DEVASTATION Part 1 - A Perfect Life No More

Bizarre
2009-04-02


DEVASTATION
Part 1: A Perfect Life No More
© 2009 by drkfetyshnyghts


Dr. Sabirah Najwa

My name is Sabirah Najwa. I'm a 49-year old clinical and behavioral psychologist resident in London, though Arabic in origin. In Arabic, Sabirah means “patient” and Najwa means “confidential talk, secret conversation. ”

I am a lesbian Sadist. And also a Fetishist. I must add I am neither a Sadist nor a Fetishist in the common misconceptions of those words. I will say only, at this point, that normal clichéd conventions of BDSM and Fetishism bore me. They don’t interest me. They never have and never will. I choose a very different path to very different and totally devastating ends.

Forward by Dr. Sabirah Najwa

If I were to ‘label’ this story, or indeed any of my written works, first and foremost, it would be ‘Fantasy. ’ Psycho-Sexual, Psycho-Fetish are also labels that could apply, since deeper feminine issues are explored. Always fiction of course, despite the level of realism applied and levels of inspiration gained from real life -- sometimes verging on the taboo. Always exploring the edges of limits.

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   Peering over the edges into the darkness where others are afraid to venture. Some less open-minded individuals could apply the label ‘Horror’ to my stories; certainly ‘Perverse,’ since, for my ‘victims,’ usually there is only a one-way trip down into a vortex that is really bottomless.

Come. . . . be immersed in “My” world. . . .

ONE - Petra

It’s probably only once in a Sadist's lifetime that her ideal 'subject' will come along. That is, if she’s lucky; once where all the boxes are ticked. Everything comes together into a perfect 'package': the age of the subject, her physical attributes, her domestic situation, her career status and circumstances, her character and personality; the strengths, the weaknesses and the traits. Every single box ticked. Everything right, so that the hairs on the back of the Sadist’s neck stand upright, erect.

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_________________________________

I met Petra by pure chance for the first time at a corporate fund-raising function. She was the PA of a Chief Executive of a City finance group. I was representing my own private clinic attempting to raise funds into research of the extremities of human behavior. Quite ironic, really, given how things were to develop.

Obviously certain boxes were ticked immediately. Striking, stunning looks and vital statistics I was to later find out were a height of 5'10" and curves measuring 38d-25-35. Long, thick, luscious hair a shade darker than flame-red and huge pools of hazel eyes with naturally thick, curled lashes. Her lips, full and delicately shaped and with a natural pout. Her complexion, pale, slightly freckled across her nose and under her eyes. With the addition of impossibly long legs, tapered and shaped in all the right places, Petra caught my eye immediately.

Then there was her sense of style and dress, which quite simply flattered her elegance to the extreme. Featuring designer dresses and suits that enhanced her best attributes. Indeed not a lady of the shy, retiring type. A woman who knows how good she looks, and enjoys that. One who knows her best attributes and how to subtly draw attention to them.

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   And yet also not overtly sexual either. Better described as subtle, mature, and matching her thirty-five years to perfection. I am usually quite good at guessing ages of other women and indeed correctly guessed Petra's age as early thirties.

Petra, before even a word had been exchanged between us, had captured my attention to the fullest. There was a natural grace to her. The way she moved. The way she carried herself. I liked that. I liked that very much. More than that though, there was a confidence. A self-assurance. A self-gratification that suggested that Petra was pleased, and content with the life she had. I especially liked that.

Also, there was more than a hint of arrogance. From a distance it was difficult to finger the source of the arrogance.

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   Just in her stance. The way she appeared to talk to others. The way she looked at others in her presence. Petra was a delight to study from a distance. Any woman capable of such overt arrogance had also to be highly intelligent. Intelligence in a woman, for me, is very desirable. An intelligent woman is a woman who would understand what she was going through. Understand and ‘feel’ the journey she is taken on, maximizing the effect. Maximizing her suffering.

There were more boxes to be ticked once the inevitable introduction had been made. Petra's first words to me tripped from her immaculately glossed lips effortlessly.

"Oh. . . .

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   so you are the ‘head doctor’? I'm SOOO pleased to meet you. "

With those words came a massive, wide lipstick smile. Her accent very English. Very educated. Very sophisticated. As I’ve said, intelligent. Very delicious. Her chosen words, and tone quite, and purposely so, derisive, dismissive even. Falling short of 'rude' and yet barely doing so. Instead settling on patronizing and with her infectious smile and big eyes lingering, it was as though it was the effect she had intended, and desired. And an effect that she was well-practiced at. Well used to obtaining. A thrill down my own spine. Had I found my ‘ideal’ subject?

"Pleased to meet you too, Petra, truly. "

My own accent, perfectly measured English and yet with a slightly less than thick Arabic accent.

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   The tone, an octave lower, slightly broken, almost, but not quite, husky. My smile, very sincere. Very real and completely, expertly camouflaging my deep and meaningful thoughts about this woman. I like women content with their life. I like women who are confident, and arrogant. Confidence, Arrogance and Contentment. A delicious combination. Like that of Beauty, Intelligence and Aloofness. All of the ingredients of a perfect subject. Indeed, in the flesh and up close, Petra was a vision to behold. She certainly deserved further investigation.

I waited for the crowd to diminish, having already succeeded in securing a sizeable donation from Petra’s bosses. Buying Petra a drink, suggesting we move to the quiet tables at the back of the bar, much more relaxing. Much easier to talk. All the time studying her.

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   The way she moved. The way she carried herself. All of particular interest to me in my pursuits. Sliding into the quiet tables set out in little semicircular booths at the back of the bar. Breaking the ice, directly and with no prejudice.

“Ok Petra, I have to come clean, I am a lesbian, but I promise I am not hitting on you, ok?”

I smile wide. Even allow a little chuckle. And Petra breaks out in a quite raucous laughter that melts any new-meeting tension.

“Oh. . . . so, you’re not hitting on me then. I’m disappointed, really I am. ”

She keeps a dead straight face for all of two seconds before her stunningly attractive features break into a wide, wide grin.

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   Another display of her intelligence. And some sense of humor.

“It’s ok, really, Sabirah, I have quite a few lesbians in my circle of friends. I prefer female company to male anyway. No worries. Really, I mean that. ”

I nod, all the time checking out this delicious woman. The purring in my throat audible only to me.

“Well maybe I should say, not hitting on you ‘yet’. ”

Another laugh, another re-cross of the legs required by both of us. Once my initial interest is grabbed, I like to check out women in greater detail. Petra really is a stunning woman. In all respects. If a woman spends time on her appearance , it always stands up to close scrutiny. Her lips, perfect, and she ensures they are always made up thus.

