Mind Games and more gaslighting

You lean forward, trying to project sincerity.

"Jessie, we both know I haven't done anything other than sit in this chair," you say carefully. "I was trying to flirt with you since I truly ire you and your work ethic, but I understand now that was dumb of me. I'm sorry, Jessie."

Her hand freezes on the door handle. She turns back to look at you, and the expression on her face makes your stomach drop.

"What did you just call me?" Her voice is very quiet now, dangerous in its stillness.

You realize your mistake immediately. Her name is Jessica. It's always been Jessica. Jessie is the name Candy programmed into the transformation sequence, the name that will replace her identity when the consciousness erasure completes. You weren't supposed to use it yet.

"My name is Jessica," she says slowly, deliberately. "I've worked here for six years. You've called me Jessica in every single meeting, every single email. Why the fuck would you call me Jessie?"

She's backing away from the door now, but not toward you. She's moving sideways along the wall, her eyes never leaving your face. Her platinum-blonde hair cascades down past her shoulders now, nearly to her breasts, which have grown large enough that another button pops free from her blouse as she moves.

"You just proved it," she whispers, her voice shaking with rage rather than fear now. "You did something to me. You planned this. That name—Jessie—that's what you were going to turn me into, isn't it?"

Her hand fumbles in her blazer pocket, pulling out her phone. Her fingers are trembling, making it difficult to unlock the screen, but she manages it. The phone's face illuminates her changing features—softer jawline, fuller lips, golden tan spreading across her skin like sunrise.

"I'm calling 911," she says, her thumb hovering over the emergency call button. "I don't care if you **** me or hypnotized me or... or whatever the fuck this is. You're going to jail."

But as she tries to dial, her hand spasms, her fingers suddenly clumsy. The phone nearly slips from her grasp. She catches it, stares at her own hand like it's betrayed her.

"Why can't I..." She tries again, her movements slower now, less coordinated. Her brow furrows in concentration as she attempts the simple task of pressing three numbers.

Fifty minutes remaining.

You lean back in your chair deliberately, spreading your legs wider so the outline of your erection is unmistakable through your pants. The fabric pulls tight, revealing the thick ridge of your cock straining against the material.

"Jessie, what are you talking about?" you say, your voice casual as if nothing is happening.

Jessica's eyes drop involuntarily to your crotch, and the reaction is immediate. Her face goes through a rapid succession of expressions - shock, revulsion, and then something that looks like sheer disbelief that this is actually happening.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Her voice cracks on the last word, high and strained. "You're exposing yourself to me? While I'm literally transforming against my will?"

She's still holding her phone, but her hand has gone slack, the device tilting dangerously in her loosening grip. Her other hand comes up to her face, pressing against her forehead like she's trying to physically hold her thoughts together.

"This is... this is sexual ****. This is actual sexual **** happening right now." She's talking faster, her words tumbling over each other, but there's a slur creeping into her speech, a slight lag between thought and articulation. "You're sitting there with your... with your dick out basically, and I'm calling the... I'm..."

She looks down at her phone again, trying to focus on the screen. Her thumb moves toward the emergency call button but misses, sliding across the glass uselessly. She tries again, her coordination visibly deteriorating.

"Why can't I..." Her voice is smaller now, confused. Her platinum blonde hair falls forward around her face as she hunches over the phone, and you can see the changes accelerating. Her lips are noticeably fuller, glossy and pink even without makeup. Her cheekbones are higher, more pronounced. The tan has spread across all her visible skin, turning her into a sun-kissed golden goddess.

Another button pops on her blouse. Her breasts are large now, D-cup at least, straining against the white fabric and lace beneath. The gaps between buttons reveal tantalizing glimpses of cleavage that definitely wasn't there ten minutes ago.

"Marcus, please," she whispers, looking up at you with eyes that are struggling to focus. "Please don't... I don't want to forget who I am. I can feel it happening. I can feel something in my head getting... getting fuzzy."

Her phone slips from her hand entirely, clattering to the floor. She stares at it like she doesn't understand what happened, then back at you, then at your obvious erection.

"You're getting off on this," she says, the realization dawning slow and horrible across her softening features. "You're actually getting off on erasing me."

You shift in your seat, adjusting yourself with exaggerated discomfort, trying to sell the performance.

