Given Names
Chapter 3
Owen’s cock was still hard and slick from the cock warmer’s pussy. The woman on the bed hadn’t moved an inch, legs still spread wide, smile still fixed, pussy lips parted and glistening with his pre-cum and her own wetness. Every instinct screamed at him to climb back on, plunge in again, bury himself to the hilt in that warm, tight heat and just… forget for a minute. His hips twitched forward once, involuntarily.
He stopped himself with great difficulty.
Paige.
He was here for Paige. Not for some random cunt that had been turned into furniture. The guilt burned hotter than the arousal for him.
He turned away from the bed, eyes scanning the room for anything to break the spell. The bathroom door was half-open, light already on inside. Perfect. Cold water. Clarity. He hurried across the carpet and pushed the door wider.
The bathroom was small but spotless: white marble counter, large mirror over the sink, shower stall with glass walls. No windows. He stepped to the sink quickly, twisted the cold tap full blast, cupped his hands under the stream and splashed his face with water. The shock of it hit like a slap, icy and grounding. Water dripped down his chin, onto his chest through his open shirt. He did it again, then again, breathing through his nose.
Better. Not fixed, but better.
He closed his eyes and reached blindly to the side for a towel, fingers brushing against soft, warm skin instead. Flesh. Full, rounded breasts.
His eyes snapped open.
He spun around.
Standing right next to him was a Middle Eastern woman. Mid-twenties, maybe. Incredibly fit body, toned arms, flat stomach with the faint lines of abs, narrow waist flaring to strong hips and long legs. Beautiful exotic face: high cheekbones, full lips, dark almond eyes framed by thick lashes. Olive skin glowing under the bathroom lights. Hair completely hidden under a large white towel wrapped around her head like a hijab, the long end draped down the front of her body, covering her from collarbone to mid-thigh but leaving everything else exposed.
She was naked except for that towel.
Owen stared. He’d always had a thing for Middle Eastern women, the way they carried themselves covered up, mysterious, elegant, the rare glimpses of beauty under hijabs or abayas making his pulse kick. But this was the opposite. Everything on display: firm tits with dark nipples, shaved pussy, the curve of her ass visible when she shifted slightly.
He knew what she was supposed to be.
A towel.
She stood there, serene smile in place, eyes glassy and unfocused, waiting.
Owen reached out slowly, fingers closing on the draped end of the towel. He pulled it towards him and brought it to his face. Dried the water off his cheeks, his forehead, his neck. The fabric smelled faintly of clean laundry.
He looked up. Her expression hadn’t changed. Still smiling, still vacant.
An idea hit him.
This was the first time he’d been truly alone with one of them. No maid watching, no statues shifting in the next room, no risk of someone walking in like with the cock warmer. The door was closed. The house sounds were distant.
The words. The tape. What was the trigger? Whatever Garrett had written stuck them in their roles. What if he wiped it off? What if he erased the label? Would it break the hold? Bring her back? Even a little?
He had to try.
He turned her gently by the shoulders, trying not to let his gaze linger on the way her tits bounced slightly, or the smooth plane of her stomach, or the faint scent of her skin. He scanned her body carefully: back, sides, ass cheeks, thighs, calves. Nothing. No marker lines, no tape, no handwriting. Her skin was flawless, unmarked.
He turned her again, facing him now. Looked over her shoulders, under her arms, across her tits, still nothing.
Only one place left.
Under the towel.
The hijab-style wrap was thick, folded neatly. He hesitated, fingers hovering at the edge near her forehead. His heart pounded loud in his ears.
If the words were there, if the tape was hidden under the fabric, this could be it. A way to test. A way to prove he could undo this nightmare.
Owen reached up slowly, fingers brushing the folded edge of the towel wrapped around her head. He lifted it away, careful not to pull too hard, letting the white fabric slide free.
What he saw surprised him.
Her head was completely shaved. Smooth, bare scalp gleaming under the bathroom lights, no stubble, no hint of regrowth. Just pale skin where thick dark hair should have been.
Owen’s stomach twisted. He’d looked into it once, years ago, curious about the women he found so captivating. Hijabs, he’d read, were about modesty, about keeping hair private, reserved for husbands or family, hidden from other men. A choice, a protection, a quiet boundary. This woman, whatever her name used to be, had that boundary stripped away completely. Shaved bald, exposed, turned into a joke. Whoever Garrett was, he wasn’t just controlling them. He was humiliating them on every level.