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   Careful lining. Careful color. Careful gloss. The same with the eyes. Absolute attention to the detail. The minutest of detail from brush stroke direction, to thickness of mascara applied. Looking as good as Petra did didn’t happen straight out of bed. Her makeup was applied with a relaxed, yet practiced expertise and highlighted the best features of her face. Her lips and her eyes, and her delicately high cheekbones. Her nails, manicured perfectly, and matching her lips.

Her style of dress, impeccable. The fitted pants suit in the most expensive of silks just oozing a class and education of style and elegance. The jacket perfectly fitted over her flared hips and the silk top underneath, just a tease of sexiness. The pants, silk, wide. They flowed elegantly when she walked.

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   Her high heels more or less covered by the hems of these pants and created an almost effortless ‘glide’ when she walked. Very tall on her own merits but it was obvious she favored the higher heels. It didn’t take that much imagination to see that Petra had the longest of legs under those silky pants. Pity I couldn’t see those legs on this first occasion. But I had quite enough to be getting on with. Another secret purrrr to myself.

Her hair, pulled back tight, quite severely from her face. . . that striking flame-red plume and secured back in a high, tight ponytail. Barely a loose, wayward hair to be seen. So neat, so perfect. She looked the consummate professional, and was. This had been a business meeting and she had been representing her company so her power-dressing was appropriate. Effective and seemingly effortless.

 

  

“So tell me a bit about yourself, Petra. Have you been with the company long? You seem to have the measure of things. ”

I make casual chitchat with wide sincere smiles, totally off the cuff.

“Hmmmm, well actually, yes. I moved to London about nine-years ago and got a break with the company. I’ve been so lucky. They were so understanding, even when my daughter came along. My daughter is 18 now but in the early years, the company provided childcare. Everything, the works. Even now I can get her looked after if I need to. I feel my life is right about now. Just about perfect. A place for everything, everything in its place. ”

I smile, nod as she speaks, taking it all in, watching her mouth as she talks. Such a delicious mouth.

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   There is no greater pleasure for a woman of my ‘interests’ than to hear another woman speak of her happiness. How content with life she is. Just those basic things telling me already that this woman is so happy with her life. Just the reflection in her voice, so obvious that she wouldn’t want to lose all that. And at the same time obvious that she would be destroyed, and devastated if she did lose, even a little of it. Thank her lucky stars even though she doesn’t have anything to thank them for.

“Oh… so you have a daughter? How old is she?”

I chitchat as I sip my wine, and watch as Petra sips her own. So content with life. She has a daughter! I barely can contain the excitement in my voice, having to clear my throat before I speak.

“Yes, yes I do. Stefani is eighteen, just. She really is the most beautiful thing in my world. I couldn’t ever imagine anything taking the place of the importance she holds in my life. . .

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  ”

Her voice drenched with love and adoration for her daughter. I liked that attachment. That pure mother love.

“Awwww that is so sweet. So cute. . . She must be heading for those dreaded exams, as well as all the other things teenage girls go through?”

My voice in no way patronizing - just oozing sincerity and a genuine well-practiced curiosity.

“Oh yes, tell me about it. Terrible teens. But I just love having her around. So vibrant and full of life. Everything to look forward to. ”

The adoration in her voice almost sickly sweet.

“Dad isn’t around then, I take it?”

Petra nearly chokes mid-gulp of her chilled Chardonnay.

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“Oooooh nooooooo, no dad. I have to say that Stefani was a ‘mistake. ’ A one-night stand that shouldn’t really have happened. But I wouldn’t be without her now. Not for anything. But her dad has never been on the scene, ever. Doesn’t even know she exists. Didn’t even know I was pregnant. . . just the way I like it. . . ”

For the first time, a slight hint of emotion in her voice. I just lean forward tap her lightly on her knee.

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“Its quite ok sweetie, I understand completely. We all need ‘something’ in our lives, but a man definitely isn’t one of those things. . . ”

She regains her composure very quickly. Almost instantly, and smiles.

“I’m sorry. I get a little touchy where Stefani is concerned. A lot of people draw conclusions about me because I am a single mother. And because I had her when I was so young myself. It doesn’t get to me like it used to though. So it’s cool. Besides I have been so lucky. fallen on my feet, as it were. I have my own house in the country that is bought and paid for.

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   Mostly from bonuses paid by my company. I have exclusive use of a company penthouse when in London so. . . . I just feel so content, so complete. I don’t know… it’s hard to find the right words sometimes. ”

Her voice trails off. Has regained some of its aloof, even arrogant self-gratified edge. All the time I am making mental notes. This woman definitely deserved more of my time. I looked at her jewelry. Mostly gold, all expensive and dripping from all the right bits of her person.

“Well. .

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  . . you don’t need to worry about me drawing wrong conclusions. I take people as I find them. Or how they want to be found. I don’t judge and I don’t draw conclusions only fact. I do know that Stefani is extremely lucky to have such an intelligent, beautiful mother as you. And that you have absolutely her own best interests at heart always. It’s a joy to meet you, really it is. ”

Again infectious smiles exchanged between us. Her smile is glowing with self-pride as she becomes relaxed, and not so guarded in my presence.

“Anyway. . . .

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   enough about me. . . what about you, Sabirah. What’s your story?”

Petra has a way of ‘flirting’ that wouldn’t be obvious to everyone. Just a way of using her eyes and her facial expressions. They linger longer that normal. Her eyes pierce deeper than normal. And always with a slight curl of her wide mouth into an ‘almost there’ smile. Petra, a woman used to playing games; getting her own way. Using her femininity, even sexuality, in subtle ways to get it.

“Hmmmm well. Not much to tell. I moved to London 20-years ago. Daddy was an oil-rich Arab.

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   He put me through college and then set me up in my own practice when I got here. I expanded in a short space of time and now have the clinic. It’s a private clinic and that, in turn, funds a lot of the research we do. ”

Petra listening intently always sipping on the wine. Nodding seeming deeply interested.

“Oh wow. . . . so what is the research all about?”

I sip casually coming to the end of my wine.

“Mainly mental health issues. Although we are running a program now studying human behaviors. But all linked to mental health. Or, to be precise, extremities of human behavior. .

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  . and the darker sides to mental health. All a little deep, but very good for the profile of the clinic. I am also personally studying hypnotism, and something called auto-suggestion in association with hypnotism. ”

If Petra faked the interest, she did it well. Very well.

