As I Choose
Chapter One
“I do as I choose,” she said.
She had the kind of authority and confidence that made even such an archaic way of saying it sound profound and natural, helped by the fact that at five foot ten before her heels she was taller than most of the people at the party.
The man she’d been talking to shrank away slightly, not used to a woman willing to speak her mind back at him. Almost anyone else in the room could have warned him that she’d be prepared to argue her corner, if anyone had thought he wouldn’t see it for himself.
They would have said it was obvious; the sleek black dress she wore had sheer sides showing no bra strap and the thinnest suggestion of a thong strap above her hip, as well as a high enough hemline that if she sat down, modesty would only be preserved by crossing her legs; her bare right arm was wreathed in one huge, elaborate tattoo, depicting a tigress stalking through foliage that was half jungle, half garden, the silver nose ring glittered like a challenge as she turned her head, and even her hairstyle said she meant business, cut just short enough to give her no trouble. While she was wearing it down and it covered both ears, most would guess there was an undercut beneath; probably, from the rest of her style, one with some artistic motif shaved into it.
She was a beautiful woman, blessed with handsome features and maintaining a body that combined muscle and curves through a combination of physical fitness and cosmetic surgery. Her name was Clarissa Collins, but professionally she went by Miss Catherine; she was actually quite pleased to be able to unwind at a party where both of her identities were already known to at least some of the guests.
What she hadn’t been willing to do was go along with the ridiculous assertion the man she was talking to had made. There was no good reason to listen to someone saying that a single person couldn’t be a successful business; you needed to put in more time and you needed to develop every skill, instead of letting your partners or employees handle the ones you were weak at, but it was achievable, and her bank balance underlined just how achievable.
She could have just told him that, had a polite conversation about why he was wrong, even gone into detail about the choices she’d made, the things she knew she was giving up for her work, and probably talked him round. But it wasn’t on her to educate, especially as she was there at a party to have fun, not to be told she was impossible. So she dropped a single line on him flat—a line many of her subby clients would pay her for—and watched, and waited for him to do more than just shrink away.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes,” he said at last, drawing the word out. “Well. If you’d excuse me…” But he was already turning away as he said that last, the words just a formality. If he’d been a client, she would have stopped him in his tracks with a raised voice, spelled out to him what a weak beta he was, and had some fun from there; he wasn’t, though, so she didn’t waste her time but instead took another sip of the champagne their host had splashed out on.
“What was that all about?” another man asked, walking up to her with a champagne flute in one hand and the other in a pocket, an amused smile on his face. Clarissa took a moment to size him up, as she usually did; confident, certainly, and not bad looking, but the way he carried himself didn’t say serious person, it said goofball. Beta, then, and possibly the worst kind of beta; beta by choice. Slumming it, without the drive to do what she’d done and build an empire.
Rather than dismiss him out of hand, she decided to give him just a little rope to hang himself with. “Oh, just someone who doesn’t understand alternative businesses.”
He nodded. “Ahhh. Well, I think I’m duty bound to support you then.”
Not just an office drone? “Oh? What do you do?”
He clucked his tongue as if he was criticising himself. “It always sounds so pretentious. I’m a personal coach. The wealthy pay me to find ways they can be their ‘better selves’.” He followed it up with a private grin, like he was inviting her to join in his amusement.
Clarissa didn’t, though, because against all the odds he’d managed to intrigue her. “You don’t think these are better selves you’re helping them achieve?”
“I… hm. I think ‘better’ is a hard word to define. Let’s put it like this—I think they come to me because they’re unhappy, and they’ve got a specific idea of what will make them happier. I just don’t think they’re right.”
She folded her arms under her chest, leaned back against the wall. It wasn’t exactly a deliberate move to get a reaction; it wasn’t exactly accidental either. Clarissa knew very well what effect her body had on most men and she had worked for that effect so often it was a reflex now. “You’ve got my attention now. What on Earth is it you actually do? Why do they think it helps?”
