I’m a slut for sitting in comfortable silence while both of us do our own thing and occasionally show each other something dumb on our computers like that’s the good shit my dude.
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Slide your fingers inside me and then keep going with the conversation like you’re not knuckle deep inside me reminding me who I belong to.
…I almost killed myself
I put on my sunglasses, to hide my swollen eyes, over my tears. I cried all my makeup off. Went inside to have a milkshake. I don’t know why. I wanted something to drink as I figured out what I would do. I got a soda and a milkshake. Medium. The cashier looked at me and with a line around the corner of the counter he rushed away from the counter “Hold on “ he yelled to a coworker.
I filled my soda and went back and saw him looking all over. I go up and he gets close and says “I made it a large”.
That was seriously enough for me not to do it. His kindness. Someone went out of their way and as I went back in my car to cry I realized I could muster through a few other days. A few more weeks. Then I came down from that panicky high of anxiety, depression, and pain. I finished my shake. And it was enough time to let me feel better. I… I’m alive. I’ll make it through.
Try and be nice today. Tomorrow. Something as much as a smile. It helped so much.
Thank you man at McDonalds.
The milkshake saved my life
I hope you all can read this and remember to be kind
The smallest of gestures can save a life. My Mum answered her phone when I called and I am alive today because of that.
I’m glad you’re here.
It’s a phone call, a milkshake, a friend.
I feel like I shouldn’t keep reblogging this but when I do more people see what kindness can do…. I don’t know. Love everyone as yourself.
Nah, keep rebloging it. It gives hope.
walked sobbing around a city once wearing a summer dress in mid-september thunder and rain. basically dragged myself into LUSH as the smell of the store always made me smile. the shop was empty and dead due to the weather, just this blonde short woman behind the counter who smiled at me. i stared at her feet and asked ‘do you have anything for people who are scared a lot?’ (i was so out of it i had no clue). she showed me two bath bombs, one pink and one blue, and said both were good - i chose the pink, paid for it and left. i then sat at a bus stop clutching the LUSH bag in one arm and my prescription meds in the other - i’d lied and ordered a refill so i could just drift away with sleeping pills. when the bus arrived and i was out of the rain, i decided to have another look at my bath bomb, smell it and what not. opened my bag and saw she’d put the blue one in there for me as well and written on the receipt ‘feel better soon :) hope you like x’.
no one had ever been so selflessly kind to me before, i didn’t know what to do with it except hang around long enough to use the other bath bomb.
Actually I’m going to reblog this again because of the truth of the inverse: think of any time you have been casually cruel or petty to someone for humor or because you weren’t in a great mood.
The power of small gestures goes both ways.
Cockwarming your dom while he plays a video game with his friends, everytime he thrusts up into you his friends hear your squeaky choked moan through the mic and they all compliment how slutty and cute you sound being so nonchalantly used by your dom
Netflix and chill but the whole movie you’re sitting in my lap, on my strap-on. Not allowed to ride it, or to move, just have to keep it warm and deal with every time I feel like readjusting or playfully fucking up into you for a couple seconds.
Sometimes, I think Dommes can underestimate the power of a praise kink. Like I could be having the worst day of my life, but if I had a domme that could call me her good boy, that would make me feel like everything is fine in the world.
As someone who has a praise kink, from both directions, I completely agree. People underestimate the power of praise.
I can threaten one of my Calebs into doing something. Or I can say:
“You like being my good boy, don’t you?”
The way they eagerly answer “Yes, Miss Sweet.” is delicious.
“Good. Do this one thing, and you’ll be such a good boy for me. You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Sweet! Doing it now, Miss Sweet.”
Love that. And it works so well.
Praise kinks are intense.
And guess what. Bottoms, submissives, subjects, you can praise your Dominants (within the limits of your relationship), too!
I once had a Caleb who was fully aware of my praise kink.
Towards the end of one of our sessions he used the same exact tone he would use to say “good girl” to one of his subjects to tell me “Good Domme.”
It was surprisingly effective (and made me laugh). I could not stop smiling.
Praise is a useful tool.
Use it.
Yuuuup @starbaby96 @kitty-sylvie
Being manhandled is such a turn on. Imagine being a brat and there’s your dom lifting you up, throwing you on the bed and holding you down with their strong hands. They’d look at you and raise their eyebrows since they’d know you’re too weak to fight back
Scenes from a Hypnotic (Seventh) Date
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.
–