“Wow. . . . I’m impressed. You’ll have to show me around some day. I would be very interested. Do you know, I’m due a three-month leave period which I can take any time I like. Maybe I should put that on my ‘to do’ list?”

Her self-invite was doing no harm whatsoever.

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   And yet more information pouring from her. I liked Petra more and more with each passing minute.

“Oh. . . a three-month leave. How lucky are you? Did you plan on doing anything special? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am happy to show you around the clinic of course but I can’t imagine a gorgeously hot thing like you wouldn’t have immense plans?”

Petra finishes up her wine with an exaggerated smack of her lips.

“I hadn’t ‘planned’ anything at all . I did want to go traveling and could. Organizing care for Stefani whilst I was away would be easy. Not that she needs that much looking after at sixteen. But. . . like I said nothing planned.

 

   It’s why I have so much vacation time owed. I never actually plan to do anything so it all just mounts up. ”

My mind was beginning to work overtime. A plan. But certain wheels had to be put into motion. Petra, every time she opened her mouth, moved a muscle, flicked her hair, or flirted with me with those huge pool-like eyes, was becoming more and more perfect. However, it was time to bring this initial chat to a close. I had my own checks to initiate. A little more groundwork to complete.

“Well, look. . . why don’t you book the time off work and you can come to stay with me as my guest at the clinic for a few days. Just a suggestion. You can take a good look round.

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   Give all good reports back to the bosses as to how their money is being spent, hahahaha. . . . . . but seriously, in the meantime, I have to go. I’m already late for an appointment, so captivating have you been. And I mean that, really. ”

Petra takes the opportunity to flirt with her eyes again. And I seemingly play back.

“Awwwwwww well. . . if you MUST go.

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  . . . but yes, that sounds like a plan. I like plans. Why don’t we take each others cell phone numbers, and meet again soon and we can discuss further?”

“That sounds like a plan too, Petra, yeah! We can do a drink or something, less formal than today, maybe in a week or so?”

We agree, exchange numbers and I give Petra a hug as I leave. It doesn’t escape me that she hugs me back close, pressing her substantial breasts into me and extending her deep red lips into a pout as she air-kisses each of my cheeks. Another of her flirty characteristics. I let her leave ahead of me. I want to see the pure elegance of walk as she glides out. She doesn’t disappoint.

TWO - Seeds Planted

I ran a few checks on Petra. She was who she said she was. No alarm bells ringing. Impeccable credit records, served obviously by her perfect life.

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   A lucky woman in many respects. And yet, due to her looks, her life, her luck, life was closer to dealing her a devastating hand. A cruel, cruel blow. Lucky, perfect Petra was soon to become poor, poor Petra.

I received a text message from Petra the day following that first meeting.

“Sabirah, it was so good talking to you last night. I’m looking forward to our less formal drink in a few days. . . Petra xxx”

I smiled as I read it. Three little kisses at the end. Almost juvenile in their inclusion in the message. Except I knew that in Petra’s case, it was her little way of continuing the flirt with my lesbianism. I’m not the world’s greatest ‘texter. ’ In fact, I do it more under duress than as a normal way of life.

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   In Petra’s case though, I made an exception.

“Petra. Yes, me too. Be sure to dress to impress. I’d love to see those yummy long legs of yours. . . :) Sabirah xxx PS - not coming on to you of course :)”

Petra liked games, I gleamed that much from her. This was a game I liked. A game which served a higher purpose. A game which would draw her closer to me. A few days later another text.

“How does Friday evening sound? The new wine bar just off Canary Wharf 7pm? Legs and killer heels, just for you :) Petra xxx”

Just that simple text told me so much about her. “Legs and killer heels. ” She knew, appreciated the appeal of her legs.

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   And of heels that accentuated them more. I liked her more and more. Poor, poor Petra!

“That sounds divine Petra. I can’t wait to see you, you tease :) Sabirah xxx”

Just a play along, with her flirt. Even a little encouraging it. Teasing it. Coaxing it. It all helps the process. I could almost ‘taste’ Petra already. I clenched my thighs. The second meeting was set. I couldn’t wait. Wheels were in motion.
_____________________________________

If the tiniest thought had crossed my mind that Petra might not ‘make the effort’ on our second meeting. It was quickly dispelled.

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   Not just quickly dispelled but absolutely and without question. This was a woman who knew how to look her best in work suits. For an early evening meeting however, with a friend in a stylish city wine bar, she excelled. More than excelled. But she knew that.

Petra wore a shimmering gold dress made mostly of silk, with sequins. But around the low cut front it was edged with delicate gold lace that framed the uplift of her heavy, succulent breasts to perfection, making her orbs partly obscured, and yet teasingly not. The flesh could be seen to move and roll through the silk, through the lace edging and also the bare flesh above the dress material. The dress also had a low cut back that plummeted down in a gradual ‘V’ from her shoulders and the narrowest point ending up just above her tailbone. Delightfully tantalizing. A perfect back, with a natural spinal curve. The dress, a cross between a cocktail and party dress, was short. Above mid thighs but delicate gold tassels hung in a fringe all the way round them hem. These tassels swirled and danced in time to whatever movement she was performing at the time. And which gave teasing little glimpses of upper leg.

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   A totally astounding sight were Petra’s legs and deliciously extended by her shoes. Legs so long, so perfectly shaped and tapered and enhanced more with those ‘killer heels. ’ Calves well-shaped, taught from the high heels. Gold court shoes, with stilettos of at least five-and-half inches. Absolute killer heels that at the same time, contrasted and blended in with the sheer, silky dark brown hose that sheathed the seemingly endless legs. My secret purr resonated in my throat when I saw her.

When she entered the bar I was already there. I intended that. I wanted to see her entrance. I had a feeling that this woman liked to make entrances and I was so right. A woman who could turn heads, absolutely with no problem whatsoever.

Her make up was just perfect. Even to the eye shadow with gold glitters matching her dress. Striking, almost trademark deep red lips, lined hard for effect. Not smooth gloss though.

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   Slightly textured, glittery lipstick which just went with her overall dress, totally. And her striking red hair. Looser than the first time we met. Looser, that is, around the back and sides and yet some of the hair gathered from high at the back of her head and banded into a little, high ponytail. This added to her grace and elegance. Even to her height. Drawing attention to it, highlighting it.

As she walked in, looking around for me. Heads just turned towards her, taking her in. She was used to this. Liked it. Practically wallowed in such adoration. I didn’t let her see me at first. Just dodging behind a pillar so I could watch her move. Watch her smile at the men who poured their eyes over her.