“Well, it’s a whole bunch of different techniques I’ve stolen from all over the place,” he said. “Most of it is one form or another of hypnosis, honestly. I guess you could call me a professional hypnotist, but if I tell someone I’m a personal coach they think I’m some up-his-own-ass hipster; if I tell them I’m a professional hypnotist they act creeped out.” He paused. “I’m guessing at least some people, when they find out what you do, suddenly don’t want to know you.”
“Nobody worth thinking about,” she responded. He wasn’t wrong, but nor was she; there was no real reason she’d feel like she was missing out from that. “Hypnosis? That shit’s real?”
He grinned. “You’ve met me,” he said. “Do you think I’m a good enough con artist to keep millionaire clients if it wasn’t?”
He was definitely flirting with her, and he had completely the wrong understanding of how that should go. She snorted. “Whatever you can make work on the normals, I guess,” she said with a shrug.
“Oh?”
“Hypnosis is strictly about the weak willed,” she said. She didn’t make it a question. And he didn’t answer, didn’t argue, didn’t tell her she was wrong. He just smirked, like he knew better and didn’t care. Clarissa bristled, but didn’t start the argument.
“I’m sure to do what you do, you must have a strong will,” he said. “To be successful at it, I imagine you have to be smart, too, and creative.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“And you’re proud of these things, justifiably.”
“Yes.”
“You think of yourself as better than people without them.”
Another nod. “I’m alpha. Most people can’t be.”
“And only someone less than you could be tricked or influenced.”
“Yeah.”
“Someone like me isn’t going to change your mind.”
“Right.”
“Which is why you’re imagining kissing someone’s boot.”
“Yeah.” She blinked, her lips moving fractionally, and for a moment she could almost taste the leather and the faint chemical tang of scuff coating. Clarissa frowned and replayed the conversation in her head, then glanced back at him. He was still smiling, but it wasn’t exactly a smirk anymore. “What was that?”
“At its most basic, an odd form of hypnosis.” He shrugged. “It’s called a yes set. Nothing like what you probably imagine I do. Nothing like what I actually do, most of the time.”
“Feels like some kind of weird trick.”
“It is, basically.” He paused, as if he was trying to decide whether to go further. “I just wanted to show you that sometimes, being ‘alpha’ is a weakness, not a defence.”
Clarissa’s glance at him became a glare, and he smiled and shook his head.
“Why bootlicking?”
“It was honestly one of the first thoughts that came to mind, that’s all,” he said. “No hidden meaning.”
She looked at him a while longer, but his expression didn’t give away any secret amusement.
“That’s got nothing to do with hypnosis the way you see it in TV shows.”
“Oh, with the pocketwatch or something? I do that type too. But it’s usually less of a surprise.”
“And you wanted to surprise me.”
“In my position, wouldn’t you?”
Clarissa was suddenly absolutely certain he was like this with his clients. She’d been right when she’d immediately tagged him as a goof-off, but maybe there was more to him than that.
“Sure,” she agreed.
“And it’s got your attention, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You can see possibilities in using this yourself, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re wondering what other tricks I’ve got up my sleeve, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” she said again, and smiled.
He knocked back the rest of what was in his glass and set it aside. “Come out and get some fresh air with me?”
She was nodding as he turned and walked away, and she followed him, curious what else he was doing.
It didn’t occur to her to think about how easily she’d got into a set of agreement again. So far as she was concerned, he’d just reeled off some questions, and why not?
Outside in the back garden they stood in the cool night air, in the shelter and the shade of a tree, and the noise of the party was almost inaudible. Clarissa found herself wondering why she’d come out here, why she’d allowed so much of her attention and her focus to fall onto this man.
“I do use a pocketwatch,” he said, “like I mentioned. I’ve got it on me, actually. Are you interested in seeing how it looks?”
Sometimes, when you’re not sure why you did something, you jump at the first thing that looks like an explanation. “Sure.”
And suddenly it was right in front of her, glittering, the little light around them all catching and shining from its polished curves.
Clarissa was no fool. This goof, this deliberate beta, he was a trickster, he couldn’t win directly so he’d just cheat and see how far he could push his luck and she already had confirmation of that. “Are you seriously trying to hypnotise me right now?”