"I'm not getting off, I'm offended," you say, putting hurt into your voice. "I'm sorry I'm well endowed. I've been trying to hide it from everyone and I don't need you making fun of me. Especially when you yourself are so well endowed on your chest. That's not fair, Jessie."

For a moment, Jessica just stares at you. Her platinum blonde hair frames a face that's struggling to process what you just said, full lips parted slightly in disbelief. Then something breaks—not her will, but her ability to maintain the thread of outrage.

"That's... that's the dumbest fucking thing I've ever..." She stops mid-sentence, her hand going to her forehead again. "Wait. No. You can't just... you can't reverse this on me like I'm the one being inappropriate when you're literally sitting there with a fucking erection while my body is changing."

But her voice wavers on the last word, less certain than it should be. She looks down at herself, at the massive breasts straining against her blouse, gaps showing between every remaining button. Her hands come up reflexively to cover herself, then stop halfway, hovering uncertainly.

"My chest isn't... I didn't choose this. You did this to me." Each word comes slower now, like she's wading through fog to find them. "This is your fault. All of this is... is..."

She trails off, swaying slightly on her feet. Her eyes lose focus for a moment, staring at something beyond you, then snap back with visible effort.

"Stop calling me Jessie," she says, but there's less **** behind it now. "My name is Jessica. Jessica... Jessica..."

She's repeating her own name like a mantra, trying to anchor herself to it. Her phone still lies on the floor where she dropped it, screen dark and forgotten. She doesn't seem to it exists anymore.

"You're trying to confuse me," she says slowly, working through the thought with obvious difficulty. "Making me think about your... your dick instead of what's happening to me. That's manipulation. That's what manipulators do."

She's right, but the observation comes out slurred and uncertain, like she's reading it off a card she can barely see. Another button pops free from her blouse entirely. She glances down at it, at the abundant cleavage now on display, and something flickers across her face—confusion about whether she should be embarrassed or angry or scared.

"I need to... I should..." She turns toward the door again but moves with the coordination of someone underwater, each motion delayed and imprecise. "HR. Police. Someone needs to... needs to know about..."

Her hand finds the door handle but doesn't turn it, just rests there limply.

"What were we meeting about?" she asks suddenly, looking back at you with genuine confusion clouding her softening features.

"Also, what do you mean by Erection? Jessie, I'm not even hard... yet."

The implication lands like a physical blow. Jessica's eyes go wide, her platinum blonde hair swaying as she jerks back against the door. For a moment, the fog in her mind seems to clear just enough for pure horror to break through.

"You're threatening to... you're saying you're going to..." She can't finish the sentence, her mouth working soundlessly. Her hands clutch at her chest reflexively, trying to cover the massive breasts that have torn her blouse nearly open. "Oh my god. Oh my god, you're going to **** me after you finish erasing me."

The word—****—seems to cost her enormous effort to produce, like she had to drag it up from somewhere deep that's rapidly filling with cotton. She slides down the door slightly, her legs unsteady, until she's half-sitting against it.

"Please don't," she whispers, and the professional project manager is completely gone now. What's left is just a terrified woman watching her own mind dissolve. "Please, Marcus, I have a sister. I have a mom. They'll look for me if I disappear. People will know I came in here with you."

But even as she speaks, you can see the changes accelerating. Her face is heart-shaped now, delicate and feminine in a way that Jessica's strong features never were. Her lips are pornographic, puffy and glossy pink. Her ass has filled out her navy slacks until the fabric strains across curves that definitely weren't there fifteen minutes ago.

"My name is Jessica," she says again, desperately, tears starting to form in eyes that are lighter now, more blue than brown. "Jessica Morrison. I'm a project manager. I went to Northwestern. My sister's name is... is..."

She stops, confusion washing over her face like a wave.

"What's my sister's name?" She asks the question to herself, not to you, her voice rising in panic. "I know her. I know I know her. Why can't I her name?"

Her hands are in her platinum blonde hair now, pulling at it like she can physically hold her memories in place. The last intact button on her blouse finally gives up, popping free and bouncing across the conference table. Her breasts spill forward, barely contained by a white lace bra that's cutting into flesh that's grown too large for it.

"Marcus, please," she begs, looking up at you with those lightening eyes. "Please tell me my sister's name. Please help me ."

Forty-eight minutes remaining.