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   At their women who seethed through gritted teeth at her. Some of those women would be in total glee at what would be in eventual store for Petra. If they knew. Or maybe not! She loved it. Knew how to dress. Knew how to make the best of her best attributes. Knew how to impress. Indeed I was impressed. I eventually waved through to her and she saw me. A beaming smile across her wide, full-lipped mouth.

“Petra. . . . .

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   my god, you look totally out there, girl. I am impressed. ”

Exaggerating my Arabic accent a little. Moving in for a hug and, true to form, she presses herself right into me, crushing her breasts and hugging, then kissing my cheeks, just to the side, but very close to my mouth so that I can feel, and all but taste her hot breath. I feel my own breath quicken. Taken away. But I keep it in check. Regulate it again. Respond to her tease with a wry smile.

“Why thank you Sabirah. It’s so good to see you again, really it is. And you are looking better every time I see you. ”

The same smile. I am dressed a little more conservatively having come direct from a business meeting. Fitted suit, jacket, blouse, hose and heels.

 

   My own five feet six inches only moderately boosted with four inch heels.

“Awwwww Petra, you’re too kind. . . . . why don’t we get a booth down here. We can talk. ”

I point and Petra is only too happy to lead the way knowing that my eyes are all over her from behind as she walks. Heels forcing something of a strut, her bottom slip-sliding and moving inside the silk of the dress. The back view of her amazingly long legs as spectacular as the front and side views. We order a bottle of white on ice and slide into the plush velvet seating.

“Mmmmmm so Petra, what have you been up to? And have you thought any more about that three month vacation period?”

I see no point in delaying the important questions. Petra checks her makeup in a little mirror. At the same time she is nodding slightly, acknowledging what I am saying to her and what I am asking her.

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“Oh absolutely I have. I’m doing another week and a bit. Do a little hand-over to my stand in. . . . and well, the world’s my oyster, as it were. ”

She smiles that infectious, gorgeous, still flirty smile and we spend the next half-hour exchanging pleasantries. All the time I am watching her, studying her. I can’t help that. Not only am I lesbian with a penchant for statuesque women, but I am also a psychological professional, with an interest in what makes people tick. It’s the deeper aspect of what makes people tick that appeals to a particular side of my lesbianism. I let her lead the conversation. Knowing that she wants to.

“Sooooo tell me, about this Hypno stuff you’re into then.

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   I’m fascinated truly. I always said that I could never be hypnotized. I’m too self-centered, too self-obsessed. If I am honest, I never believed that anyone could actually, truly be ‘hypnotized. ’ No offense like. ”

She grins, believing her own words. I just take a sip of wine, nod, showing that I hear what she’s saying.

“Nahhhhhh Petra, it’s the self-obsessed, self-centered ones that make the best subjects. Trust me, I know. But hey, I applaud you for your honesty and no offense taken really. ”

She giggles kind of mischievously. I know she’s just teasing me. Kind of refreshing, even endearing in a mature woman. Obviously one who only really lets her hair down away from the office. That’s good, I respect her professionalism.

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“Look, I’ll show you. I won’t put you right ‘under’ here. But I can partially trance you. Just sub-trance you. You’ll feel relaxed, chilled but aware of everything. Then I’ll take you out of it as quickly as I put you into it. Up for it? Hmmmmm?”

I look directly at Petra. See her smile fade slightly. But still a fascination, almost too strong to resist. My direct prodding at what really is an inherent fear of being taken out of her comfort zone, obvious, glaring.

“Awwwwwww I don’t know… sounds a little freaky to me. . . . ”

“Ok, it doesn’t matter.

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   No harm done. Just wanted to show you that you could actually be tranced. ”

I don’t force the issue at all. I don’t need to. I know I don’t. We sip a few more mouthfuls in silence and then Petra speaks again.

“Ok. . . . what do I have to do?. . . and not all the way under right?”

I take a long slow sip of the wine. Don’t answer straight away as I sense the anticipation in her voice.

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   Let it linger. Let it dwell. I slowly finger a large ring on my middle finger of my right hand.

“You don’t have to do anything, Petra. Just watch my ring here. Focus on it and focus on my voice. Block everything else out. Just focus on the ring and my voice. Nothing else. . . ok? Just totally relax. Chill. Focus. ”

I look at her, and her at me for a split second before she looks down at my ring.

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“W-well, ok then. . . ”

The ring is a clear cut crystal. A large stone that reflects and retracts light in all directions and in all colors. It isn’t a ‘magic ring. ’ Just a point of focus. Something to hold the focus whilst my voice filters in.

“Just relax. Look at the ring. See only that and hear just my voice. . . ”

My voice changes from the ‘friendly lesbian’ to a more professional, slightly sterner voice. But softly so.

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   Not forcing itself. Just gently filtering in with stronger more direct undertones.

“You’ll feel slightly sleepy but your eyes won’t close. Just relax. Listen watch the ring. Listen to my voice. Watch and listen. Watch and listen. Watch listen. Listen watch. . . . . .

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  ”

I’m right, so right, and can see the signs as she sinks into a void, halfway between reality and another place. It’s not hard. It never is with women who have Petra’s outgoing, confident personality. In truth, most of her sort, want control taken from them to differing degrees. I continue to hold her gaze. Watch her eyes focusing on the ring.

“Ok Petra, you are there. . . no dramas. . . no pain. . .

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   just there in that good place, yes? You feel good right? Chilled. Relaxed. Good, yes?

My voice almost like liquid silk and it pours into her psyche.

“Mmmmmm yeah, I do feel good actually, yes. ”

She smiles a little dreamily. But still acutely aware. She feels ‘good’ because that is what I have ‘suggested’ she feels. She’s sub-trance and very vulnerable to manipulation.

I lean forward, gently at my hips, keeping my own legs crossed, and place one hand on Petra’s uppermost thigh. My first touch of her spectacular legs, Then, so very gently I bend one finger and use the nail to ‘scritch’ against the sheer nylon.

Scritch Scritch Scritch.

“Mmmmm that’s good Petra. Really good. Now can you feel that scritch scritch scritch sound? Hmmmmm can you? And can you feel it. .

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  . ever so gentle scritching. . . soooo gentle?”

I’m watching her face all the time. I recognize the part trance in her. No one else would. People in the wine bar, just walking by, taking no notice. Nothing strange going on. Just two grown women having a deep conversation. Could be lesbian. Who cares in this part of the city? No one cares.

“Okkkk. . .

 

  . whenever you feel that scritch Petra, you’ll automatically sink into this part-trance. Do you understand?”

