Relaxed, casual, and comfortable.
That was what he had said he wanted on a date. Oh, it wasn't that he didn't like a woman to dress up. He certainly did, especially when she dressed up as well as Cara did--as well, fine, gorgeous, and sexy as she did.
On their first date, Cara had worn a tight-but-not-too-tight dress that was a shade lighter than her raven black hair. It accentuated her curves and both covered and revealed just the right amounts of skin. Her hair had been done up in a purposefully imperfect bun, while her make-up had highlighted but not masked her pretty face. Earrings and a bracelet had added splashes of color to the ensemble. And finally, stiletto pumps had complimented the whole outfit.
She had killed it that night. He had done all right himself. They had both wanted a second date. They had planned one. Now, they were having it.
In the course of conversation on that first night, he had made his statement: He liked things to be relaxed, casual, and comfortable. He acknowledged there were times and places for things to not be that way--like when making a first impression on a first date. But on a second date, when the ice was broken, the nerves had calmed, and it was time to start really getting to know someone, why not make it a relaxed, casual, and comfortable evening?
Cara didn't disagree. An evening of chilling at his place, as he suggested, worked for her.
Still, less formal for her didn't mean baggy sweats and a faded T-shirt. It meant hair down loose over her shoulders, light make-up, an off-the-shoulder blouse, tight but stretchy jeans, no hosiery, and strappy heels that showed off her fresh-from-the-spa pedicure.
She arrived at his place with a dessert and a bottle of wine. He had said he would provide dinner and drinks, but she wouldn't dream of showing up empty-handed. She could tell he was genuinely appreciative of her thoughtfulness, and even more so of how good she looked.
It wasn't the first time she'd drawn a man's desiring gaze or heard his superlative comments when she'd strode by him in jeans and heels. But this time, with this man, she liked what she was getting from him.
They ate dinner, had some wine, and talked. It was--as he wanted--relaxed, casual, and comfortable. It was--as they both hoped--very enjoyable.
After dinner, they moved to the living room for more comfortable seating. She chose the sofa, and he sat in a chair catty-corner to it. He asked how she was doing, if she needed anything, and if she was comfortable.
"I'm good, I don't, and I am," she said with a genuine smile. "Thank you for asking."
"Of course," he said. "And please, make yourself at home. Feel free to take your shoes off and put your feet up."
Him saying that didn't surprise her. After all, he was a nice guy and a good host. But also, he was all about being relaxed, casual, and comfortable.
The thing was, she actually felt uncomfortable taking off her shoes in someone else's house, especially if she didn't have socks or hose on. In general, she could totally get behind the whole RC&C mantra. But putting her bare feet on the furniture and in plain view of a person she hardly knew just seemed wrong to her. She didn't voice her qualms, though, because she didn't want to come across as too formal or uptight.
"Thanks, I'm quite comfortable," she said, keeping her feet shod and on the floor.
She hoped he couldn't tell how uncomfortable she had just become. Neither his expression, nor his demeanor changed, so she figured that he was blissfully oblivious. That was good. Hopefully he would stay that way until she could relax and get back into the very pleasant groove of the evening.
"You know, that reminds me," he said. "I recently read an article that talked about how a woman is more suggestible and submissive when she's barefoot."
His statement shocked her. For one thing, it seemed like a total non-sequitur. True, he had invited her to take off her shoes, but still, how did that lead to such a bizarre claim about a woman being barefoot? For another thing, who would write an article with that nonsensical proclamation in it? And finally, why would an intelligent man like him think it was a good topic to discuss with a woman he was romantically interested in?
"That's crazy," she said. "Where did you read that?"
"In a scientific journal."
"The Enquirer is hardly a scientific journal."
She raised her eyebrows at him, saying nonverbally, I can take a joke, but let's be real already and admit it's a joke.
He laughed at her jibe. But then he shook his head.
"No, really, I'm serious."
"Huh. Well, that's random and, no offense, idiotic."
"I'm just telling you what I read," he said with a shrug. "The article cited studies and everything."
"Whatever."
