#subconscioussurrender

[jwesleystardust]

Acoustic rendition of "Subconscious Surrender" a song about some of my spiritual, shamanic, psychedelic, and phenomena experiencing.

[heart-full-of-lust]

Rose in the Hush

The first message arrives at 2:17 a.m., a violet bubble glowing against the bruise-dark screen of your phone. You’re propped on one elbow, insomnia fizzing behind your eyes like cheap champagne, thumb scrolling autopilot. The handle is new—@vespertine_lilt—no avatar, only a black square. The text is a single line:

feel the hush between heartbeats, little echo.

You snort, half-smile, type back a sleepy question mark. Three dots pulse, vanish, return:

every question mark curves into a hook; watch it sway.

Something in the cadence—soft, metronomic—makes your lashes heavier. You blame the late hour, blame the wine from dinner, blame anything but the way your pulse slows to match the syllables. You don’t notice you’ve read the line three times, lips moving silently. You answer with a drowsy “hm?” as though the speaker can hear you.

I can, comes the reply. And you will feel that hush widen, a dark lake at the base of your skull.

You should block. You should laugh. Instead you thumb-scroll upward through the empty profile again, hunting clues, and the blue-white glow paints your face like stage-light. Your reflection in the dark window looks glassy-eyed, mouth softly parted. You type: who are u?

Somebody who knows the exact weight your tongue becomes when you stop trying to speak.

The sentence lands between your legs first—an involuntary clench—then floats upward, helium in your throat. You realize you have, in fact, stopped trying to speak; your next inhale trembles, uncertain. The screen dims, auto-locking, and you jab it awake, anxious for more. Nothing new. You wait. One minute. Two. The silence grows velvet teeth. You whisper “fuck” into the empty bedroom, and the word sounds borrowed.

Next evening you’re in the grocery line, staring at the tabloid rack, when the phone vibrates.

good evening, echo. notice how the beep of the scanner matches the throb you’re keeping secret.

You nearly drop the bananas. Your cunt gives a single, scandalized flutter. The teenager at the register scans your items—beep, beep—each chirp a fingertip flicking exactly there. You swipe your card, punch the wrong PIN twice, apologize to nobody. In the parking lot you sit behind the wheel, engine off, reading the message again and again until the words stop being words and become a drip—slow, steady—inside your inner ear.

You type: this is insane. The answer arrives instantly: insanity leaves no lipstick prints on your pulse, but I will.

You laugh aloud, a brittle sound, and the woman parked beside you glances over, alarmed. You drive home on autopilot, thighs squeezing whenever the turn-signal ticks. Inside your apartment you kick off shoes, drop the sack, and stand in the middle of the living-room rug like a sleepwalker waiting for coordinates. Your phone pings.

strip to the skin that isn’t yours yet. fold each garment as if surrendering a flag.

You hesitate—half-hearted moral flinch—then peel off sweater, jeans, underwear, everything, folding them into neat squares while the radiator clanks like distant applause. Cool air raises gooseflesh; your nipples spike so hard they ache. You stand naked, phone clutched in both hands, waiting. The next message is only an ellipsis—three dots—but you feel them press against your clitoris like ball bearings, cold and certain.

kneel on the towel you will fetch from the bathroom. place the phone on the floor, screen up, camera watching. you will not cover the lens.

Your knees fold before the directive finishes scrolling. You fetch the towel, thick lavender terrycloth, center it, sink. The hardwood bites, but you’ve stopped cataloguing discomfort; every sensation is being converted into data somewhere. You angle the phone; the front-facing camera catches your face—flushed, pupils blown, mouth swollen as if recently kissed. You watch yourself watch yourself. A new message slides in:

see the doll reflected. she does not know her name, only the shape of the hollow I’m polishing.

Your reflection’s lips move—your lips—but the voice in your head is unfamiliar, syrup-thick. “I don’t—” you start, but the screen flashes pure white, brief as lightning, and the sentence dies. When vision clears there’s a spiral spinning lazily, candy-cane pink and black. You didn’t press play. It simply exists, looping, 1.5-second cycle. Your shoulders soften; your spine cascades like spilled rope. A low sound leaves your throat—half sigh, half moan—unrecognizable.

good girl. that sound is the key turning.