She still has that dreamy smile on her face. Not a care or concern in the world.

“Mmmmmmmm yes ok. . . . . . scritch scritch scritch. ”

“Yesssss that’s right. Scritch scritch scritch. . .

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  . . . . The scritch can be through stockings, hose, skirt, pants, or bare flesh. But it will always be a scritch on your leg. Maybe your thigh. Your knee. Your calf. Always a scritch scritch scritch. Do you understand, Petra?”

My voice low, calming, soothing. Hypnotic.

“It can either put you into a trance or take you out if you are already there. Ok?”
 
I scritch once more before removing my fingers and hand from her leg.
 
“Yeah, yeah I got that.

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  . . . . . ”
 
“Good girl. The next time you feel that scritch you will wake up but remember everything as though it’s normal. Ok, Petra?”
 
She smiles wide and nods again. She fully understands and now the trigger to trance is fully planted in her head.
 
I sit back again now, totally confident, totally knowing that Petra is one-hundred-percent focused on what I am saying. The gentle hum and buzz of the bar around us had faded to grey for her.
 
In her psyche. I have used my quite vast and deep experience to render her susceptible in next to no time. Quickly, precisely.
 
“I have an idea, Petra, a suggestion.

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   I thought, maybe it would be a good idea for you to take part in my program. My program on human behaviors. I think you could benefit from this, Petra. What do you think hmmmmm?”
 
Petra lets the words filter in but is nodding in agreement even before I have finished speaking.
 
“Uhhhhh yesssss, yes if you think that would be a good idea, then, then so do I, Sabirah. ”
 
I smile encouragingly at her as I reach into my leather bag, taking out a document.
 
“Yes, well, I do think it’s a good idea, Petra. You will need to sign this consent form. It simply puts you into our care for the time of your inclusion in our program. Any trials or research is strictly governed. Just details, really. Quite boring legal stuff, Petra. It’s not like anything ever goes ‘wrong. ’ This is just a safeguard, for you and for us. You wouldn’t have any objection to signing the consent, Petra, no?”
 
“Oh, no, no of course not, Sabirah.

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   I’m all too aware of ticking the boxes and keeping the right paperwork. ”
 
I smile as I slip the form in front of her and lay a pen across the top of it. She’s saying all the things she would in her normal day-to-day life, except with added incentive of the planted seeds. Responding to autosuggestions.
 
“Good girl. You just sign on the dotted line then, sweetie, and I’ll fix us up with some more wine. ”
 
I give her a little ‘wink,’ which serves to massage her mind a little more. I nod to a passing tender, for another bottle of wine. Petra leans forward at her waist. Her breasts heaving under the lace edging of the dress, threatening to spill out as she picks up the pen and scrawls a well practiced signature across the dotted line. I look directly at the shifting breasts, and the nylon sheathed crossed legs, and the shifting silk dress with the tassels falling away to show more of her upper legs. My silent purr tickling my throat.
 
“You really are a delicious woman, Petra, aren’t you?”
 
Without a seconds thought and agreeing immediately with my ‘suggestion. ’
 
“Hmmmm yes, I am. ”
 
I smile.

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“That’s right, you are. Tell me, Petra, what do you think are your best attributes? Tell me what you like about yourself. What other people like about you. ”
 
She thinks. Pushes her lips out with her tongue and then answers precisely.
 
“My legs, breasts, my bottom. . . . my hair, eyes, lips. . . . . I like them, everybody likes them.

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  ”
 
She shrugs as she hears herself reeling off her best attributes. And she giggles as well, holding up one hand to her mouth in an almost adolescent way.
 
“I’m sorry that sounds awful, but it’s true. Really it is. ”
 
“Noooo Petra, not at all. I agree with you. Totally. Those and probably more we may find out at some point. ”
 
She shifts on her seat, totally at ease now, totally relaxed, totally in the good place, re-crossing her legs, shifting her torso inside the silk dress slightly, and a wide smile on her gorgeous mouth. This part of the conversation seeming to gratify her, please her greatly. Something that I take careful mental notes on as I take the consent form and slip it back into a folder and back into my bag.
 
“You won’t discuss your plans or intentions for your period of vacation with anyone. Is that clear, Petra?”
 
She looks quite casual, quite calm, even with my direct, sterner voice.
 
“Ok, yes, sure. .

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  . ”
 
“When you leave work on your last day, just go straight back to your apartment and wait. A car will pick you up. ”
 
She’s nodding, agreeing, taking it all in, as her throat rolls with another swallow of wine.
 
“You won’t need to pick up or meet Stefani. I will take care of that, ok, Petra?”
 
Again the casual nod, a complete agreement. Complete trust. The seeds in her growing and growing.
 
“Also, you won’t need to pack any bags, or change of clothes. Just wait as you are and the car will pick you up. OK?”
 
Careful to get confirmation she understands. That my suggestions are registering. Once she has acknowledged and agreed, these suggestions are firmly in her head and will be adhered to.
 
“Good girl. .

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  . . . ”
 
I lean forward again, and just gently scritch one nail against the nylon sheathed calf of her casually bouncing leg.
 
“You’ll come back down now, and out of trance. But everything will be normal and you’ll remember absolutely everything we’ve discussed. You won’t be concerned about anything and you will be quite looking forward to your vacation period. . . . . ”
 
There’s an almost imperceptible blink of her huge, gorgeous eyes and Petra is back with me. Fully aware. I lean back, smiling.
 
“You know what, Petra, I think you are going to be an ideal subject for my programme.

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   Maybe we’ll all learn something. ”
 
My smile is wide, sincere. My tone, back to that friendly, off-duty tone.
 
“Oh god, you know, Sabirah. . . . me too. I’m quite excited, really I am. ”
 
Absolute sincerity in her voice. I liked that. We spend the rest of the evening small-talking. Girls talk. A chance for me to find out more and more about this woman. Her penchant for high heels for instance.

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   And indications that she is a quite highly sexed individual and how she has worked hard over the years to disguise that. Hide it due to her public, high-profile life. I liked that too. Her almost dripping shame at this admission palpable and failing to make her look into my eyes. I simply nod sympathetically. Understandingly and she looks partly relieved she has got that off her not-inconsiderable chest. Mental notes and more mental notes.
 
We hug closely at the end of the evening. Now a bond between us and her flirt quite natural to me. An accepted part of her character.
 
“We’ll talk soon, Petra. . . . .

 

  . ”
 
She turns back, waves, and is gone. The click click of her heels seeming amplified.
 
