( ◜◡‾)脚は素晴らしい by null_ento on Flickr.
3 months and 14 days since our last date.
…But who’s counting?
Finally, finally I see him walking towards my car, and I can’t help but smile and give a little wave, and then duck down to hide behind the steering wheel.
–
We get to the room through a bunch of my awful chit-chat, and I sit on the bed, already overwhelmed.
“Oh, God,” I moan. “Oh, no.”
“Oh no?” he asks, grinning, taking his coat off.
“Just… Hi. We’re here. We’re doing the thing.” I’m sort of trembling a little and trying to shake the bit of nausea that came with all the excitement and nerves. I can’t stop smiling.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right there.”
Somehow he’s made his way right in front of me, so close, pushing himself between my knees and leaning over me. My heart is pounding wildly; I fidget with my hands and peek up at him.
“Um,” I say, high pitched and thin, and he brings his fingertip to press firmly and push against the center of my forehead, tipping me over as my eyes roll and flutter shut and I flop backwards against the bed and into trance, just like that.
–
“I really like you,” he says, like he’s so happy to be enthralled by it. I feel warm. I really like him too.
“I know,” I say instead, with an exaggerated grin, making a show of pointing my fingers at him. “See that? I Han Solo’d you. I do that now. Also, apparently I do finger guns, too.”
He’s laughing. “I see,” he says. “That’s nice. Han Solo’d, huh?”
“Yup. I’m very cool.” I finger gun at him again, but he’s smiling at me, amused, and looking at him shatters the thin bravado I had going. I bury my face in my hands. “Oh, God. This is just going great.”
“Super great,” he says, clearly amused. “You’re so chill.”
“This is so stupid,” I whine, still unable to fully look at him, “I want to go out for a smoke.”
–
“Well, we’ve got a gorgeous view of the highway,” he says to me, loudly, half-shouting over the roar of the cars passing by.
“If you think that I won’t make some sort of wonderful, significant memory about watching the cars, you’re sorely mistaken,” I reply, grinning.
He smiles back at me, that sort of disbelieving, thrilled look.
“You are so sappy.”
I look away, embarrassed and privately pleased. “Shut up. That’s a secret.”
He laughs and makes fun of me for it.
–
He’s been working on making my trances deeper… and my awakes deeper, too. I’m no longer waking up. I’m waking up from deep hypnosis into slightly less deep hypnosis.
I’m so, so tranced out just listening to him, and just the way he’s speaking to me is seducing me deeper. I don’t even know what he’s talking about anymore, but his voice is going between this low murmur down to a whisper, over and over, and the sounds of it are gently, insistently leading me down, out of my own control.
Eventually I’m sitting there, eyes blinking slowly, unevenly; body so heavy, swaying slowly from side to side. I’m so hypnotized. I’m sooo hypnotized.
I’m focused, totally out of it, completely addled but grasping onto his words as he tells me how helpless and weak I am, how good I look, how this is the thing that we’re able to see when we know how to look for it, how he can see me going between states –
…Kiss him. Kiss him.
I want to kiss him. I want to lean over, cup his cheek in my hand and kiss him while I’m this hypnotized; the thick, sugary saccharine sweetness of my trance rolling over me and spilling into him. I can see it play out in my head. I can see how to move gracefully enough and take his breath away. It would make him so happy; it would make me so happy.
Kiss him. Move.
I try.
When you ask someone to try to break catalepsy as a convincer, they’re motivated to fail, or at the very least motivated to see what happens. If you have someone bound hypnotically, they’re motivated to stay that way. There is something profoundly different about this.
I was never frozen. I’m not motivated to be stuck. I want to move and to do something lovely to the man in front of me.
And yet, I can’t move. I can’t move, because I’m so hypnotized, and I don’t have control over it.
That’s mindblowing, and it makes me sink down even further as he talks to me and watches. His fingers are tracing the contour of my hands, and I’m so drawn in by that simple motion that it feels too easy. I’m so trapped.
“I can’t move,” I whisper softly, slowly, slurring a little.
“No,” he agrees, observing me. “Why are you trying to move?”
I think about telling him for a moment, sluggishly, then give a small smile.
“It’s a secret.”
I can tell he’s delighted by that.
In a moment, he helps me come up just enough to be more functional, still hazy but not quite as ineffectual.
