Scenes from a Hypnotic NEEHU10 (feat. MrDream)
((I don't usually put CW on these but there is just a lot of likening the sexy things to evil abusive stuff which is super good for me but may not be good for you. YMMV.))
Scrolling up and down our chat logs from the whole weekend, eerily quiet, so much just “where are you” or “I’m heading over”. I can tell where the evenings were, early hours of the morning, threads of me typing novels to him about how hot our play is, how much I miss him already despite the fact that I will see him when we wake up.
Then Monday morning, getting ready to meet at the after-munch, we’re both eating yogurt in our separate places, and I get a “Thinking about your pussy” and I remember tossing the phone down almost like it physically hurt me, and the distance feels like it’s widening back to 100 miles.
We were so on when we were on together. We were rockstars. There were so many wonderful people that we met and taught to, and I’m thrilled by the thought that some of them met us as sleepingirl-and-MrDream, partners who meshed effortlessly together and made sparks fly.
I went in to this NEEHU as I try to go in to all events when I’m going to see him -- as sexually frustrated as possible. I hadn’t masturbated for a couple of weeks, which is a feat for me, and was taking its toll. A week before the con, I had a dream about masturbating, and it just felt so good in the dream that I couldn’t stop, but as I started to reach the point of no return, I remembered my ultimate goal and despaired, unable to stop but completely shutting down, ruining my orgasm into something feeble and unsatisfying, and waking up.
A day before the con, I had another one that went exactly the same way.
Needless to say, I was excited to see him.
And he was excited to see me, too. When I arrive at the hotel room with him and his partner, it feels so good and right, and it doesn’t take too long before our giggling conversations turn, and his finger taps me square in the forehead.
Teaching and demoing in so many classes with him is such a treat. The 101 goes smoothly and after that is the fractionation class I am demoing for. I remember looking up at him, transfixed as he talks about Vogt, bringing out large graphs to show his hypothetical patterns of up and down. That sense of being so proud of him as my partner, as a teacher.
The room is packed and I feel like a peahen, fluffed and all pretty as he drops me deep down then up and talks to me about what I was experiencing. I answer as best as I can, and then he says I am going to go really deep, and it is just as simple as that.
When he brings me up and asks what I felt the differences were, I try to be as objective as possible, but as sometimes happens with me and deep trance, there is a hole in my memory. I am a little surprised at how pronounced it is, and so quickly into the class.
Shortly after, he takes me quickly and deep and leaves me there, profoundly gone, and my sluggish mind begins to wander as I am just left as a fixture of a pretty, deep girl to admire while he teaches.
My dreaming mind conjures up fantasies of him, whispers of control, him turning around and fucking me up right here, or later how he'd make me feel completely helpless with trance and manipulative words…
The demos get more intense as the class goes on. I am responding instantly, and it is so gratifying that everyone is getting to see how impressive we are together. We have nearly two hours, and we use all of it.
It is good. It is really, really good.
But there is an itch, something that feels missing from our dynamic.
It’s hit upon in the Inductions and Intimacy class, which we did at Charmed as well -- and indeed, he plays with the memory of that, using the crystal I gave him then to torture me sweetly with my own emotions. Each demo is powerful, sexy in its own way.
The control bubbled up quickly, a moment where I truly felt like the audience was an afterthought.
“It smiles,” he says to me, and instantly, my mouth turns up into a grin while the rest of me wrestles with it and almost panics at my own responsiveness and the humiliation of this particular thing.
I’m so focused on him, so desperately not wanting to look at the class, not wanting them to see my distress.
“It is excited,” he says, lowly.
Heat and arousal flares up inside of me, still with that awful smile plastered on my face, and my body stiffens, shakes.
He freezes me with my own responses, and I’m a trapped, horny doll, frozen and on display.
He uses his finger to finally tilt my head towards the audience, and there is nothing I can do about it -- not even my eyes can move to look around or close and hide. I am not at peace, but I can’t do anything but start surrendering to it.
“If that’s not porn, I don’t know what is,” he says.
I hear murmured agreement from the class.
“I want you to be mean,” I say, lamely. I am not used to asking for what I want with him, but I need it. “Like, really mean. You know…”
“You don't think I was being mean during the classes?” he asks.
“I mean, yeah, you were being mean, but not like…” I shift my eyes down. “Evil.”
“Oh,” he says, grinning. “You don't want that hypnosis shit. You want mind control.”
My chest tightens. Yeah, maybe that’s it.
“Yeah,” he says, answering for me. “OK. Let's go find a space.”
We set up chairs in the main dungeon and I sit across from him. I am having a hard time looking at him, but all of his attention is focused on me, and he only has to raise his finger in front of my face for me to unfocus completely, hypnotized.