 
THREE - The Clinic and Stage One
 
With the trigger and suggestions installed into Petra, I didn’t need to do any close follow up on arrangements from her side. And wheels had already been placed in motion from my side. Over the next week or so, I exchanged a few text messages with Petra. Feeding her and encouraging her. Nurturing her. As usual her messages were flirty. I smiled as I read them. Flirted back, deliberately. Deliberate in a clinical sense, that is.
 
On the day of Petra’s arrival at the clinic, I met her myself on the steps. My personal driver, a tall lithe platinum blonde, by the name of Esther, had picked her up and whisked her into the country. Petra’s ability to stun with her ‘vision’ didn’t diminish, even with her ‘ordinary’ work clothes.

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   She arrived in just what she wore to work that day. A tight-skirted suit. The skirt, black, almost pencil in design practically hobbling her just above the knees. Sheer black nylon encasing her delicious legs and the stiletto court shoes patent, shiny and black. A stylish silky top under her black jacket and her hair, striking, almost metallic-red, in the late afternoon sunlight. The hair, quite blinding and yet tied up high and tight in her trademark work-style ponytail. The ponytail sourced high on her head and seeming to erupt from her crown. The tail itself, swinging across her back as she walked. Her makeup perfect, slightly overdone in the vein of city workers who, quite frankly, were usually just that, ‘vain. ’
 
“Petra. . . . welcome to my humble abode. ”
 
Not that it was actually where I chose to ‘live.

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  ’ But it was a good welcoming line. Petra had established quite a few ‘trademarks’ for herself it seemed, over the years. Her perfect look. The gliding striding strut when she walked, even in tight skirts, Her high, tight ponytail. Her emphasized lips, and eyes. And then her ‘hug. ’ Her flirting, almost obscene, hug, in which she presses her torso in, squeezes her breasts into whoever she is hugging. On this occasion, me. Trademark of a perfect women in a perfect life. Comfortable with herself. Confident with herself and within herself.
 
“Mmmmmmm it’s good to be here. God, this place is so impressive. . .

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  . ”
 
She broke away from the hug, referring to the huge secluded building in acres and acres of its own grounds. Some wooded and some with extensive lawns. The central part of the building led into a huge old stately house but it was at the rear that building works had converted and extended the building into what it was today.
 
“Why thank you Petra. . . come now, lets get you inside. Its chilly out here. ”
 
I walked her into the clinic arm-in-arm, chatting to her like we were old established friends. A few faces appeared at the office admin windows above the entrance, curious to see who the new inclusion into the program was. Those faces appearing then disappearing. Others taking their place then fading back out of sight. Petra smiled in her own infectious way at the ones she saw, or caught sight of. There were no smiles back though.

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   Just long studious looks at her. I took her in. Talking to her all the time.
 
“As usual you look fabulous, sweetie. ”
 
She liked compliments, lapped them up. She smiled puckering her lips and blowing a kiss in thanks. I took her out to the rear of the building on ground level and then to a lift marked “Authorized Personnel Only. ”
 
“The research program takes place in the sub-level of the building, away from the main clinic. It’s quite important that it’s separated from everyday life. ”
 
She nods, understanding totally what I’m saying as we enter the lift. The doors slide closed and it begins its descent.
 
“Of course, yes I understand. My god, I feel a little nervous all of a sudden. ”
 
She tries to shrug it off with a soft laugh and a giggle. Not very convincing though as I move in close to Petra, nodding sympathetically.

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SCRITCH SCRITCH SCRITCH
 
My fingernail scraping her upper thigh lightly, through the tightness of her skirt and then a split second. A nanosecond even where her eyes glaze and she slips into that partial trance. I recognize it immediately. She needs to feel good in these very early stages. That is of utmost importance.
 
“There. . . . is that better, Petra? Just relax. Although it is good to feel apprehensive. That’s a desired feeling, Petra, do you understand? Apprehension is good. . . very good.

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  ”
 
Another seed firmly planted. My tone of voice changed. The hypnotic voice back again, working in conjunction with the scritches, and the autosuggestions. Her face has changed. The apprehension across such a beautiful face almost painted on like a mask. She nods, nibbles her bottom lip slightly as the lift descends into the uppermost floor of the sub levels.
 
“Y-yes, yes I understand yes. . . . ”
 
The lift opens out into a reception area. First impressions would be that the reception area is like that in an up-market boutique hotel. Plush, very expensively furnished and rather than a reception desk, a normal low level desk with flat screen pc monitors sunk in and tilted at a viewable angle. Another striking thing, for any newcomers is the lack of sound coming from the upper floors. Or from the outside.

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   The lack of any sound at all. The vacuum effect is such that others visitors have experienced ‘popped ears’ on the way down in the lift. There was no immediate evidence that it had occurred in Petra though.
 
Behind the reception desk an attractive, petite girl, in her early-twenties. She is dressed in a pseudo-medical-come-nurse uniform. But her face is made up, and striking in attention to detail, just as Petra’s always is. She smiles at me.
 
“Good evening, Miss Najwa. It’s so good to see you again. ”
 
Her tone and manner are perfectly, even overly polite. I nod and smile at her as she flicks her eyes across and looks Petra up and down very slowly, very deliberately. The smile fading.
 
“Alyson. . .

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  . this is Petra. Our latest volunteer. She will be staying with us for a little while. ”
 
The introduction very short. Very curt. My friendly manner and tone fading now. The detachment and professionalism now taking its place. Alyson doesn’t even acknowledge Petra directly.
 
“She looks perfect, Miss Najwa. Absolutely perfect. ”
 
Again that almost insipid politeness, born out of a total respect for me. And the non-acknowledgment of Petra. It won’t have escaped Petra. She will have been used to being introduced to people at the highest level.

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   Here though, practically a complete brush-off by some sort of receptionist-nurse. And the casual remarks about her as though she weren’t even present. Oh, yes that would not have escaped Petra. It will have sunk into her psyche, very delicately and rested there. Just to the side of the apprehension I had planted earlier.
 
“I’m sure she will be just that Alyson. . . . . . Shall we get Petra signed in now?”
 
It was my little prompt to Alyson to get her little clipboard with the signing in sheet for all visitors. She got it out, placed a pen across it and barely looking at Petra spoke,
 
“Print name, date of birth and sign. . .

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  . . do you think you could do that for me, sweetie?”
 
I laughed inwardly. Alyson thought everyone with long legs and large breasts was a bimbo. Her tone was curt, patronizing. Petra would eat her alive in the intelligence stakes but I didn’t intervene. Just watched, listened. Enjoyed. The apprehension, quite palpable now, over Petra’s face.
 