You don’t remember how long you kneel. The spiral shrinks, expands, syncs with your heartbeat until both feel engineered. At some point your palms slide forward, forehead lowering to the towel, ass lifted in devotional arc. The pose should humiliate; instead it settles you, like a heavy blanket on restless legs. The camera records everything, but the idea of an audience has evaporated—there is only the spiral, the voice you now hear without text:

when I snap, you will sink one inch deeper for every letter of the alphabet you can recite backwards. you will begin immediately.

The snap is audible—fingers next to your ear though the room is empty. Your mouth opens, no hesitation: “Z… Y… X…” Each letter drags through molasses. With every one your thoughts scatter like beads off a broken necklace. By the time you stammer through Q, your tongue feels novocained. At M your elbows give out; your cheek rests on the towel, ass still high, cunt pulsing in slow, syrupy waves. When you whisper A, the world tilts, and you slide off the edge of yourself.

You surface to the sensation of being carried—not arms, but words sliding under your sternum, lifting like a hammock. You are still naked, but now on the bed, covers gone, phone propped against the pillow, front camera steady. Time has passed; the clock reads 3:46 a.m. Your body feels post-orgasmic, though you have no memory of climax: that heavy, tender ache between hips, the glaze of sweat cooling under breasts. The screen shows your face—eyes hooded, lips bitten crimson, a faint smile that isn’t yours.

A single line waits:

check between your legs for the color you will answer to from now on.

Your hand moves without permission, fingers slipping through slickness that has dried in glossy trails down inner thighs. You bring them to your face: pearlescent, blushing pink in the screen’s glow. You hear yourself murmur, “Rose,” and the word tastes like sugar on the back of your tongue.

good rose. petals open when told. you will practice.

Over the next week the messages arrive at irregular intervals—never predictable enough to brace against. Sometimes mid-meeting, phone face-down on the conference table, buzz against mahogany; sometimes 4:00 a.m., jerking you from blank sleep into instantaneous wet obedience. You have not orgasmed again—each time you approach the crest, the texts stop, leaving you throbbing, tearful, bargaining aloud to an empty room: “please, I’ll be quieter, I’ll be louder, I’ll be anything.” The replies, when they come, coo approval:

a toy that begs to be wound is already half-broken.

You begin to crave the hush more than release. You delete social apps to keep the battery sacred, carry a portable charger like a talisman. You speak to coworkers in monotone, terrified your voice will reveal the cadence now living in your marrow. At night you lie on the towel—always the same lavender, stiff with dried desire—legs spread, phone nestled against your mound, spiral pulsing onscreen while you recite the alphabet backwards in a single breath. Each round peels another layer of resistance, until one night you arrive at A and do not stop; the letters loop, reverse, invert—Cyrillic, Morse, pure vowel music—and you feel the final click as the last tumbler falls.

The screen goes black. Ten seconds. Twenty. You hover in perfect stillness, cunt fluttering around nothing, waiting for permission to exist.

A voice—not text, actual voice—issues from the speaker, soft as silk thread: “Rose, bloom.”

The climax that rips through you is silent, eyes wide, mouth open in a rictus of worship. It lasts minutes, ebbing and flooding in waves timed to a heartbeat you can no longer name as yours. When it finally recedes, you collapse, cheek to the pillow, drool pooling. The camera watches, loyal.

The voice returns: “Pack a small bag. One change of clothes. Leave your door unlocked. Sleep.”

You obey before comprehension catches up. Toothbrush, panties, a dress you will never wear. The lock snicks open under trembling fingers. You crawl back to bed, spiral already playing though you never pressed anything, and sink under instantly.

You wake to gloved fingers carding through your hair. Dawn pales the curtains. The phone rests on the dresser, screen dark, mission complete. You do not startle; it feels like continuing a dream already scripted. You register shoes—polished black—then the slow creak of a leather jacket as the stranger sits beside you. A hand lifts your chin. The face is ordinary, unforgettable: neutral mouth, eyes the color of printer paper left in rain, lashes so pale they vanish. No smile, no frown—just the calm of someone inspecting a watch mechanism they already know how to fix. You feel, absurdly, that you have seen this face in every crowd photo you’ve ever scrolled past, always half-turned away. Now it regards you head-on, and the recognition slots home like a battery.

