Mantra 2
—How often do you masturbate?—Tom asked during the session, while Melisa twisted her fingers in her lap.
—What...?—she stammered, as if she hadn’t heard him properly, just like the other times he had asked her the same question.
Tom watched her for a moment and said nothing. He let the silence press in on her, let the question keep echoing in her head.
—Melisa, we’ve worked hard to get here. You’ve been brave... but if you keep hiding things from me, how are we supposed to move forward? We agreed there wouldn’t be secrets between us. Between friends. If you don’t trust me, there’s no point in you coming anymore—he added, the threat out in the open.
Melisa’s breathing began to quicken. Her eyes darted around the room without focusing on anything; she was cornered, and she knew it, even in trance.
—No, I want to... I need to—she pleaded, like a child defending her favorite toy.
—It doesn’t seem like it. You’re wasting Tom’s time.
Referring to himself in the third person always disarmed her; her unconscious mind struggled to keep up.
Melisa pressed her knees together, trying to make herself smaller.
—I think it might be best to suspend your sessions—Tom said flatly, shifting as if he were about to stand.
—No!—she cried, her voice breaking. I... I’ll cooperate. I’ll tell you everything.
Tom studied her in silence for a moment before repeating, almost in a whisper, like it was a secret shared between the two of them:
—How often do you masturbate?
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her chest rose and fell quickly. By the time she finally spoke, tears were already running down her cheeks.
—I... I never... masturbate—she confessed, as if itting to a crime.
Tom wasn’t surprised. Still, after everything he’d done to drag her to this point, he’d hoped to hear something... dirtier.
The young cashier barely looked up, but when he did, his eyes fixed on one spot: her. Just for a second. But it felt endless.
—Th-that’ll be ten dollars...
Melisa felt sweat pooling under her arms. The fabric clung to her skin. Behind the cashier, another guy muttered something; both of them laughed under their breath.
Then they laughed louder.
She knew.
They were looking at her.
Pointing at her.
They knew.
—Keep the change—she said too loudly, hurrying out as fast as she could.
The cold air hit her face the moment she stepped outside, but it didn’t erase the feeling that her steps were being watched, measured, judged. Inside her head, one sentence looped over and over: They all know.
—Melisa, when you’re awake and you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see?
—An idiot... a horrible mother—she answered in that slow, hazy, slightly childish voice that always came with trance.
—Since when have you thought that?—Tom asked.
—Mmmm... since... I’m not sure... since always. Yes. Since always.
Tom knew the human mind craved internal coherence. But he also knew that sometimes experience and memory got in the way of that coherence, and the mind rewrote things to make them fit. It wasn’t uncommon for women who had been sexually abused to build a narrative where, somehow, they were responsible for what happened-where they believed they had provoked or invited their own suffering. The same thing happened with people who went through tragedy: they convinced themselves their lives had been cursed from the start.
Melisa firmly believed she was stupid. And her mind, searching for logic, had decided she had always been stupid. And therefore, always bad.
—And do you think being stupid justifies letting him die?
—No, no, no, no—she sobbed.
—Be quiet—he ordered. Focus. So is it fair to say you deserve punishment?
—Punishment?—she repeated, trying to reason through it. Yes. I deserve to be punished.
—What do you think would be the most appropriate punishment?
—To die. I should die—she said without hesitation.
—No—he replied, leaning close enough that his lips nearly brushed her ear. Dying would be too easy. And you don’t deserve easy, do you?
She hesitated, then slowly nodded.
—Say it.
—I don’t deserve an easy way out.
—Repeat it every time you think that stupidity.
—I don’t deserve an easy way out—she kept whispering.
Tom hoped that would be enough to steer her away from truly self-destructive thoughts. He didn’t want anything irreversible to happen to her. In fact, he planned for the two of them to live many, many years together. Happily.
—Since you’re too stupid to choose an appropriate punishment, I’ll choose it for you—Tom said. He had planned this from the beginning.
—Too stupid...—she echoed automatically. She was used to the word.
—You have huge tits—Tom said suddenly, cutting through her thoughts the way he often did. She had to internalize it.
—I have huge tits—she repeated, still crying from the earlier exchange.
Tom had been waiting for that session all day. He’d done nothing but check the time on his phone.
When Melisa arrived, she was soaked in sweat, exhausted, wearing a loose workout set. Nothing tight. Nothing that should, in theory, turn anyone on... but sweat had a way of clinging, outlining curves, letting imagination do the rest.
—Are we going to address the elephant in the room?—he asked with a soft laugh, trying to sound casual.
—Well... I’ve noticed I’ve gained a few pounds—she itted shyly.
—That’s crazy. You’re perfect—he said without missing a beat.
She looked down, brushing a damp strand of hair off her forehead. Her cheeks, already flushed from the heat, matched her hair and made her look lit from within.
—You’re the only one who thinks that—she said with a nervous laugh.
—If that’s true, then I’m the last sane man in the world—he replied, holding her gaze until she finally looked away.
