip. Can you still taste me?"

He immediately licked above his mouth and feasted on the salty musk adhering to his skin. He shivered as his hard-on fully returned.

"Can you feel it? You're mine, little rabbit. I took you. All your power is gone. What little of it you had. It's all mine now. I own you."

Tom felt like he was falling, the euphoria of submission washing over him. His cock pulsed and bobbed out of control.

"Are you still being a good boy for me?" she teased. "You don't want to see me angry again, do you?"

Tom suddenly reexperienced the terror of watching her assault the man earlier that night. The pulsations slowed.

"Good boy. I know I surprised you. You've never experienced anyone like me. I can be hard to believe. It's okay to be scared," she said, her bright green eyes widening and piercing through the screen. Then they softened slightly, "Just remember he deserved it, every bit of it. And that I protected you, little one. I took you in my hand and released you from your fears."

Tom could feel himself floating on his toes as she pulled the semen out of him.

"But be mindful. Not a word to anyone," she implored, her eyes narrowing. "You really don't want to see me angry again."

His chest compressed at her implicit threat. He felt her grip on him tighten as he imagined her face flashing with rage. She had planned all along to beat up Brad. He was just chum in the water to bring the shark to the surface. A patsy. He had played right into her hands. Literally.

She stood and turned, her bare ass coming back into view. Then she reached for the clothing that still hung on the door.

"You know I'm quite impressed by the progress you're making under my control. My cock even fits you now, even if it is a bit long."

Tom's face crinkled. What was she talking about?

"Aimes-vouz le coq...sportif?" [Do you like the cock...athletic?]

He looked down at the rooster logo on the sweatshirt, along with the French brand name, Le Coq Sportif.

"Let me guess...you just dropped under 200 pounds?"

Tom was dumbstruck. The true precision of her plot became clear. Every detail was calculated, his every action and reaction predicted and exploited. His free will had been taken from him. It was as if he was acting out a part in an elaborate play she had written for him. It was frightening. But also exciting. Like the times she lifted him off the ground; in total control, guiding his every movement. He knew he had submitted to her sexual dominance, and to her training as he followed her diet and exercise routine. He even capitulated to her orgasm regimen. But the full extent of his submission was only now becoming clear. She had taken complete control of his life - without him even realizing it.

He fretted. Could he break free of her if he tried? He imagined himself chasing shadows, never knowing which, if any, were her. Did he even want to escape? Living under her control had brought him the most thrilling moments of his life. As much as he knew it was wrong, even dangerous, he didn't want it to end.

She slid her jeans up her legs with her back to the screen. Her body jerked from a final tug, as the tight pants slipped over her large posterior. Then she turned and approached the camera, leaning in close.

"I told you I would blow your mind," she whispered, her mouth almost touching the lens.

He shuddered. His mind had been blown by her utter destruction of Brad. But it wasn't prepared for this sudden acceleration down her rollercoaster.

"Remember...not a word."

Tom audibly sucked in a breath. Her threat was explicit. He visualized her throwing Brad into his car door with the force of a train. He was gripped with terror. He could never cross her.

He saw a flash of hot pink and suddenly she was wearing the sweater, her round breasts filling the screen with her face out of view. Her smirking mouth slowly lowered into the picture, then her blazing emerald eyes.

"What...? Who did you expect to see?" she laughed depravedly. "Your hot little daughter?"

Tom could feel her in his head, mindfucking him, taking his power. His cheeks burned with shame. She backed up and stood so her head rose out of the picture. Then she turned to the side, jutting out her chest so her globes projected out in all their glory. Her arms crossed over her chest and she began to lift the sweater off. He leaned in closer as the bottoms of her tits came into view.

The video suddenly cut to an image of Lauren's shapely breasts erupting out in the same position. It was a screenshot from the locker room video Sophie had sent him. The playback was silent, hanging on the still picture of his daughter. He wanted to look away, but he was frozen. In shock. What happened when? How did she...? His mind was blown.

After at least a minute had passed, he realized he was stroking his cock. He pulled his hand away in disgust and slammed the laptop screen shut. He was startled when his phone buzzed.

sophievandenberg24

Not a word.

She was everywhere. Every when. It was like time existed in a straight line for him, but was just a point for her, a singularity. She could see everything, all at once; preordained for him, conceived by Her. She consumed his mind. Everything was Sophie.

S: sweet dreams little one

Blood rushed to his head and his ears began ringing. He laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. The room was spinning. How could she see through him so easily to know what he would do, how he would react?

What came next? Could he even choose a path, or had she already mapped it out for him? Was using him to get to Brad the end of her devious plan - or just the beginning? His head buzzed from the overload; he fell deeper into the mattress...

