tentivYour curiosity gets the better of you. Without a sound, you open the mahogany door and peek inside Madame Helena's special room. You expected to see some form of coercion, a chair with restraints or a screen pulsing neurolinguistic programming. How else could she turn so many struggling victims into compliant servants?
But what you see looks like a normal, albeit opulent, bedroom. The girl you brought to Helena, a sheep with cream-colored wool, is kneeling nude on the bed, her body swaying with soft undulations that remind you of underwater flora. Her arms rise above her head, listlessly reaching towards the ceiling, black hooves limp at the wrists. Those eyes, so rebellious not an hour ago, now rest half-lidded and glassy, unseeing, a sure sign that no thought remained behind them. A pink blush on her cheeks belies the heat growing within her. The girl seems suspended, floating in her own pinpoint-sized world.
Madame Helena stands in front of the sheep, silent, deeply focused on her subject as a sculptor on her marble. The only sign of her esoteric craft was her hands. Her left hand, held aloft, positioned four inches above the girl's head, graceful fingers outstretched, palm down. Her right hand, hovering near the girl's lower back, as if to catch her if she fell over. It isn't clear to you if the girl is following the hands, or the hands the girl. They both sway in unison. You try to puzzle out the pattern. Perhaps it is a sort of slow dance, a negotiation that spirals down into surrender.
Helena turns her head and fixes you with her golden eyes. Instead of anger at your spying, a gentle smile crinkles the corner of those eyes and the lioness says softly, "Five minutes more, please. I almost have her."
BoyBrave
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