—Why the hell are you dressed like that, idiot?—he asked once she was deep in trance.
—I worked out—she answered flatly, her eyes glassy.
—Why?
—Because I need to atone for my sins. And the right way is to punish my body without damaging it. So I can keep suffering every day.
Tom had spent days figuring out how to frame that punishment. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. She absorbed it without resistance.
—Whose idea was it?
—Mine. It was mine. I deserve it.
That had been his biggest triumph: making her exercise and convincing her it had been her idea. He had taken care not to alter her figure too much. The workouts he imposed were intense: an hour and a half of steady jogging, another hour and a half of glute work and physically demanding positions. Nothing that would truly harm her. Just enough to exhaust her.
He still had plans to make it more effective.
The air was sharp at four-thirty in the morning. Her legs were trembling before she even started.
The first mile was almost manageable. Her legs responded well. What bothered her most was her chest: the sports bra she’d bought turned out to be the wrong size. Too tight. The fabric compressed her tits with constant pressure, forcing them to stay almost motionless while the rest of her body jolted with every stride.
Tits.
The word surfaced in her mind naturally. Clean. She didn’t feel ashamed thinking it. What else was she supposed to call them? They weren’t breasts. That word belonged to mothers. And she wasn’t one anymore.
So they were that.
Tits.
Huge tits.
By the second mile, her chest was burning. Her thighs tightened with every step. Sweat ran down her back, pooled beneath her tits, slid along her stomach. Cold and heat fought across her skin.
By the third mile, she started crying.
She didn’t know if it was from the effort or from the image that kept replaying: the locked car, the heat, the crying.
She couldn’t stop.
If she stopped, she would think.
And if she thought, she would die.
And she didn’t deserve an easy way out.
—How would you feel about increasing our sessions?—Tom asked a few days later.
Melisa’s heart skipped.
—Yes... yes, I’d like that...
She leaned forward, almost eager. Dried sweat still marked her neck. Her hands were cold, but her skin felt hot.
—I could open a daily slot... for special cases. For special people.
She looked up at him, moved.
—I don’t want to be a burden...
—You’re not—he said, holding her gaze. I like being with you.
The sentence sounded almost innocent.
But Melisa felt something else underneath it. Something that wasn’t innocent at all.
“Why do you dress like shit?” Tom said in the middle of the session. Melisa was crying, recounting a new version of her son’s death.
It had been a couple of weeks since she had started her exercise regimen. She arrived at therapy every day exhausted, drenched in sweat and unable to resist most of the mantras.
“Because I’m shit,” she was about to repeat it, but Tom interrupted her.
“I don’t understand what that has to do with your clothes.”
As soon as he managed to implant the idea of exercise, he had fantasized about Melisa at least starting to wear sportswear: tight leggings, a sports bra... but no. She kept covering herself with large, loose garments, thick fabrics that completely hid her body.
Melisa blinked, confused. The logical connection he had implanted in her—I’m despicable, therefore I must hide—was now being questioned by her own programmer.
“If you really believe you deserve to be judged,” he continued, leaning slightly forward, “then hiding is an act of cowardice. It’s like... a criminal hiding from the police. Isn’t it?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but only an empty sound came out. Her programming clashed with itself. On one side, the order of self-punishment; on the other, the new premise: punishment had to be visible.
“The truly repentant,” Tom whispered, moving a little closer, barely invading her personal space, “owns their shame. They don’t hide behind fabric.”
She broke down crying again. It was frequent. And, in a way, a calculated side effect of his strategy: destroy her self-esteem first, then rebuild it to his measure.
“Everyone has the right to know you’re shit.”
Melisa swallowed. Her eyes were red, her voice trembling, but even so she repeated:
“Everyone has the right to know I’m shit.”
She arrived drenched in sweat, exhausted, with huge dark circles from constant lack of sleep. In other words, the same as always—with one major difference: this time she was wearing tight clothes. Black leggings that showed how well-defined her ass was. On her chest, a sports bra.
It wasn’t a sexy garment. It had no aesthetic intention. It was functional. But the tight fabric revealed the real volume of her breasts. They were larger than Tom had imagined. You could tell they were heavy.
Her skin glistened, and her body trembled from the effort.
Tom merely observed her with apparent indifference, though his eyes couldn’t stop taking her in: the hunched posture, the shoulders pushed forward, the way she crossed her arms over her chest in an instinctive attempt to hide.
She avoided looking at him.
A minute later, still breathing hard, she was already in trance.
“How did exercise go today?”
“Bad... a lot of men approached me...”
“You don’t like men?”
“Yes... no... they know it was my fault... they come to laugh at me.”
“And what about Tom? He’s a man.”
“I like him a lot. He’s an excellent person. Only sometimes I think...” She stopped abruptly.
“Sometimes you think what, Melisa?”
“Sometimes I think he looks at... my chest. No, I don’t think so.”
She hadn’t completely managed to hide her interest.