“Not seriously.” Making a joke of it. Making a joke of her.
Her eyes still on the watch—the way it caught the light, it was pretty much the main thing to look at out in the quiet garden—she shook her head. “Why would you even think this will work on me?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I’m strong-willed. I’m an alpha domme. If anyone’s going to be hypnotised it’d be some dumb subby bitch.”
“That’s a common theory, certainly,” he said. His voice was softer, suddenly, quieter, but in the peace of the garden it carried clearly. It was the voice of someone making sure their drunk friend had a chance to sleep it off; it was affection and safety and comfort and confidence all at once. “But have you looked at the evidence?”
Clarissa was much more interested in just looking at the pocketwatch, which was slowly revolving as it swung which made the way the lights danced and shifted around it even more compelling. “What evidence?”
“The point of a pocketwatch, when you’re using it to hypnotise,” he said, in that same soft confidence that wrapped around her like a comfortable quilt on a cold night, “is to keep the attention while the hypnosis itself properly settles in. And this is keeping your attention; for someone who’s not going to be hypnotised, you’re looking at it very, very intently.” She was about to retort when he carried on, “and in fact, right about now, you’re realising that you actually can’t look away from it, that your eyes are locked to it. Go ahead and try to break contact.”
“That’s not how it works,” she said, and she hoped she sounded more confident than she was. Usually confidence was her natural strong suit—but usually she wasn’t suddenly realising she might be out of her depth in a situation she knew nothing about. “And even if it was, I could look away from this any time I want. I don’t know what you think you’ve worked out, but you’re wrong.”
“I notice you’re still watching the watch,” he said. The confidence and the comfort in his voice were still there, but there was an amused edge to them now, a texture of teasing and challenge. “Your focus is completely on the watch. And even if you don’t know much about hypnosis, I know you know what that means.”
“Not going to happen,” Clarissa retorted. “I can look away any time I want. I’m not focused on it, it’s just what’s in front of me.”
There was a chuckle, and she fumed silently, but not at the laughter; she’d gone to turn her head, figuring that would be the easiest way to prove he was full of shit. Except that it hadn’t happened; she’d kept staring, and what he’d said had just played back through his head: realising you actually can’t look away from it, that your eyes are locked to it.
She was reacting to her words, she realised, more than she thought she should be. Hypnosis was supposed to be bullshit and even if it was real, it was for stage shows, not for taking control of someone in a back garden with nobody looking.
“So what is going to happen?” he asked, his voice still amused, but his words were half-taunt, half game. And Clarissa found herself in the frustrating position of not knowing the rules to this game, how it was played, or even how you could tell if you’d won.
But she was better than him; she had a stronger will than him; whatever else he wanted to do, it would eventually fail, eventually be worn down by her own stubbornness and smarts.
And if she picked up on his tricks as she fought them off, she’d have some new tools, and she was absolutely sure some of her clients would revel in feeling humiliated by the exact same trick he’d used on her; that she could segue them from the surprise that they could taste boot leather just from agreements to licking her boots clean.
So she decided to play along. “You’re going to tell me to keep watching your watch,” she said, “and you’re going to describe it swinging back and forth… back and forth… from left… to right… to left…” Without really meaning to, she’d started to match the cadence of her words to the swing of the pocketwatch. “…left… right…”
Her tone was little clearer than a mumble but she was hardly aware of that herself. “…luh… ruh… uhh…”
“Hey?” He took her chin in his hand, holding it up just as it was about to slip. The watch ceased rising out of her field of view as her descent was arrested. “Don’t drop yet. Not until you have permission,” he said, still teasing, still confident, and he presented the idea she needed permission with such certainty that she didn’t question it. “Do you want permission?”
Her jaw slack, she nodded up and down on his hand. “Uhhh,” she said softly. “Huhhhh…”
He took it as agreement, and she wasn’t sure but perhaps it was. He brought the hand holding the watch down in a fast arc, taking it out of her line of sight, and at the same time he said, very firmly but still with that same safe-seeming tone, “Drop for me.”