"I mean, there's an easy way to disprove it."
She raised her eyebrows again, this time saying, You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you? He shrugged again, saying, Yeah, I am.
Leaning forward, she stared at him long and hard, trying to figure out where this whole topic of conversation had come from and where he was going with it. He stared back at her, seemingly unoffended and unoffensive.
But there was something in his gaze. She couldn't tell what it was. So she kept staring into his eyes, hoping to figure it out.
"Take off your shoes," he said. "Let's prove the theory. Let's see if you become more suggestible and submissive when you're barefoot."
"You seem awfully interested in seeing my feet. Do you have a fetish or something?"
Her tone wavered between accusatory and curious. They hadn't yet discussed sex or intimacy, so she legitimately didn't know what he was into--other than her, which she could tell by his frequent compliments and longing stares. She also understood that people had fetishes. If he had one that wasn't wholly incompatible with what she liked and needed, then who cared? But at the same time, she didn't like how the conversation had turned. She wanted to be done with this topic and get back to having an RC&C good time with him.
"Are you saying you don't want me to look at your feet?" he asked, with that same wavering between accusation and curiosity that had been in her voice. "Because those very sexy shoes are showing off a lot of them, including your exquisitely painted toenails. I presumed you wore those shoes and did your nails so that I would look at your feet."
She pouted at the logic of his argument. Of course she wanted him to look at her feet. Otherwise, she would have worn shoes that didn't leave them all but bare and put them on full display. But wanting him to look didn't mean she wanted him to focus on them, or bring up bizarre topics of conversation, or keep needling her to take off her shoes.
Or, was she making too much out of this? What if he didn't have a foot fetish? What if he was just trying to make interesting conversation? One person's interesting was another person's cringe-worthy, after all.
She suddenly realized that several seconds had passed. He had said nothing else, waiting no doubt for her response. She had lost herself in her internal monologue. She had also lost herself in his eyes.
"You're right," she said at last, with an acknowledging shrug and an apologetic smile. "I wore what I wore on purpose, including these shoes. I wanted you to look at me from head to toe.
He shrugged and smiled, too, saying, So, let's see what happens when you're barefoot.
She sighed, thinking that maybe this whole thing was just a joke. If so, should she just oblige him and go along with it? Maybe she'd get a foot rub out of it. At the very least, even if it wasn't a joke, she could show him how preposterous the theory was. And then--if getting a massage wasn't in the cards--she could put her shoes back on and end this very stupid scenario.
Having made her decision, she nodded her agreement. Then she lifted up her legs one at a time to undo the straps of her sandals.
It wasn't until the second shoe dropped onto the floor and both her feet were bare that she remembered he had challenged her to prove the theory, not disprove it like he had originally said.
That realization soured both her mood and her opinion of him. What was he playing at? Had she totally misjudged him on their first date? Was he actually a creep? She had a bad feeling about how the rest of the evening might go. And she wasn't willing to chance it. No, it was time to call it quits. She reached down and grabbed her shoes. She was going to put them back on, and then she was going home.
"Well, then, let's get to it," he said, ignoring or not noticing her change in attitude. "Now that you're barefoot, I bet you're very willing to do what I say. Not only willing to, but desiring to. Aren't you?"
He gazed at her expectantly. She stared back at him in disbelief.
"Are you really stupid enough to think that the state of my feet has anything to do with my willpower and desires?" she said.
Except that, no, she didn't say it, despite intending to. She also stayed seated and dropped her shoes, remaining barefoot.
Something in his gaze kept her from saying and doing what she meant to. She couldn't tell what it was, but some perplexing quality there served to dissipate her anger. It had nothing to do with his ridiculous claim of bare feet diminishing female mental acuity. No, of course it didn't. But then, what was it about his compelling eyes that softened her edges and kept her from telling him off?
"Uh, sorry, but I'm not really feeling the urge to say, 'Yes, Master, I obey," she finally managed to get out, albeit with much less forcefulness than she hoped for.
"You're not?"
"No."