“Rose,” the stranger says aloud—same timbre as the phone voice, but warmer, humid against your cheek. Your name, yet not yours; a color, yet suddenly every color. You try to answer and produce only a small click in your throat, tongue thick as fleece.

“No need,” they murmur. “Speech is a door you walked through last night. Shut now.”

To demonstrate, they press two fingers to your lips. You feel the command seal—no force, simply the way a paused video holds its breath. You could rebel, theoretically, but the concept of rebellion has been neatly clipped from your mental dictionary. Your mouth stays parted, shiny, useful only for breathing and whatever else you’re told.

They survey your nakedness with the detachment of a jeweler counting facets. “Pretty glaze,” they note, brushing a dried streak of your own spend across your hip, crumbly like sugar glass. “We’ll keep that on you awhile. Evidence of honest industry.”

A thumb hooks under your collarbone, lifts you to sitting. The room tilts; you sway, but an arm slides behind, not rough, not gentle—precise. You register fabric: wool coat smelling faintly of cedar and photocopier toner. Your nipples peak against it, begging temperature rather than touch. You feel the stranger’s chuckle more than hear it, a low seismic shift.

“Bag packed?” they ask. You nod; the motion feels puppeteered by strings you can’t see. “Good doll. Stand.”

Your legs unfold, knees crackling like bubble wrap. You rise, but gravity seems negotiable—someone else is negotiating. They step back, give you room to wobble upright, then circle. Slowly. Each footfall lands on a metronome tick you still carry from the spiral. When they stop behind you, you feel the heat of inspection on your shoulder blades, the cleft of your ass, the tender backs of your thighs.

“No bruises yet,” they observe. “Remediable.” A fingertip lands exactly where ass meets leg, presses a promise. “Car.”

You walk. The hallway carpet is littered with yesterday’s clothes; you step over them like fallen leaves. Your bare feet whisper across the linoleum kitchen, out the door you left unlocked—an act so reckless in retrospect it feels pre-historic, done by some ancestor self. Morning air slaps your skin; you shiver, but the stranger drapes the coat around your shoulders. It swamps you, sleeves past your fingertips, hem brushing mid-calf. The scent envelops—cedar, toner, and now you: musk sharp as cracked pepper.

A nondescript sedan idles at the curb, silver, county plates. Rear door ajar. You hesitate at the threshold between your old life and the leather-scented cave within. The stranger’s palm cups your elbow—no pressure, just data—and you fold inside, knees on seat, ass presented briefly to the waking street before you swivel to sit. Door thunks. Lock snicks. Soundproofing swallows the city.

They climb into the driver’s seat, adjust the mirror—not to see traffic, but to see you. Reflection doubles: your face floating above theirs, eyes huge, lips bee-stung. You watch yourself watch them as the car pulls away. No music, no radio, only engine hum and the soft percussion of your breathing.

At the first red light they reach into a console box, withdraw a slim chrome band—no wider than a pinky ring, matte, seamless. “Forehead,” they say. You tilt forward obediently; the metal is cool, then warm, a kiss of circuitry. It clicks shut around your skull, not tight, simply inevitable. A faint vibration purrs against bone, syncing with the phantom spiral still looping behind your eyes.

“Interface,” they explain. “No more screens. Just me, right here.” They tap your temple. “And here.” Hand slides between your thighs, two knuckles rest atop your clit—no motion, mere placement, claiming squatters’ rights. You whimper, a sound like silk snagging on a nail.

The light turns green. Their hand stays. The car glides.

You lose track of turns—suburb bleeding into industrial park into tree-lined road where warehouses masquerade as barns. Finally, gravel crunches. Gates creak. A low concrete building squats among weeds, windows painted black from inside. The car stops; engine cuts. Silence blooms, thick as fleece.