“U-uhhh yes, yes I think I can manage that. ”
 
Alyson a little taken aback at the educated, obvious smartness that came from the “volunteer’s” mouth. I laugh, secretly inwardly again as Petra signs in with Alyson looking on all open-mouthed. With her all signed in I led Petra round and into a long corridor. The plushness of the reception fades into a stark clinical white. White walls, ceilings and floors with bright strip-lights down the centre.

 

   Doors either side at regular intervals. We stop at one door, on the right, labeled “ISO 1” and I swipe my keycard, the door clicking, then sliding open.
 
Inside the room is bare. Brilliant white, tiled floor. No windows. Just strip-lighting in the centre of the ceiling. A solitary low stool in the middle of the room and a fitted toilet in one corner. Not closed into a cubicle, just open in one corner and diagonally placed facing the centre of the room. And an empty plastic container placed next to the stool. Not unlike a packing box for ring binders. The lid standing inside it on its short edge. The walls of the room bare, whitewashed, almost blindingly so. The door slides and closes as we enter. The electronic lock emitting a little ‘click’ and ‘buzz’ as it reseals.
 
“Well Petra, this is the first stop on your little journey.

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   I know, I really do know, it’s not much but you will be in here for quite some time. The object is that you are taken out of your comfort zone. Out of your normal world. . . are you with me so far?”
 
Petra steps in looks around, just puzzlement over her face as she takes it in but then nods that she understands.
 
“Uhmm yessss, yes really, it’s fine. I’ll survive. I’m a survivor. ”
 
Her attempt at dismissive humor falls a little flat. My expression remains straight, curt even. And my tone even more so.
 
“Good girl. Now. .

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  . we also have to take all of your personal belongings from you. Your bag, watch, jewelry, cell phone, purse. . . . everything. It’s ok, it will be all in our safe, locked up securely. It’s just a requirement of the program that all things from the outside world are stripped back and taken away. It makes observation more precise. Obviously this applies to all volunteers. Still with me?”
 
The requirements all filtering in and taking the shape of autosuggestions to Petra in her semi-trance state. This part of the research had always been so difficult, with previous subjects, until we introduced the semi-trance. There had always been resistance and in some cases, we had lost a couple of subjects who had freaked out completely as the requirements unfolded. No such result with Petra.

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   I watch as she computes the words and then responds.
 
“Uhhhh yes. . . it seems to be pretty clear to me. I just didn’t realize this was all so deep. ”
 
I continue to talk.
 
“That’s what I like to hear, honey. And oh yes, this is a really quite scientific study. Very detailed. Very searching. . . . .

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  . . . So why don’t we start here? Just throw your bag into the container there. And your jewelry. Watch, rings. . etc etc. ”
 
Even as I speak, Petra begins to remove items and place them in the container. Bit by bit her jewelry coming off until it is all placed in the container with her bag, cell phone and watch. Every so often the apprehension across her face stark. I like to watch that. It interests me. Petra without her accouterments was like a thoroughbred race horse without its tack. Such a simple thing, and yet, to someone like Petra, so disturbing.

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“Now, you will be in here for quite some time. But before we move you to the next stage you will need to be naked. It’s part of the stripping-back process but there is no pressure immediately. Why don’t you just remove your skirt, jacket and top for now? You can keep on your hose, heels and panties. Just for now. Later we can get you naked before we move on. Is that ok, Petra?”
 
My voice all the time encouraging, yet more detached now. And with a professional edge to make progress. Me knowing that the semi-trance state, and my suggestions all being computed by Petra and yet in no way diluting her apprehension. This time she doesn’t say anything just nods and begins removing the garments I have suggested. First her jacket, the delicious orbs of her breasts clearly defined through the thin silk as they press outwards against it. Then her skirt. For the first time, the full length of those stunning legs displayed and accentuated with her heels. She wore expensive lace top stockings that were self-supporting and clung to her fleshy upper thighs right at the top, almost where the inner thigh met her crotch area. A tiny and I mean tiny thong pulled up tight between her legs and bottom cheeks, the tiny triangle covering her most intimate area.

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   Then her top and the full glory of her thirty-eight D cup breasts. Perfectly formed. Perfectly pert and with dark speckled areolas with quite wide diameter button-like nipples in the centre. Quite casually I lick my lips as Petra folds and places the items in the container. Her stance, a well practiced confident stance. But here she was at her most vulnerable so far and the apprehension dripped from her face. Her face had flushed a little to. An acute embarrassment at her slow, dripping away of control. Petra being taken skillfully out of her comfort zone.
 
“There Petra… we’re all girls here together so don’t be too concerned. ”
 
I step back look at her. My own lips almost trembling with the excitement of finding such a ‘perfect subject. ’
 
“There’s a toilet in the corner, if the call of nature should get the better of you, and a stool for you to sit on. I know, I know, not at all comfortable. But hopefully you will understand the need for the starkness of it all.

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   The absolute need for the very basics only to be retained. . . ”
 
My voice trails off as I take in the view again. She has taken a few steps still in her high heels, stockings and thong. Even in this environment she moves with a dignified grace and allure. The apprehension on her face belies the naturally arrogant steps and moves in her high heels.
 
“Ohhh I’ll be alright Sabirah. . . . j-just a bit of a shock to the system that’s all, really. ”
 
“Well that’s understandable. . .

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   so I am going to leave you for a while now. There are other preparations to make and you need to settle. Zone-in as it were. . . ”
 
I smile, but recoil from a hug she tries to give me by holding a hand up, as though holding her away. Keeping her at a distance.
 
“Ahhh Petra, no… not here. This is professional and not personal or emotional in any way. Ok? We wouldn’t want anyone to think that we were closer than we should be now would we?”
 
She feels stupid. I can see it over her face and she stands rubbing her arm with one hand, a hip jutting to one side. Long, long legs tapered and akimbo slightly.
 
“N-no, no of course not. I’m sorry. ”
 
I smile at her, tilt my head sympathetically and with that I leave her, alone, the door sliding then clicking locked.

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   The period of isolation beginning.
_______________________________________
 
The thing about the effects of isolation is that they creep in on the isolated and then settle in delicate folds on the psyche. At first, these folds, or layers have air between them and it feels a little cozy. All warm and bearable. At first it’s just the loss of the sense of time that becomes all too apparent. Then it’s the silence. The silence except that is the, for the beating of the heart. And in Petra’s case the click of her heels as she ‘stalks’ around the room. That silence. . . nothing out, nothing in, is palpable, quite deafening. Deafening silence is always the worse kind. Her pacing of the room becoming more of a lazy, hip-rolling strut as she slowly begins to forget about her posture and stance. No one to impress or show off in front of in here.