I test motion a little bit, and feel the stretch and tension of my muscles as I move my arm. I look at him; he’s watching carefully. Finally, I lean in, grasping the back of his neck, and slide my lips against his, savoring his soft surprise and gratification. It feels like honey in my brain, syrupy and overwhelming. He kisses me back, gently, and I start to part my lips, opening up –
“Freeze,” he murmurs against me, and I’m suddenly stuck and my mind reels and explodes with the fucked-up romanticism of it; of course he does that, of course he’s so perfect that he has to take control over me as I express something genuine and sweet.
He’s touching me all over, groping my breasts while I’m helpless to react or move, growling low, hot little things to me before he tells me to melt and my body slumps bonelessly over.
–
I’ve never felt anything like this. Awake only in appearance, but being so, so deep. I’m laying face down on the bed, head turned to look at him. I can barely move. My eyes are open but my eyelids are fluttering anyways. Everything feels so heavy. There’s a thick haze around my mind, as though I’m completely drugged, distantly euphoric and so anesthetized.
“You’re really deep,” he says, awed and turned on.
It is so good that he can read me. The fact that he knows what that looks like on me is too good.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“There is something about it,” he murmurs, conversationally, almost to himself. “Being able to see the little things, the little shifts. Change in your muscle form and your eyes… It’s really something. When one of my partners is this deep, they are just so breathtakingly beautiful to me…” He breathes out, blown away, and the whooshing sound of it makes my mind flicker like a candle.
To be able to be so gone and feel so appreciated, to be able to let go of the self-consciousness… I feel so much more objectified and more pleasured by it than when I’m an erotic statue on display. He’s sort of talking to me, but past me; over me. It’s so comfortable; it’s so perfect. I could be here for so long, just existing passively, aroused whenever I get too overwhelmed by how weak I am, soaking up his words.
–
An hour goes by of the same, of me in the most profoundly gone place, completely helpless to being brainwashed, welcoming his control over me, self-destructively – please make me more addicted, please take advantage of me; it’s all I want… He reads my expressions like a fucking book and gives me what I beg for.
Eventually he brings me up enough so that I can breathe and take a break. I still can never believe that I lose first and that I have limits on how much I can trance at once. It seems absurd that we find them.
We slide easily into conversation, something absorbing, about hypnosis. The kind of intellectual stimulation that is almost as good as mindfucking, being able to share and talk endlessly about theories and science and psychology. We talk for over an hour straight, and I’m just all smiles, constantly charmed by his wit and knowing that he’s charmed by mine.
At some point, we go outside into the rain and the sound of the cars rushing by on the wet pavement so I can smoke, and we come back inside to more mindfucking.
At some point, we eventually turn the lights off and go to bed. He holds me and trances me one last time so that I’m still fuzzy as I squirm and get comfortable and drift off into sleep.
–
In the morning, when I wake up, he gets back into bed to join me, and with a few simple words and skillful touches saps me of my will and brings me back to that extraordinary weakness, reduced to my warm pussy and dulled, strung-out mind.
This time, we don’t have time for lunch, so we end up checking out and sitting in my car, chatting for a little while before he has to leave. We’re already missing each other, but I’m trying to focus on him, what he looks and sounds like to keep it in my head. I know it’s not going to work, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.
Our conversation has devolved back into the stupid bantering from the first part of our date, like we’ve unlearned how to talk to each other properly. “I like you”, “I want you”, “I miss you”, “You’re amazing”, “That was so good”, “We’re so good”.
Eventually the time comes, and I sort of awkwardly hug him over the center console in the car. He kisses the top of my head, and unbuckles, and gets out. I watch as he opens the back door to get his things.
“Oh, and,” he says, as he grabs his bag, “I love you.”
My heart flutters and I feel stunned – it’s not the first time he’s said it to me, but for some reason it’s hitting me hard to hear it as he’s leaving, flustering me, with all the intent and passionate awfulness behind it.
I fumble for a moment, still not quite ready to return the sentiment.
“I know,” I call back at him. My voice is strained and tight, but brightened with the victory of being witty in this final exchange. It’s good enough.
He laughs in disbelief and shuts the door. Through the glass, I can hear him saying something muffled about Han Soloing me someday, or something.
I smile and watch him walk out of sight, and I breathe, and I get ready for the drive back home.
–