Clarissa felt her body sag and was aware of him wrapping his arms around her to catch her before she could topple to the ground…
She still stood; her legs felt unsteady but they supported her, her neck felt as if her head might flop forward at any moment, but it did not; her body stood in spite of itself, because it had been told to.
Clarissa’s eyes were open, but she only saw things moment by moment, the same way her thoughts flickered in and out of existence, with no coherency to them.
His hands no longer needed to steady her, but they were still on her body, fingertips stroking up and down on the bare flesh of one thigh, just below the hip, and on the exposed skin of her breasts’ upper slopes. Shivers trailed up and down her body in those fingers’ wake.
He was so close, his lips in her ear. “Feeling so good,” he murmured, and she had to admit that she was. “Feeling so turned on. Feeling so happy. So wet. So needy.”
He always seemed to list things in batches of five, and they always rang so true. She felt so good because she was so turned on; she was so happy because she was so wet.
And she was needy; it was so rare that she felt this excited and she couldn’t immediately satisfy herself or have someone satisfy her, and she wanted to demand that he do so, but her lips weren’t willing to form words, being preoccupied instead with the beginning strand of saliva spinning down from her lower lip like a plant sending down an exploratory root, and with the exact same amount of thought behind it.
“You’re feeling so good,” he said again. “So good and so thoughtless and so carefree. So happy. So helpless.” There was a pause, and he lifted the hand that had been stroking her thigh and wound its fingers into her short hair. “Do you think you’re happy because you’re helpless and thoughtless and carefree?”
He made her head nod with her hand and Clarissa felt her thoughts settle into agreement from the nod, before they came apart once again and slipped through mental fingers. The lowest part of the drool strand snapped away, splashing into her cleavage, and her mind concluded that she was even wetter.
“Do you have your phone with you?” he asked softly, this time not moving her head. Her answer came out as more of a moan than anything else, but one of her limp, simply-hanging arms jerked upward, just an inch or two, from the wrist, as if pulled up on puppet strings; she’d reached for it, but there wasn’t the energy or control over her limbs to reach it. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and there was a triumph in his voice. “Unlock it and give it to me; your right arm works fine for that, if nothing else.”
He released her hair and stepped behind her, still gently stroking the soft skin above her breasts, head just over her left shoulder, lips by her ears, so close behind her that as her body wavered (it didn’t move nearly enough to count as swaying, but it rocked back and forth, and Clarissa felt she had nothing to do with that) she repeatedly brushed against him.
As he did so, her right arm swayed, then rose, a little shakily, and slowly—as if she was having difficulty in overcoming the weight of sleepy motionlessness—her hand came up and delved into the cleavage of her dress, where her slim smartphone had been tucked away.
Listlessly, she produced it and rested her thumb on the biometric plate until it opened, at which point he plucked it from her hand; its duty done, it dropped to her side, hand hitting her thigh with a surprisingly loud slap that produced no reaction from her, which in turn produced a satisfied grunt from him, right in her ear.
He held her phone so they could both see it, him looking over her shoulder, and opened the contacts panel, where he added his own number under Alistair—Hypno Guy. For a photo, he opened the camera and Clarissa could see him smirking over her shoulder as she stood staring vacantly, a tendril of saliva descending from her open mouth. She couldn’t believe how out of it she looked.
Alistair (presumably) took the photo and saved it. “Now, what I’d like to do,” he said softly, “is for you to not notice that contact for a couple of days,” he said. “You’ll find if you scroll through anything where it shows up, or where that photo shows up, your eyes will slide over it, won’t register it, until Monday. Do you understand?”
Her answer still wasn’t a full word, but rather than just a moan it had the quality of a whimper. He took this, correctly, as understanding, and then he dialled a number on her phone. His own phone rang, and after he ended the call he tucked hers back into place, lingering over the soft, sensitive underside of her breast, stroking and teasing, finding the nipple and flicking, and Clarissa stood unmoving, unable to move without instruction, and made helpless noises of dizzy pleasure.