He's talking about how it's different when we're alone, and it is, it is exactly what I've been feeling; I love being a preening demo bottom plaything but I miss being an emotionally abused, brainwashed victim --
“I mean, you forgot things during the fractionation class,” he says, heated, like a warning, like a suggestion, like a fact, “and you will never remember them.”
My world spins with how bad that is, given so much power by my unwavering belief in my own weakness to him, ultimately harmless, but a tease of something that could be truly awful.
It's exactly the helplessness I crave, exactly the evil I’ve needed since I was a little girl.
Sunday night, back at the hotel, socializing and having a little bit of partying.
We’re getting to be more on, getting to do these drive-bys where the room can see.
My eyes already fluttering is such a tricky time to pull out his pocket watch; I’m helpless to the way that it swings in front of me, even though every part of me wants to resist the trope that I’m so weak to.
I drop deep as he brings it up and over my head, rolling my eyes back manually.
As I stand, swaying, I can feel him start swinging the watch again, between my breasts, gently hitting each one in a methodical pattern, making them tingle... I’m hit with how humiliating it is, that I already see an inanimate, mundane thing as a sex object, and now that I’m literally having it stimulate me --
It’s too much, but it feels so good and I am so deep that I just stand there, hypnotized.
When he wakes me, I hide my face and whine, turned on, looking around guiltily.
“That was awful,” I say miserably, predictably.
Finally, we walk into the bedroom, just the two of us, and take off our shoes, wrap ourselves in one another on the bed.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, holding him, both emotional and needy.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, and touches my forehead, blanking me out.
Even like this, heating up, there is a difference in tone. There is no audience. There is no teaching. There is just me and him, and I feel like we can finally let go and be as terrible as we are together.
He exerts control with no effort, saying as he often does that it takes nothing for him, that it's so easy, that he can just say things on whatever whim he's feeling and they just happen to me. My fucked up brain just keeps grasping, chanting “yes”, pouring itself into his hands.
He ruins me and shames me and I throw myself into it, just going deeper, just getting more mindfucked, losing more of my sense of self.
“You were leading that discussion, and you were getting turned on by all the risks,” he says, confidentially, not a question, lilting to a mocking tone. “They would say something; oh, not remembering what you were like before; oh, dependency and loss of identity, and you were like, ‘I want it, I need it…’”
My body is shaking, twisted up against him, moaning, deep.
“You are so desperate for me to control you,” he says darkly, to my fluttering eyes and slack jaw, “that you are ruining your fucking orgasms in your sleep because you want to cum with my name on your lips.”
I make an unconscious, pained, choked noise and feel everything tighten at the horrible truth of it: how far gone I am, how sexually dependent.
How wrong and how raw, and how much I truly need it.
“Even when you are completely gone,” he says, “even when there is nothing left of you and you are so empty, this is still there. This need.”
He is right. I can never escape this core sexual part of me, the need to have my mind taken away.
“‘Take it away, take it away,’” he says to my hypnotized, silent body, imitating my desperate tone, reading my mind more acutely than he has ever done.
He turns me into a girl who wandered into a hotel room with a strange man, helpless on the bed. Being molested. I am tranced beyond belief and so turned on by his hands running over my breasts, touching me like I'm a sex toy, murmuring to keep me subdued.
Talking to me about how under the influence I am, drugged, not knowing what I'm drugged with, Rohypnol, something else. My eyes have been rolled up for so long, and I can feel it pumping through my veins on each word, each suggestion of what it might be.
He lifts one of my hands, and that's the kick for me, because I am completely and utterly limp, unable to make my brain connect with that arm if I tried. It flops easily down on the bed as he drops it.
The shift of the bed as he gets up, socked footsteps on the carpet. Camera shutter sounds. I can't do anything. He opens my mouth. More clicking.
I am not me, but a fucked sense of relief floods through nevertheless -- I'll have this, I'll see this later.
He removes even this identity, leaving me a blank, horny slate, completely new. Barely a person, more just a collection of responses. A very verbal collection of responses -- to him.
“My -- my -- I need, oh, please, I need it,” I am saying, pressing my body up against his, shamelessly. I don’t know who I am, but I know who he is, or rather, I know what he represents, I know his name, I know who he is to me in this moment. “Please touch me, please, I can’t explain to you -- I don’t know --”
His hands run down the length of my body, down my sides, groping and touching, humming as he lets me babble.
His fingers are dipping under my panties, and the touch is a more rare, sexual one, and my legs part submissively… A finger slides against my pussy, and he and I feel it at the exact same time -- I am so, so wet --
“Oh,” he says, a sort of low, satisfied moan, and I squeal, breaking.
“You did this,” I moan, accusing, adoring, exalting, exasperated: “You did this -- it was you, it’s you, it’s all for you, this is for you --”
I feel pitiful and broken, ineffectual in everything and anything.
He takes what I give him.
