Mondus's voice, smooth and authoritative, weaves a web of suggestion, trapping his victim in a world of her own desires and his command. She unbuttons her blouse, revealing creamy skin, before sliding her skirt down, leaving her in nothing but lace. He orders her onto the bed, legs spread, as he watches her finger her clit, her body writhing in need. She's a puppet, and he's the puppeteer, making her touch herself, taste herself, all while begging for his touch, yet never allowed release until he says so.