Owen spotted the words right away. Thick black marker across the center of her bald head: TOWEL STAND #6.
He got it. The towel wasn’t decoration. It was part of her purpose.
He turned back to the sink, twisted the tap again, soaked the towel under cold water until it dripped. Then he stepped close, cupped the back of her head gently with one hand to steady her and started rubbing.
The marker smudged immediately, black streaks spreading across her scalp like wet ink. He worked in circles, pressing harder, water running down her temples, dripping onto her bare shoulders and tits. The letters blurred, faded, became illegible smears. He kept going until nothing readable remained, just faint gray residue that might wash off with soap, but for now, gone.
He dropped the towel into the sink and stepped back half a step. Looked straight into her eyes.
Hope flickered in his chest, sharp, desperate. Come on. Wake up. Blink. Frown. Scream. Anything.
Nothing.
Her smile stayed exactly the same, soft, serene, unchanging. Dark eyes still glassy, still fixed on some middle distance. No flicker of confusion, no widening in terror, no tightening of anger. Just the same vacant peace.
Owen’s jaw clenched. Anger surged up hot and sudden. He took the soaked towel from the sink and threw it down hard, it slapped against the tile floor with a wet smack. He stepped away from her, back hitting the counter.
She moved.
For a split second his heart jumped, maybe it worked, maybe the words were the anchor, maybe—
But she only bent at the waist, slow and graceful, tits swaying forward. She picked up the dripping towel from the floor, straightened, and began wrapping it around her head again. Precise folds, the long end draped down the front just like before. When she finished, she stood exactly where she had been, naked except for the hijab-towel, serene smile back in place, waiting.
Owen exhaled hard through his nose. A long, defeated sound.
She hadn’t woken up. She’d just reset to her role. The tape might have been the trigger, but once it was there, the programming stuck deeper. Erasing the words didn’t break anything.
There was less hope now. A lot less.
But he wasn’t leaving Paige here. Even if she never knew what was happening, even if she stayed smiling and vacant forever, he wasn’t walking away. He’d drag her out, tape or no tape. Find a doctor, a hypnotist, someone who could undo this shit. Anything.
He turned away from the towel stand, walked back into the bedroom. The cock warmer was still on the bed the same way he had left her, unchanged. His cock had softened some, but the sight still stirred a faint, guilty twitch.
He ignored it. Bent down, grabbed his boxers and jeans from the floor, pulled them up fast. Buckled the belt with shaking fingers. The shirt was still half-open, but he didn’t bother fixing it.
He crossed to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and listened.
Hallway sounds, distant footsteps, a soft clink of dishes, low voices somewhere far off. No one seemed to be close.
He opened the door just enough to peek out. Empty corridor. Maid #13 or any of the others nowhere in sight.
He stepped out, pulled the door shut behind him quietly with a soft latch.
In the halls again, heart hammering, he started walking.
Deeper into the house.
He had to find Paige.
Before Garrett came back.
Owen moved quickly down the hallway, bare feet silent on the marble. He found a wide staircase at the end, curved, grand, with a wrought-iron railing that looked like it belonged in a museum. He took the steps two at a time, heart slamming against his ribs. The house felt eerily silent up here. No footsteps, no low voices, no clinks of dishes or soft moans drifting from rooms. All the activity, the statues, the cleaners, the dispensers, the human furniture, seemed confined to the ground floor. Upstairs was quiet. Too quiet.
He crept along the upper corridor, ing closed doors with small brass plaques: GUEST SUITE 1, GUEST SUITE 2, LIBRARY, GYM. None of them felt right. He kept going, turning corners, checking every label until he reached the end of the main hall.
Double doors. Tall, dark wood, carved with subtle patterns stood in front of him. Above them, a small gold plaque screwed into the frame: MASTER’S BEDROOM.
Owen’s pulse jumped. This was it. Garrett’s space. If Paige was anywhere, it would be here. He hoped.
He pressed his ear to the door first. Nothing. No voices, no movement. He turned the knob slowly, unlocked and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
The room was massive. A King sized bed with black silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy curtains, a sitting area with leather chairs and a low table. Dim light from wall sconces. Smell of expensive cologne and sex hanging in the air.