"Are you sure? You're barefoot now, and I'm positive that you're more suggestible and submissive than you were before. I think maybe you're too wound up to realize it. Why don't you relax? Sit back. Put your feet up."
Despite herself, Cara let her shoulders sag. Then she sat back against the cushions and put her feet up.
"That's better, isn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, surprising herself with the answer.
"Now, what about that urge you mentioned? You do have it after all, don't you?"
"What? No."
"Be honest. You do have it. You want to say those words. Go ahead. Say them."
She shook her head. She tried to get riled up again. She wanted to unrelax, to feel uncasual and uncomfortable. But she couldn't. Nor could she tear her eyes away from his.
"Yes, Master, I obey," she said finally.
"Very good. Say it again. And feel good about saying it."
"Yes, Master, I obey," she said, this time without hesitation and with a warm, pleasant feeling spreading throughout her body.
"You don't understand what's happening, do you?" he asked sympathetically.
"No."
"Well, as you're quickly finding out, you are very suggestible and submissive now. Being barefoot doesn't cause it to happen, but it does amplify the effect. I'm not sure why I affect women that way, but I do. It's a gift I have, and one that I'm not inclined to question. I'll admit that the whole scientific journal article was a poor contrivance. And certainly not my best line. But, it got you out of your shoes, which as I said heightens your susceptibility to my power. So again, I won't question it. You're not going to question it, either, or feel uncomfortable, or worry about anything. You're just going to do what I tell you and feel happy doing it. Right?"
"Yes," she said through a contented grin.
"Wonderful! The thing is, though, my ability only affects you while you're here with me. Once you put your shoes on and head out the front door, which you'll eventually do, you'll return to how you were before. That doesn't work for me. I want our dynamic to continue. I want you to stay suggestible and submissive to me in that relaxed, casual, and comfortable way that you are now. And you want that, too. Don't you?"
"Yes, I want that, too."
"So, how do we make that happen?" he asked, while raising his eyebrows to say, I know exactly how to make it happen, but I want to hear what you think.
She thought for a moment.
"Brainwashing," she said plainly, as if it were the most normal solution to the most mundane problem in the world. "You could brainwash me into being this way all the time."
"How?"
She briefly paused again to think.
"Hypnosis. You could hypnotize me and give me post-hypnotic suggestions. You would probably want to make me forget about them, and about everything that's happened, so that when I'm away from you, I won't try to break free of your control."
"What an excellent idea. Have you ever been hypnotized before?"
"No."
"Well, I'm sure you'll enjoy it. You won't resist, of course. You couldn't even if you wanted to. Not that you want to."
"Yes, I'm sure I'll enjoy it. I won't resist. I couldn't, and I don't want to."
"We should take precautions, though, just in case. Any thoughts on what precautions we should take?"
"You should restrain me," she said after another moment of thought, "so I can't get away."
"I couldn't agree more. Come with me."
He got up and walked out of the room. She followed him to a den off the main foyer. The small room contained only one piece of furniture: a techno-industrial-styled chaise armchair. Attached to the back of the chair was an object that most closely resembled a salon hair dryer, though its unusual shape and visible circuitry were unlike those of any beauty parlor device.
"Inventing things is another gift I have," he said, indicating the chair. "Sit. Get comfortable."
She sat, placing her arms on the armrests and stretching out her legs over the chaise. When she was settled, he took out his phone and opened an app on it.
"Restrain," he said to the app.
With a whoosh and a click, bands emerged from the chair and snapped into place around her forearms, stomach, and calves.
"Try to get free," he said to her.
"I don't want to get free."
"I know you don't. But try anyway. Try hard."
She did as instructed. The bands held her firmly in place, allowing her to do little more than squirm, shake her hands, and harmlessly kick with her feet.
"I can't get free," she said.
"Excellent," he said to her, and then to the app: "Start wash."
The non-hair dryer lowered over her head. For a brief instant, nothing happened. Then, a dazzling pattern of lights erupted inside it, in time with reverberating buzzes and hums. The program was designed to overwhelm a subject's senses, overcome her will, and then induce her into an extremely deep hypnotic trance.