He took out his phone and held it up in front of her likewise, taking a step in closer, and she could feel the tent in his pants against her ass, producing another startled moan.
Using her call to give him her number, he went to save her contact. “What was it you said?” he chuckled. “If anyone’s going to be hypnotised?” For name he entered Some Dumb Subby Bitch. “What’s your real name, by the way?” She made a helpless, strangled whimper, and he chuckled. “You may speak when spoken to.” His tone was sing-song, teasing, triumphant.
“Clarissa,” she said, and a tiny voice inside her that cursed like an alpha damned her for not insisting on Miss Catherine. He edited her name to add (Clarissa) on the end.
He took another version of the same selfie for her. Lowering his free hand to rest on her belly just above her hips, he pulled her back into him, his erection tented in the cleft of her buttocks. “Now, just like you won’t remember the contact in your own phone,” he said, “I don’t want you to remember seeing that, either. But not just until Monday. I don’t want you to remember until I give you permission. Do you understand?”
Clarissa was glad to be able to speak, even if the words all came out ragged and uncertain. “I… I understand.”
“Good,” he said simply. “Very good.” He chuckled. “You must be unbelievably horny right now. Right?”
“Yes.”
“Really, really want to cum?”
“Yes.”
“But you know you can’t cum right now.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t be able to cum until after you get home,” he told her, “and you won’t go home until the party ends.”
“Yes.”
“When you do, you’ll lie face down on your bed with your face buried in your pillow and you’ll toy yourself until you can’t cum anymore,” he said. “You’ll imagine it’s my cock in you the whole time, even if you won’t really know why.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“And that’s what you’ll remember, on Monday, when you notice my contact details again. You’re going to want to call me. You’re going to want to hook up. And you won’t imagine for a moment that it has anything to do with hypnosis.” He chuckled. “You’re going to leave the party tonight believing you weren’t really hypnotised. Understand?”
“Yes,” she agreed again. It was so much easier to agree, and it became easier to agree every time she did.
He snapped his fingers.
Usually if Clarissa got bored somewhere, she just left; like she’d told that jackass at the beginning of her night, she did as she chose, and she’d always choose to please herself if something became boring.
Yet that night she was still at the party long after the best and brightest had either gone on to other things or drunk so much they were no longer very bright at all. She leaned against the wall, arms folded under her chest, and glared whenever anyone below her notice came near. Periodically she uncrossed and recrossed her legs, squeezing her thighs tightly whenever she did so, feeling a needy ache.
She honestly wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, but she definitely felt the need for sex. Not just any sex, either; not finding some beautiful man and ruining him for anyone else, not fucking, but getting fucked. It was so total, so driving a need that it was odd she hadn’t left just to take care of that, even before taking into account how dull the party was.
All the same, she was still around when Terry kicked the last stragglers out. “Sorry, Clar,” he said with a gentle smile. She returned it with a flat not-quite-smile of her own, hoping the need to be fucked she felt didn’t show, and she walked down the street as slow and as cocky as possible, so nobody would suspect. But the moment she was round the corner, she broke into a trot—as fast as she could go with the need throbbing between her legs.
All she could think about was her dildo, one of the ones she didn’t use that often, no bells and whistles but it did a great job of feeling like a cock inside her if she got the angle and the rhythm just right, and that night, she had a specific cock she wanted it to stand in for.
Once safely back indoors she almost fell up the stairs in her eagerness to reach her bed and her toys. She tugged her dress up over her hips and wriggled halfway out of a thong that was so soaked it didn’t want to move, her other hand pawing at the suitcase she used to hide her toys from anyone who didn’t need to know. The hitachi and the violet wand were the first items to tumble free, but not far below them, desperate fingers found the easily recognisable fake veins of her finest rubber cock.
She scrambled onto her knees on her bed and stifled her scream of need by burying her face in her pillow, ass up, tits spilling out of her dress and rock-hard nipples rubbing against the fabric of her bedsheets, one hand reaching back behind her splayed thighs as she drove her dildo inside her, pumping furiously, eyes rolled back in her head as she imagined Alistair fucking and fucking and fucking her with everything he had.