***

Friday

Tom awoke with a start, sprawled on his stomach. His face lay in a puddle of drool. He lifted his upper body and felt the overnight stubble on his cheek sticking to the fabric as he rose. He felt heat and moisture as he moved. He was bathed in sweat inside the bunched-up heavy sweatshirt. His bare ass and legs felt cold in contrast. He felt for his phone and lifted it to his blurry eyes. 8:15 am. A text from his wife Lisa informed him that oatmeal was in a pot on the stove and that she was leaving to visit her aunt for the day.

He took a deep breath and smelled Sophie around him. His cock twitched. Something didn't feel right. It was cold. Wet. He sat up fully and looked at the smooth white bedspread, similar to the ones used in chic hotels. A yellowish puddle of semen stained the austere surface. He didn't remember jerking off. Memories of a dream flooded his brain...fucking Sophie's tits and sucking on her nipples. He hadn't had a wet dream since he was a teenager. He recalled her last message.

sweet dreams little one

However improbable, he felt certain she had implanted the dream in his brain, programming him to cum in his sleep. His body suddenly convulsed and he looked around the room, staring at each shadow that emerged from the morning light. He could feel her everywhere around him; inside of him.

He suddenly panicked. He had cum without her permission. Or had she given him permission in the dream? He couldn't remember, but somehow he felt she had. Everything seemed to blend together.

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Her aroma calmed his fears. He wanted to stay with her, commune with her. But he had to go to work. He reluctantly stood and pulled on his cum-stained slacks, not bothering with the crusty white briefs that lay near them. He decided to keep wearing the sweatshirt for now as he tied his dress shoes onto his bare feet. He found a laundry basket in the closet and dropped his remaining clothing in. He grabbed the bra from the bed and put it back in its place in the drawer. He packed up his laptop and gathered up the bedspread; then the sheets as he saw the stain had soaked through. The stench of stale semen was suddenly strong in the air. He slung his computer bag over his shoulder and lifted the laundry basket to carry to the house. He felt hungover as he walked across the dewy lawn. His head pounded and he remembered the blow he had taken to his head.

He reached the house and stepped inside, taking off his shoes. Then he carried the laundry to the basement to start a load. He didn't want his wife to see the messes he had made. Finally, he walked upstairs and scooped himself half a cup of oatmeal, his allotted amount on Sophie's diet plan. As he sat down, there was a loud rapping sound at the wooden front door.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

He debated whether to answer it. He looked like shit; his hair was plastered to his head from the sweat. He reached and felt a large cowlick sticking up, then a second one to the side.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The sound was sharp, not from a knuckle. It sounded like a metal door knocker, but the front door didn't have one. He resolved to go check who it was. He walked to the door and peeked through the eyehole.

Tom stepped back with a start. He saw the face and cap of a policeman leaning close to the hole.

"Sir, I can tell you're there," a voice called out from behind the door. "Please open up. We'd like to speak with you."

Tom's body deflated like a pierced balloon. He couldn't breathe. He had never interacted with cops before. He hadn't even once been pulled over for speeding. The idea of having them on his doorstep was completely foreign. And they had reason to be there. Someone must have found Brad. Dozens of people had watched Tom attack him in the stands. He felt light-headed and the room started to tilt to the side.

"Sir?" the voice took on an urgent tone, challenging him to open the door.

The interruption broke through Tom's daze and he momentarily collected himself. He reached forward and unlocked the deadbolt, then leaned his head through the crack of the door as the security chain drew taut. He was conscious to keep his bruise out of view.

"Um, good morning officer," he stammered, then noticed a second policeman standing to the side. "And officer," he nodded slightly in the direction of the second man.

"May we come in?" the second officer asked.

Tom was befuddled. Did he have to let them in? In cop shows they needed a warrant. But did he have anything to hide? He didn't beat up the man, Sophie had.

Not a word.

Capitalized. Period. She had even used punctuation; unlike every other message she wrote. Her command resonated in his head. Would he look guilty if he declined to let them enter? Would they come back later with a warrant, maybe when Lauren and Lisa were home? He resolved that he had to speak with them now - they hadn't even accused him of anything yet. He would just try to keep his mouth shut.

"Uh, yeah, sure, um, give me a sec," he stuttered as he pushed the door shut and removed the chain, then fully opened it. "Come into the living room here, have a seat, would you like some coffee?"

Tom suddenly felt stupid offering them coffee. He didn't even know if any was brewed. It just seemed like what he was supposed to say.

"No thanks, this should only take a couple minutes," the first officer said. Tom could see a name badge on his chest, Lt. O'Connell.

The officers walked in and each sat on a chair facing a long couch across a glass coffee table. Tom walked to the sofa and sat down in one corner. He crossed, then uncrossed his legs nervously, uncertain how to sit and suddenly aware of his odd attire - Sophie's oversized sweatshirt, wool suit pants and bare feet. He remembered his unkempt hair, stubbled face and the bruise on his temple.

"That's quite a bruise, how did you get it?" the second officer asked. Tom could now see his name badge, Sgt. Murphy.