His eyes went straight to the side table near the bed.
A woman squatted there, naked, thighs spread wide, balanced on the balls of her feet like she’d been posed that way for hours. Early forties maybe. Dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, face calm and vacant, serene smile fixed in place. Bills stuffed into her mouth, crisp hundreds protruding between her lips like a gag. More stacks pushed into her pussy, fanning out slightly, the edges visible against her shaved lips. A few loose twenties tucked under her arms, held in place by the way her elbows pressed in.
On the back of her right hand, in bold black marker it said: WALLET.
Owen froze. This was her. The woman Garrett had been with yesterday, the one he’d called “just my wallet” while groping her tits right in front of Paige. The same woman Paige had tried to ask for help before the tape hit her forehead.
She didn’t react to him at all. Didn’t blink, didn’t shift her squat, didn’t make a sound around the money in her mouth. Yesterday she’d been walking around downtown, carrying bags in public like it was nothing. Today she was an object. A literal wallet. Clearly Garrett could change their roles on a whim somehow. He had to figure out how.
Owen tore his eyes away. The bedroom looked empty otherwise, no other women, no signs of struggle. Just quiet luxury.
Then he heard it.
Water running. A steady hiss from behind the half-open door to the master bathroom.
He moved fast, crossed the room in three strides, pushed the door wide.
There she was.
Paige.
The love of his life.
Sitting on the tiled floor under the rain showerhead, knees drawn up loosely, arms limp at her sides. Water pounded down on her nonstop, the spray hitting her shoulders, running in rivulets over her breasts, down her stomach, pooling around her ass before draining away. Her fiery red hair hung in wet, tangled clumps, plastered to her face and neck. No attempt to shield herself. No flinch. Just that same serene, distant smile.
Garrett had been rough. Bruises bloomed across her tits, dark purple fingerprints around the nipples, a handprint on the underside of one breast. More on her face: red marks on her left cheek like open-palmed slaps, a faint swelling under her right eye, a split at the corner of her lip that had stopped bleeding but still looked raw. Her pale freckled skin made the damage stand out worse.
On her left cheek, in thick black marker: MASTER’S PERSONAL STRESS RELIEVER.
Owen’s vision blurred. Tears burned hot and sudden. He choked on a sob, stepped forward, reached up and twisted the shower knob off. The water cut to a drip.
He dropped to his knees beside her, scooped her up, wet skin sliding against his shirt, hair dripping onto his arms. She was limp, pliant, no resistance. He carried her out of the bathroom, water trailing behind them, and laid her gently on the black silk sheets of the master bed.
She settled there, legs slightly parted, arms falling to her sides, smile unchanged. Water still beaded on her skin, pooling in the hollows of her collarbone, trickling down between her bruised breasts.
Owen knelt beside her, thumb brushing the marker on her cheek. “Paige,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Baby, it’s me. Owen.”
No response.
He grabbed the edge of the sheets and rubbed at the words. Hard. The marker smeared fast, black streaks spreading across her cheek like tears. He kept going, wiping, scrubbing, until the letters were gone, nothing left but faint residue and reddened skin from the pressure.
He leaned close, cupped her face with both hands and searched her eyes. “Paige. Come on. Look at me. Please.”
Her green eyes stayed glassy, unfocused. That soft, empty smile never wavered.
Nothing.
Owen’s shoulders dropped. He pressed his forehead to hers, wet hair sticking to his skin, tears mixing with the water still dripping from her. “I’m getting you out,” he said quietly. “I don’t care. I’m not leaving you here.”
He straightened and wiped his face roughly with his sleeve.
Garrett could come back any minute.
The thought had barely finished crossing Owen’s mind when the doorbell rang downstairs, sharp, insistent chimes echoing through the quiet upper floor. The front door bell. Someone at the door? Shit! Garrett had to be back.
Owen’s head snapped toward the sound. No time. No time to grab clothes for Paige, no time to find a phone, no time to think of a smart escape. Just seconds.
He spun in place, eyes darting around the master bedroom. Wallet woman still squatting on the side table, money protruding from her mouth and pussy. The bed with Paige limp and wet on the black sheets, bruises darkening on her skin. The open bathroom door. The dresser. Then his gaze landed on the desk in the corner, sleek glass surface, a large monitor glowing with an open window.