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Then the mind just slowly begins to play tricks and ask questions. ‘Have they forgotten me?’ ‘Has something happened and everyone left?’ ‘Who is EVERYONE anyway?’ It’s just a matter of time before Petra tries the door. Of course she does. It’s locked. The hypnotic inducement of apprehension doesn’t help. Neither does her state of almost complete undress. Stockings. High heels that enforce an almost swaggering arrogant strut, and lazy breast roll when she is on her feet, and when on the deliberately low stool, force her knees so high that her long, long legs are almost folded, and awkward. It’s the reason she can’t sit for long. Or walk for long. One of those rare times she would gladly enjoy a cigarette, if she had any. She didn’t have any.
 
After the mind questions, the exhaustion. It’s mental exhaustion more than anything. Trying to work out how long she has been there.

 

   How long she might be there. The complete lack of any home comforts. Or any comforts at all. All designed to slowly subdue her. It works every time. Physical exhaustion also plays a part in that she cannot get comfortable. There is nothing for her to get comfortable on or with. Comfort just isn’t on the menu in any form.
 
At one point I watch her, go to the toilet, thumbing the thong down to just above her knees and sitting on the bare toilet bowl. No seat or cover just the bare open bowl. She sits with her stockinged knees clamped together, stiletto’d feet splayed, feet turned toes pointing in to each other. There isn’t any toilet paper. She lets herself drip dry and then pulls up the thong tight between her legs and bottom cheeks. I’m pleased to see she’s smooth between the legs. Hairless.

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   Yes I liked that.
 
Of course there are cameras, tiny ones watching her every move. Recording her every facial expression. Every little mumble that tumbles from those gorgeous lips as time goes on and on. The isolation continuing. Petra trying to cope with it but finding it increasingly difficult. No day or night. Light or dark. Everything the same. Same light. Same temperature. Same silence. Same loneliness.
 
I watch her succulent breasts, heavy, mature roll and sway as she moves around the room. She really is the complete package.

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   The “One” I have been waiting for for so many years of my life as a sadist. Her long plume of ponytailed hair swinging across her bare back, just about caressing her tailbone as it swings across. Her movements becoming less confident, more unsure as a nervousness invades her. A terrible ,terrible jangling of her nerves as they begin to become shot. It’s written across her face of course. Strikingly so. I recognize the signs and lick my lips.
 
By the time I enter the room again almost thirty-six hours have passed. She doesn’t know that of course. There’s just a grateful, absolute look of gratitude as I slip back inside. She approaches me to give me a hug. I know it isn’t one of her trademark, flirty hugs she wants to give me but rather just a relieved, joyous hug for just seeing a familiar face. Any face. I hold my hand up with the flat palm towards her to stop her.
 
“No Petra.

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   Remember what I said. This is professional and nothing else. I just came to take the rest of your things. Its time to leave this room now. . . . take your shoes, stockings and panties off now Petra and put them in the container. . ok”
 
She looks visibly, almost hurt at the rejection, and the ice coldness of my voice. And the reminder of her position as a ‘volunteer. ’ She just nods, exhaling a sigh as she slips off her shoes with each opposite foot. Then peels down each stocking, folding each several times round one of her hands before placing them in the container. Then placing the shoes in. Then thumbing the thong down and lifting each foot as she steps out of it leaving herself totally naked.

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   A renewed blush, and a dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. Slightly distended labia clearly exposed and just peeling apart slightly as she moves her legs and feet.
 
I watch her every move. Make sure she ‘feels’ me watching her every move.
 
“There, all set Petra. I know it feels a little strange for you. But well. Just try to settle try to relax and everything will be fine. ”
 
I lead Petra out of the isolation room “ISO 1. ” The corridor is empty and it’s silent. Everything on this level is silent.
 
“It must be a little strange for you walking without heels on Petra? I mean, you adore heels don’t you?”
 
She smiles, her breasts swaying in front of her.
 
“Oh yes, I do. I really do adore high heels. But then this experience is completely strange to me.

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   Out of my comfort zone is a slight understatement. ”
 
I just lead her gently by the elbow towards the further end of the corridor.
 
“Oh well, you know, you won’t be out of high heels for long, trust me, Petra. Get this next stage over with, and see where it goes. You’ll be in high heels again before you know it. ”
 
I smile and so does she. Hope in her eyes. And then a spark, as though she remembered something.
 
“O-oh. . . did you meet up with Stefani?. . . .

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   You said you would. . . . . g-god, I forgot all about that. ”
 
Like an awful shock crossing her face. For a split second, delicious , awful despair. My response is considered. Precise and calculated.
 
“Its ok, Petra. . . . .

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   Stefani is fine. There was a bit of a drama, but, well, everything is fine. And she is fine. No need for you to worry at all. . . . . . . . ”
 
My voice trails off. Petra looks to me, for more information. A bit of a drama? But none is forthcoming and that is something else that settles uneasily in her psyche. We pass a few more doors with various labels on them, eventually stopping at the one named “RIG 1” and go inside.

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FOUR - Stage Two and Restraint
 
The word 'bondage' would never be used. At least not this early stage. That word would imply sexual deviance and would detract from the micro-path Petra would be taken down. The initial 'restraint' for Petra is simple in its design and yet acutely effective in its application. Her sub-trance state, along with her time in preparation, and isolation meant that Petra was very receptive to the idea of mild 'restraint. '
 
"The point is, Petra, as I have said, that you are taken out of the normal world and its everyday machinations. Your mind needs to be clear and you don’t need, or want to be concerned with what to do with your hands, legs or feet. This mild restraint helps that process. If your limbs are gently disabled, then you don’t need to worry about what to do with them. . . . ”
 
Petra simply stood nodding. Still very lucid and understanding and yet the period of isolation together with the semi-hypnotic state had ensured her relative docility. Her usual, very confident persona had been just slightly curtailed and wound back in.

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   Subdued. Her susceptibility to suggestion was amplified now. In these early days, of the utmost importance. Eventually, she would be taken out of trance. But not yet. The time wasn’t anywhere near for that, yet.
 
"Oh completely, yes I understand. I signed up for this so whatever it takes, I guess is fine. . . . "
 
I could tell, still at least slightly that Stefani was on her mind. Another creeping effect of the last thirty-six hours was dryness of the mouth resulting in continuous sips of water. That and a continuous movement of the lips. In Petra's case, and for me, a joy to w.

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