Cara gasped at the onslaught of sensory stimuli. She trembled. She clenched and unclenched her fists. She scrunched and splayed her toes. Her will was already forfeit, so much of the machine's work was already done for it. In almost no time at all, it hypnotized her and began conditioning her into a state of permanent suggestibility and submissiveness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was their third date. They again chilled at his place. As always, Cara killed it with her outfit. The only difference this time was that she hadn't put much effort into her shoes. Why would she when they came off immediately inside the front door?
In the living room after dinner, they sat as they had before--she on the sofa, he in the chair catty-corner to it. Her perfectly pedicured feet were bare and on full display. She couldn't believe that she had no problem being barefoot at another person's house. But she chalked it up to how relaxed, casual, and comfortable she felt in his presence.
Out of the blue, she chuckled as she remembered a tidbit she wanted to tell him.
"I read something crazy once," she said. "That a woman is more suggestible and submissive when she's barefoot. I know that's a ludicrous statement to make about women in general. But, you know, it might actually be the case with me."
She raised her eyebrows, saying nonverbally, I'm teasing, of course, but not entirely.
"Really?" he said. "So, with you being barefoot right now, does that mean that you'll do anything I say? And let me do anything I want to you?"
He raised his eyebrows, as well, saying, I'm not teasing at all.
"You know, I think it does," she said, swinging her legs over so that her feet rested in his lap.
He took hold of one ankle and voraciously tickled her bare sole. She squealed and squirmed but didn't pull away. Submission dictated that she endure the exquisite torture. And so she did, happily.
"This is just the prelude," he said. "What I have in mind would require you to be exceptionally suggestible and wholly submissive."
"I think you'll find that I meet those standards. But you could always restrain me, just in case I offered any resistance. Not that I would. Not one bit. And to truly bend me to your will, you could hypnotize me. Make me serve and obey you. Not that you'd need hypnosis for that. But you could do it anyway, just to be completely certain of my compliance."
"Excellent ideas."
"I'm glad you think so."
She reached into her purse, which was beside her on the sofa. She pulled out three items and handed them to him. Taking the items from her, he nodded and smiled.
Two of the items were coils of silk cord, while the third was a silver pocket watch on a chain. With the first cord, he delicately but firmly bound her ankles. Then, he beckoned her to lean forward, and he did the same to her wrists with the second cord.
"Try to get free," he said.
"I don't want to get free."
"I know you don't. But try anyway. Try hard."
She did as instructed. The cord held, and she remained tied up.
"You're helpless now," he said.
"Oh, yes, absolutely helpless."
He held up the pocket watch and began swinging it slowly and methodically back and forth. She gazed at it with wide-eyed excitement.
"Soon, you'll be under my control."
"Completely under your control."
"You're feeling sleepy."
"I'm feeling sleepy."
"So sleepy."
"So...sleepy."
"You can't stay awake. You're falling asleep."
"Can't stay awake...falling...asleep."
Her head lulled, and her eyes fluttered closed.
"You are now hypnotized."
"...Hypnotized..."
"You must do whatever I say."
"...Do...whatever...you say..."
He smiled at the power he had over her. In reality, it was no more now with her hypnotized than it had been before. But she didn't know that. She didn't remember being brainwashed on their previous date. She simply knew about some silly article she thought she'd read. The correlation it presented of a barefoot woman being more suggestible and submissive appealed to her for some reason. It was all an enjoyable and arousing game that, thankfully, her boyfriend would happily play with her.
But for him, the time for games was over. He untied her and had her sit back against the cushions, while leaving her feet in his lap.
"When I snap my fingers, you're going to pleasure yourself," he said. "You may undress as much or as little as you want in order to do this. While you're doing it, you will also do the same to me with your feet."
"Yes, Master, I obey."
And so she did, happily.
When she awoke later--nearly naked, basking in the afterglow of climax, her feet still grasping him, but with no memory of anything after seeing the swinging watch--she only had one thought:
She loved how relaxed, casual, and comfortable she could be with him.