Next to the keyboard: a roll of clear tape. A black marker lying beside it like it had been set down mid-use.
Owen stepped closer, heart in his throat. The screen showed a product guide, clean white background, black text, professional layout like an online manual.
Mr. Jester’s Identity Realigning Tape™
Reprogram. Redefine. Reassign.
Instructions for use:
- Tear off a piece of our proprietary tape.
- Using the included black marker, write the desired identity/role/behavior you wish the subject to adopt. Be specific, vague commands may yield unpredictable results.
- Apply the tape directly to exposed skin (forehead recommended for fastest uptake).
- Once is made, the subject will immediately assume the new identity. WARNING: No memory of prior self shall be preserved unless specified in the written label.
- Tape may be removed after initial application, the ink bonds permanently to the skin beneath, allowing for clean removal and future reprogramming.
Note: Effects are permanent until erased and overwritten. Do not use it on famous subjects without proper authorization. Mr. Jester’s Products LLC is not liable for…
Owen’s breath caught. All the pieces slammed together. This was it. The tape. The roll Garrett carried. The way he’d slapped it on Paige’s forehead in the street, the way her eyes had gone blank in half a second. This was the cause of everything he’d seen, this cheap-looking clear tape and whatever sick chemistry was in the ink. Write it, stick it, done. And once stuck, the words seeped through to the skin. That’s why Paige had no visible tape on her forehead now, Garrett had peeled it off after the change took hold, leaving only the marker residue he could wipe away later if he wanted to swap her role again.
He heard hurried footsteps coming from down below now, coming up the stairs fast. Multiple sets. Boots pounding on the stairs.
No time.
Owen snatched the roll, tore off a quick strip, about four inches and grabbed the marker, uncapped it with his teeth. His hand shook so bad the first letter came out crooked as he wrote what he felt would help him get Paige out of here quickest.
He had to get Paige out. Had to protect her. Had to—
The double doors slammed open.
Two muscular women burst in, blonde, military buzz cuts, broad shoulders, wearing tight black tank tops and cargo pants. Security. They moved like they’d done this before, fast, coordinated. One tackled him low around the waist, the other grabbed his arms, slamming him face-down onto the carpet. His breath whooshed out. The marker flew from his hand, skittering across the floor. One of the women pinned one of his wrists behind his back, knee digging into his spine. He gasped, vision spotting.
Footsteps, slower and more casual, now entered the room.
A young man stepped into view. Skinny, greasy dark-blond hair hanging in his eyes, smudged glasses, oversized hoodie and black shorts. The same voice from the video call. The same smug little smirk.
Garrett.
“So you’re the unwelcome guest my maids told me about,” he said, voice whiny but pleased with itself. He walked closer, hands in his pockets, looking down at Owen like he was inspecting roadkill. “Related to this fine piece of meat, are you?” He nodded toward Paige on the bed. “What are you, brother? Husband? Or maybe just some friend who wishes she’d put out? Well, yo—”
Garrett stopped mid-stride, standing right beside Owen now, close enough that his sneakers were inches from Owen’s face.
Owen didn’t think. Just acted.
The hand still holding the torn tape strip was free, the one the women hadn’t pinned it down yet. His free hand shot up. He aimed for his calf closest to him and slapped the tape there.
Luckily making with his skin.
Garrett’s eyes widened as he looked down. “NOOOOO… Waiiit—”
He stumbled back, clutching at his stomach like he’d been punched. The two blondes tightened their grips on Owen, knee harder into his back, both wrists now twisted until he choked out a grunt. Black spots danced in his vision.
Then Garrett spoke again, voice cracking, higher.
“Wait! You two…get off him this second!”
The pressure vanished. The women released him like he’d burned them. They scrambled back, standing at attention, faces blank.
Owen rolled onto his side, gasping, coughing. He pushed up onto his elbows, staring.
Garrett stood there, hands trembling, eyes wide behind his glasses. The tape strip was still stuck to his exposed skin, ink facing out. What Owen had scribbled on that piece of tape in a few panicked seconds, “MY GIRLFRIEND” in shaky letters, seemed to have taken hold.
Garrett blinked twice. Then his expression softened. A shy, almost sweet smile crept across his face as he looked down at Owen.
“Hey… babe,” he said quietly. “You okay? They didn’t hurt you too bad, did they?”