Alistair gave it until Tuesday before he sent her a text. He kept it simple and light:
Hey, did you try that trick on anyone?
Clarissa read and re-read the message a dozen or more times, trying to piece together what he meant. She didn’t remember telling him anything about her plans to use his techniques on other people. Then again, she didn’t really remember learning much about his techniques… or about pretty much anything after he showed her his pocketwatch.
Which didn’t make any sense, of course. She was as alpha as it gets; a simple pocketwatch couldn’t mess with her mind. And she was sure she hadn’t been hypnotised anyway.
Although…
Although if she hadn’t been hypnotised, the user picture for Alistair on her phone made no sense at all.
And she didn’t remember it.
The more she thought about it, the more she went round and round trying to understand, the less any of it made sense. She’d left him on read for most of the day while she tried to sort it all out in her head, but eventually she sent back:
Be more specific
It didn’t take long for a response.
Sounds complicated. How about we meet to discuss?
Which, as that was a possible option for figuring out what had happened, Clarissa agreed to quickly, and the two decided to stop in at a bar near to them both the following evening.
‘Miss Catherine’ gave some of her clients a particularly intense session that day, with plenty of frustrations and doubts to exorcise.
Alistair was there before she got there, and he’d chosen seats outside. It was just chilly enough that nobody else seemed interested in joining them, but Clarissa wasn’t about to look weak by asking to sit indoors. She was an alpha; she wasn’t going to break first. She collected her glass of wine from the bar and went back out to join him.
“Do you want to explain this?” was her opening line, holding up her phone with a flourish, showing the picture that represented him in her phone. He laughed.
“Just having a bit of fun,” was all he said. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t take a photo like that for your clients, if you saw the right opportunity?”
“I’m not your client,” she retorted.
“Oh? How much would you pay for this treatment?”
She slapped him, but the smirk came back far too fast. Still, it had been satisfying, and there was a red mark on his cheek, and it had reminded him who was really in charge here.
In fact, it seemed to bring him back to business. “OK,” he said. “A little more seriously. Did you not pick up on the clues in that photo?”
Annoyed but intrigued, she turned the screen back to herself. She stared at it. There was a lot going on in there; was it something in his eyes? In hers? Had he put a filter on it? Her mouth was open—was she mouthing something?
She tried to replicate her own expression, thinking what sound might come out.
“She looks really far gone, doesn’t she?” Alistair said softly. “Look at her. How slack your features become. How empty and glassy your eyes can be, almost like a doll rather than yourself…”
So the clue was in her eyes. Clarissa zoomed in, staring at them. They certainly were empty; she’d never seen herself so lacking in personality. What was the clue?
“She exists in a state of deep hypnosis,” Alistair went on. “And that state lives on in you. Look into your eyes, Clarissa. Look into your eyes. See how hypnotised you were?”
“Yes…”
“How deep you went?”
“Yes.”
“How much you wanted to give up thought, just for a while?”
“Yes…”
“How well you did at dropping deep?”
“Yes…”
“Do you see how deeply hypnotised you are?”
Clarissa agreed, but did not speak. Staring with empty, glassy eyes into her own vacant, glazed expression, she saw exactly how deeply hypnotised she was.
All at the hands of a man she’d just slapped with all the fury available to her.
“That’s good,” he said, and smiled. “That’s very good. Now, we do need to work on your rudeness. Perhaps you should adopt a new outlook. Just nod your head.” Clarissa nodded, not because she agreed but because she was told to, and yet after nodding she found herself more in agreement. “We’re going to trial one today. I’m going to wake you up, and you’re going to realise you want my cock in you; you want me to fuck your tits, you want me to fuck your pussy, you want me to fuck your mouth. And you know you have no control over whether I do or not. So you’ll have to let me call the shots, won’t you? Just nod.”
Clarissa nodded.
“You’re going to be changed, Clarissa, and you’re not going to notice you’re being changed, because you know it would take being hypnotised to change you. And you’re always going to think you can’t be hypnotised, at least until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”
On reflex, she nodded again.
He snapped his fingers.