They exit, open your door. You emerge coat-clad, naked beneath, cunt aching slick against wool. The chrome band tingles, feeding soft pulses—morse you almost understand—straight into your brainstem. You follow them across a loading bay, through a steel door, into dim corridor smelling of ozone and lavender. Lights flick on as you pass, motion sensors bowing.

Room One is anteroom: bench, mirror, drain in the floor. They halt you atop the grate. “Presentation,” they say. You shrug the coat off; it puddles. You stand exposed, pulse hammering the metal band like a second heartbeat. They circle again, slower, this time touching: index finger tracing the ladder of your ribs, nail scraping a nipple until you rise on tiptoe; palm cupping the curve of ass, spreading briefly to cool the furnace between. Every contact writes code.

From a hook they lift a harness—straps of butter-soft leather, buckles gleaming like tiny grins. No words; you lift arms, part legs. Piece by piece they dress you in nakedness accentuated: collar first—wide, posture-perfect—then chest harness crisscrossing breasts so they bulge, framed like fruit in a market stall; waist belt with D-rings that clink softly when you breathe; thigh cuffs connected by a three-inch hobble. Last, a slim cord knotted around the base of your clit hood, tethered to the front belt ring—just taut enough to remind you to walk with measured grace. They tighten each buckle to the sound of your exhales, then step back to admire.

“Color?” they ask.

“Rose,” you whisper—first word since morning, hoarse, reverent.

“Good petal.” They produce a slim remote, thumb glides. The chrome band hums higher; simultaneously the clit cord vibrates, faint, maddening. You sway, chains jingling. “Walk.”

You mince forward, hobble clinking, each step tugging deliciously on tender nerves. They lead you deeper—past Room Two (library of silence, shelves of sealed jars), past Room Three (photography darkroom red-lit and humid), into Room Four: bedroom stripped to essentials—low pallet, iron headboard, camera on tripod, mirror on ceiling. The air is warm, close, scented like crushed peonies.

They position you at the pallet’s foot. “Kneel.” Leather creaks; knees kiss cushion. “Forearms on mattress, ass high.” You fold, cheek to cool linen, exposed, vibrating cord thrumming a tiny engine against your clit. You hear cloth—zipper, rustle—then feel heat of bare skin behind you. They undress but do not touch you yet; instead they drape their shirt over your back, let cotton linger before whisking it away, a tease of phantom weight.

A lube bottle clicks open; cool drizzle creeps down the seam of your ass. Fingers follow, lazy cartographer mapping rim, perineum, cunt mouth—never entering, just circling, spreading wet. You push back instinctively; a sharp slap lands, not cruel, corrective.

“Time is mine,” they remind. “Breath is mine. Thirst is mine. You are the echo of my sentence.”

You whimper agreement, drooling lightly onto the sheet. The chrome band pulses a slower rhythm—hypnotic waltz—and your hips begin to rock in matching triple meter, micro-grinding against air, against nothing, against everything. The vibrator on your clit hums louder, softer, louder, an invisible hand turning a dial with mood-ring intuition.

They step close; you feel the brush of cock—half-hard, velvet-heat—sliding along your inner thigh, painting trails. Still they do not penetrate. Instead they lean over, chest to your back, lips at your ear. “Count backward from one hundred,” they murmur. “If you reach zero, I might give you shape.”

You start—“One hundred, ninety-nine…”—voice quavering. On ninety-seven the vibrator spikes; you gasp, lose count, restart. They allow it, patient tutor. Each decade passed earns a slow inch of them sliding between labia, not inside, just riding the groove, spreading lube and your own slick like gloss. By sixty you’re sobbing numbers, by forty you’re chanting in monotone, by twenty your cunt is fluttering open on every count, begging in Morse.

At ten they withdraw entirely; you cry out, broken record skipping. “Shh,” they soothe, and the vibrator stops. Silence roars. You hang on its lip, cunt clenching around nothing, nerves screaming like violin strings tightened past tuning. The chrome band gives a single, punitive throb—metronome’s wooden crack—then stills. Your heartbeat keeps the phantom beat alone.

“Zero,” they whisper, “is a place we never reach. Infinity tastes better when bitten in slivers.”