The two detectives looked at one another. Before waiting for an answer, O'Connell interjected.

"Do you know Bradley McShay?"

"I'm not familiar with the name. No," Tom responded.

"Does this picture look familiar?" Murphy asked as he slid a photo across the glass tabletop. It was Brad, the heckler.

"Oh yeah. Um, we had a bit of an altercation in the stands at my daughter's volleyball game last night," Tom answered sheepishly, then explained, "He was yelling obscenities at our team and I confronted him. I got the worst of it, I'm afraid," he said, touching the bruise on his temple.

"Several parents mentioned the, er, altercation. They said you attacked him," O'Connell declared, with emphasis. "That's why we're here."

"Oh?" Tom feigned surprise. "I thought that was done and over when we both got tossed out?"

"Mr. McShay was found badly beaten in the school parking lot last night," O'Connell continued. "We thought you may be able to shed some light on what happened."

"That's news to me," Tom did his best to lie. Sophie's threat echoed in his head.

Murphy began placing photos in front of Tom.

"Three broken ribs, ruptured spleen, broken nose, dislocated shoulder, testicular torsion, lost tooth, neck sprain and a concussion," Murphy said, inventorying injuries shown in the pictures. "Someone tore into old Brad real good."

O'Connell flashed Murphy a look as he deviated from formalities. Tom's heart sunk as he realized they must know Brad. This was personal. He also thought about the injury list. He had replayed Sophie's beatdown in his head dozens of times already. Every blow she issued had caused serious injury. He wasn't sure what or who he was more afraid of in that moment.

"If you're suggesting it was me, I've never been in a fight in my life before my run-in with Brad in the bleachers," Tom stated quietly. "I'm an economist. I wouldn't even know how to do those things..."

"Mind if I look at your hand there?" Murphy interrupted, standing and leaning across the table to grab Tom's hand.

Tom winced as he realized for the first time that his knuckles were swollen and tender.

"That's pretty bruised," Murphy stated accusingly, then added, "And what's that on your sweatshirt there?"

Tom looked down to the side where Murphy pointed. A dark red blotch stained the fabric under his arm. It was where Sophie had pinned and suffocated Brad after breaking his nose. He hadn't noticed it before.

"Oh, that's been there awhile. I stained it while painting a wall," Tom answered, inventing the first excuse he could think of.

Murphy's face began to twist with anger. O'Connell reached a hand to his shoulder and gently pulled him back into his chair.

"Mr. McShay seems to be suffering from amnesia," the lieutenant stated in a measured tone. "He can't remember what happened to him. We don't have any witnesses as of yet. But we are beginning to piece it together and plan to speak with him again when he's out of surgery later this morning."

"Am I being accused of a crime?" Tom asked indignantly.

"No, Mr. Douglas," O'Connell responded. "At least not yet."

"Maybe you could let us take that sweatshirt and clear up any misunderstandings," Murphy suddenly interjected.

"Do you have a warrant?" Tom quickly responded, remembering the line from cop shows.

O'Connell shot Murphy an angry look. He had overstepped. Tom felt a temporary burst of confidence.

"Officers, I need to get to work. If I'm not under arrest, I believe this conversation is over. You can see yourselves out."

"As you wish, Mr. Douglas," O'Connell responded with disappointment, then added with a stern tone, "We would ask that you don't leave town, however. You are a person of interest in this investigation."

The cops stepped out the door and closed it behind them. Tom quickly twisted the deadbolt in place then ran down the stairs into the basement. He stripped off the sweatshirt, opened the top-loading washing machine and stuffed it into the sudsy water with the rest of the load he had just started.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His whole life was suddenly on the line. He could probably lose his job simply for being charged with a crime. Conviction could mean years in jail. He hadn't even done what the cops suspected him of. But he couldn't finger the person who had for fear of reprisal. And he didn't want to. He needed her.

He strode up from the basement taking the steps two at a time, then continued up another flight to the master bedroom. He stripped off his suit pants and jumped into the bed naked, pulling the covers over his head. Pent-up emotion came bursting out and he screamed as loud as he could.

"Fuck!!!"

His body shook and tears welled in his eyes. Was this another part of Sophie's plan? To pin it on him? Would she really do that? He had to talk to her. He dropped from the bed and found his phone in his pants pocket, then returned to the warmth of the sheets.

T: I need to talk to you.

He waited for a few minutes staring at the Instagram messaging app. After what seemed like an eternity, the word "Seen" appeared under his message. But she didn't respond.

T: It's important.

S: in class what do you want

T: I can't say here. We need to talk on the phone or in person.

(Long pause)

S: meet me at the homecoming game tonight

S: come with Lauren

T: Won't that be weird?

S: I just told her to bring you

S: that the girls all want to thank you for sticking up for us at the game

T: Ok sounds good.

S: wear my sweatshirt over your clothes

S: and take a shower before you come

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