“Does that bother you?” he asked, a faint tension in his voice.
“No, it doesn’t bother me, but... I don’t understand why he would. I’m disgusting.”
“It’s that you have huge tits,” he said without the slightest shame. “Don’t you agree?”
She hesitated for barely a second.
“Yes, but...”
“Say it. Say you have huge tits.”
“I have huge tits.”
“Your tits are your best attribute.”
“My tits are my best attribute.”
It didn’t take him long to find her. As expected, she was hiding in a corner of the park where almost no one could see her. She was soaked, truly soaked; she had probably been exercising for hours. The dark fabric of her leggings clung to her skin. She looked exhausted but didn’t stop for a second.
As he walked toward her, he noticed how she tensed, preparing to leave. She was ready to run until she recognized him and froze. For a moment she seemed about to run toward him, but she restrained herself; instead, she walked quickly, trying to maintain some composure.
“Tom, what a surprise. What are you doing here?” she said with slightly exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Seeing how much effort you’ve put into exercise motivated me to come. And I thought I could greet a good friend.”
“Oh, you exaggerate... silly flatterer,” she replied, trying to hide the blush rising to her cheeks.
“Seriously, you look incredible. I don’t know if it bothers you to hear it, but you’ve been very beautiful since university.”
“You’re so sweet... but you don’t need to lie,” she blushed even more, lowering her gaze.
“And tell me, do you have much left to finish?” he asked as if he didn’t know.
“Yes... a few minutes,” she answered shyly.
“Do you mind if I wait? I could take you to breakfast.”
“It would be a pleasure,” she replied immediately. Her eyes lit up before she could hide it.
The next half hour she devoted to a sequence of poses: downward dog, bridge, cat-cow... movements that involved opening her legs or arching her back. Each transition tightened her muscles, clearly outlining the result of the regimen he himself had implanted in her mind. After that she added several glute exercises, slow and controlled repetitions, as if she needed to punish herself a little more.
In her head, the narrative remained active: she was doing it to exhibit herself as the horrible woman she was. After all, people had the right to know how disgusting she considered herself.
They had breakfast at a pleasant place, not as luxurious as those she had been used to in her best years, but with a discreet charm. Or perhaps the charm simply came from Tom being by her side.
She tried not to smile too much so as not to make him uncomfortable, but she forgot that resolution often. They ordered what he suggested. Tom, like a proper gentleman, paid the entire bill. Then he drove her in his car so they could go to the office together.
“Do you like being with Tom?” he asked, already knowing the answer. They had rehearsed it many times in the mantras; hundreds, if not thousands.
“I love being with Tom. I feel so safe with him,” she replied without hesitation.
“Why do you think you feel so good by his side?” he insisted.
“Because he’s a gentleman, because he’s... kind and handsome.”
Another of his great victories. No one—at least no one with two functioning eyes—would say Tom was handsome. And yet Melisa saw him that way. The power of suggestion was stronger than any mirror.
“Do you love him?” he asked for the first time, though he could already anticipate the answer.
She lowered her head, nervous. She looked like a little girl about to confess a misdeed. Her shoulders shrank slightly and she began to laugh nervously.
“I... I shouldn’t...” she murmured.
“I didn’t ask what you should,” he interrupted. “I asked what you feel.”
Melisa pressed her lips together but finally let them part.
“Yes...” she whispered.
“I didn’t hear you.”
She swallowed. Her fingers intertwined tightly on her lap.
“Yes, I love him.”
“Why do you love him?”
She hesitated. That part hadn’t been fully rehearsed.
“Because... he’s the only one who doesn’t judge me,” she replied, eyes wet. “Because he’s the only one who doesn’t hate me.”
There it was. It wasn’t love. It was dependency. Something stronger than any love.
Tom tilted his head slightly.
“Then say it properly.”
She looked at him, confused.
“You don’t love him because he’s kind,” he continued in a low voice. “You love him because you need him.”
The word hung in the air.
Need.
“I need him...” she repeated.
“Again.”
“I need him.”
When she woke up her heart was racing, her eyes red, her head throbbing with a pain that had become familiar.
For a few seconds she didn’t know where she was.
Then she saw him.
Tom, in front of her, watching her with that serene expression, and everything made sense again. Her pulse was still fast, her throat still burning, but if he was there, then everything was fine.
She straightened up, lifting her chest, showing her best attributes and trying to hide the discomfort in her body. She smiled at him—not flirtatiously. She no longer knew how.
“Would you like to meet again tomorrow for breakfast?”
Melisa fell silent for a moment and then replied in a somber voice:
“Tom, I’d love to, but I don’t want you to feel obligated...”
“I don’t know what you mean... I love seeing you.”
Melisa’s eyes filled with tears, though for the first time in years they were tears of happiness.
“But... if it makes you uncomfortable, I can understand.”
“No!” Melisa shouted, blushing when she realized what she had done. “I’d like that, please. I n-need it.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then.”