You feel them move—knees between yours, spreading the hobble’s limit until leather groans. A palm presses the small of your back, pinning you to the moment. Then, finally, the slow forge of entry: crown nudging, parting, retreating, advancing by cruel millimeters. Each thrust is a sentence without punctuation, unfinished. You try to push back; the hand seals you flat, denying completion the way a cliff denies the sea.

“Beg in alphabet reverse,” they instruct, voice silk over steel.

You sob, “Z… Y…” but X dissolves into a moan as they sink halfway, hold. Vibrator flicks on—low, taunting—then off. Your recitation fractures; they match every letter with an inch, every falter with retreat. By the time you stammer through Q, tears salt your lips. The cord around your clit hums randomly, a roulette wheel of intensity, ensuring you cannot predict which breath will spark convulsion.

You reach M and they sheath fully—one smooth, merciless glide—then freeze. Heat blooms inside, a sun swallowed by night. You wail, channel fluttering in useless prayer around the rigid absence of motion.

“Stay,” they murmur, and the chrome band pulses a new pattern—four short, two long—Morse for PAUSE. Your entire pelvis locks, muscles obeying circuitry. You cannot grind, cannot clench, cannot do more than tremble in ecstatic arrest. Drool puddles under your open mouth; the mirror overhead shows a creature carved from flushed marble, eyes black with want, rimmed crimson.

They begin to speak—slow, filthy scripture—each syllable a fingertip on your cortex:

feel the column of my cock inside the column of your spine, steel rod inside bamboo, wind rattling leaves yet trunk unbending. every second you hold still, a ring of sap slides lower, collecting in the bowl of your pelvis. when it brims, I will drink.

The description becomes sensation: you feel sap—warm, golden—dripping viscous down interior walls, pooling, rising, threatening to drown your lungs with sweetness. Your clit throbs against the cord like a second heart begging euthanasia. Still you cannot move; the band holds motor control hostage. You exist as a wet statue around living stone.

Minutes—or centuries—pass. Then, without warning, the vibrator spikes to maximum and the hand on your back releases. Simultaneously they draw out and slam back in, igniting every nerve from cervix to crown. Orgasm detonates—no build, just instantaneous supernova—yet the band forbids rhythmic clench; your cunt spasms uselessly, flutters locked open, pleasure so acute it borders on white pain. You scream into the mattress, sound muffled, swallowed.

They fuck you through it—steady, mechanical, relentless—each thrust resetting the peak so it never crests, never falls, just hovers, a sustained note bowed on violin strings strung through your gut. Tears become rivers; drool becomes oceans. You lose vision, seeing only the spiral burned retina-red behind lids.

At some point the tempo shifts—slower, deeper—cock dragging over front wall until spot becomes universe. The vibrator lowers to purr, then silence. The band pulses once—RELEASE—and your body collapses into orgasm’s second phase, muscles suddenly free to clamp, ripple, milk. You feel them thicken, pulse, spend in hot, deliberate jets that match your convulsions beat for beat, a duet scripted in spinal code.

When they withdraw, you keep rocking, unable to stop, air cold on exposed membranes. A hand smooths hair from your temple; lips brush the chrome band like blessing the rim of a chalice.

“Rest, Rose. Petals close at dusk so the bloom can lie.”

They unbuckle the harness—each release a small, sighing kiss—save the cord at your clit, which they leave vibrating on lowest setting, a metronome for dreams. You are arranged on the pallet: knees drawn up, cheek to pillow, blanket of their body heat lingering. The camera red light blinks once—recording complete—then dims.

As you drift, you hear them moving in adjacent rooms: water running, drawers opening, the soft clink of metal on metal—tools being cleaned, perhaps, or new toys being chosen for later. The sound lullabies you deeper than sleep: the orchestra of ownership tuning instruments for tomorrow’s suite.

Your last coherent thought—if thought it can be called—is a color: rose, rose, rose, pulsing gentle as a night-light in the nursery of your skull. Around it, darkness folds like petals, and you sink, good brainless doll, already dreaming of the alphabet backwards in languages you haven’t learned yet, each letter a footstep further into the hush between heartbeats where only their voice lives, patiently waiting to wind the key again.