Scenes from a Hypnotic Skype Call 5/22/20
I swore I was going to be so cool.
I have been so needy. I have been so in love. Yesterday, just thinking about him was completely overwhelming me, body and brain seizing up in adoration whenever he crossed my mind.
We get on the call a few moments before I expect it and thatâs enough to fluster me. My hair is a mess because I didnât have time to fix it and he asks if itâs because Iâm a disheveled brainwashed animal and that is just it for me.
I am responding far too intensely. Iâm in trance before I realize it.
âYou canât do that!â I say through a gritted smile when he wakes me up. âItâs not allowed!â
âWhat?â he asks. âWhatâs not allowed?â
âThis! This⊠The thing where you just⊠punch me in the face.â The metaphor bubbles out of a memory of my favorite date where he hit me with everything he had, psychologically, until I was completely broken.
âYeah,â he says, smiling. âThatâd be pretty⊠direct and overt.â
Even just the way heâs talking is driving me insane, like the little shifts in his voice are something that my body is getting high from, crazed yearning fulfilled.
âSo, uh, I didnât see the posted agenda for this meeting,â he says.
âI donât usually make the agendas for these,â I reply. âBut I can give you an idea of the agenda from my perspective?â
âYeah. Well, we get on the call, and then you punch me in the face for about an hour or so.â
âYeah,â he affirms, âThatâs about the time that Iâve got to punch you in the face today.â
I love the presupposition.
He is so hyped up for this, his energy and desire for me spilling out of him across so many miles, and mine being drawn out of me, helplessly. It feels like date energy, and I feel so much less inhibited in my responses, not necessarily because I feel more comfortable but because I canât do anything to stop it. My body is moving, Iâm moaning and gasping at just the simplest little things.
He makes me dumb so fast and I just gape stupidly at him, half little adoring smile and lidded eyes.
He talks about how much I am just listening to his voice, so cliche but hitting me exactly right in this moment as I completely obsess over it, let everything else go. It hits me in my ears, it hits me between my legs, it hits me between my eyes.
The tempo is so fast. There is no leisure. He wants this, I want this, there is no need to waste time.
I am so vocal, in the little noises that come out of me that I know are turning him on and in the hypnotized words spilling out of my mouth telling him how much I adore him.
The line between trance and awake blurs and dissipates.
He drops me over and over as we talk, and at some point I am just left deep and on pause as he gets quiet. I know he is attending to something else for a few minutes but I have no idea for how long, and I donât care. I am just barely existing. I am not there.
I love this more than I can express, the feeling of infinite patience, the feeling of being nearly an object, the feeling of being trapped in trance and nowhere to go. I want it forever. I donât care. I am not thinking coherently. I am barely thinking. Profound blankness and stillness.
âHmm,â he says eventually, observing, snapping me up. âJust kinda⊠shut downâŠâ
âI love it,â I feel myself breathe, before my brain has caught up with my mouth.
Itâs perfect, that he can just turn me off and leave me. I want to spend hours like this. I wonder how long I could go.
âPlay with your tits,â he says, and my body moves outside of my control as I feel myself doing it, embarrassed by the earnestness of my hands and the tingling response of my tits.
âNow, really *want* to play with your tits.â
My brain slides under his control and shifts to desire, instantly. Wanting it so bad and getting it at the exact same time. I squeeze and play, tease my nipples, find myself grinding against my bed.
He talks about my need growing even as I keep getting it more, the two sides entwined and rising together, reminding me of what it feels like when my tits are being played with exactly right, exactly the attention Iâm hungry for.
Heâs reinforcing how good it is to play with them myself, and the implications are so clear but never spoken, and that just makes it so much better.
âI feel like an idiot,â I feel myself say, weak and defeated and humiliated by it.
âDo tell,â he says, clearly excited.
The words force themselves out. âI feel like a stupid⊠obsessed⊠lovesick⊠horny⊠awful⊠girlfriend.â
Each word has immense weight to it, of associations and memories, from yesterday going all the way back.
Of course, he jumps on it all. He digs into my desperation for him, widening it insidiously.
âYou feel like youâd do anything,â he says, cocky and knowing, and I remember when I said that to him accidentally.
When he wakes me up, I canât bear to meet his eyes for more than a few moments at a time. Seeing him is overwhelming me with the way I feel, awful, teenaged love, insane need, obsessing over the features of his face, my body and brain screaming for him.
âEven looking at you is awful,â I whine.
âYeah,â he says, not really sympathetic. âWe can just spend an hour of you being desperate and thirsty.â
âThat wasnât on the agenda,â I complain.
He talks about his touch, the lightest ghost touch on my skin, and it is a beautiful, terrible thing to be able to feel it, remembering how much I miss that so fully even when sometimes I suppress that missing⊠We havenât done this often, hallucinating his touch so directly, and I appreciate that. There is a preciousness to it.
The exact quality of it, every association it has, his presence, him, his skin on my skin and I remember the way that those two textures fit perfectly in this world like nothing else, and I yearn, and I feel.
His hand moves up and lifts my chin, and I realize that he knows exactly my experience as he talks about how my head moves so fluidly, light as air with just the barest suggestion of movement from him. There are too many memories to count, the weight of each one of them so incredibly real.
Finger tracing my lips sends me so deep, like we discovered that timeâŠ
Moving up to my forehead, and finally pressing, and I feel all the hints of these thoughts, wondering what it will be like when I see him again, how deep will I go, will I even realize, will I have to relearn, will I be more helpless than ever before⊠All these thoughts in a split second as I go very deep for him.
Smoothly moving into dollspace, not even sure how itâs happening but suddenly so much a toy, so much an object. âFinally,â it feels like. Finally I donât have to be a person anymore. Finally I can be this thing again. Finally someone knows what I really am.
ââIâm a dolly,ââ he says for me. âNothing but, always have been, always will be.â
A sweet little nod to what Iâve been thinking and talking and writing about, reframing the way I process, desperately wanting to latch onto this idea that I am permanently an object, always an objectâŠ
I am so empty. I am so still. I have needed this.
He wakes me and I am still there.
âI am so empty,â my mouth says, softly, needing to share with him. I am not thinking.
âThatâs so nice,â he says, âjust waiting to be filled with something?â
I make a sound as I feel it in my head.
âFeel something there?â
âWhat does it feel like?â
âThe way your voice feels,â I say slowly, automatically, dumbly. âAll dark, and soft, and bigâŠâ
Sexual words, hypnotic words, impossible to describe the friction between the way it sounds and my ears and my brain, slick and silky, malicious.
Because Iâm addicted to his voice, he tells me, and pushes it deeper, and each moment of hearing him becomes ecstatic, the most erotic thing, mindblowing, hypnotic beyond belief, the sweetest, the hottest.
I am just a toy for him, a blank, obsessed, patient toy waiting to be played with, all the time, any time he wants, he can make me whatever he wants me to be. It is nearly a religious experience to be so much just a thing, brain so wasted and dull and the experience of my body completely changing. Not quite outside of it and not quite within it. Not quite that I have to exert effort to move and not quite that I donât have to.
He unwinds me even further, and I realize he is completely unraveling my identity now and it is too late to stop him. I am too opened up and too vulnerable. He easily, gingerly plucks my name away and I donât care. This trance is oppressive and thick, fills my lungs until there is no space left, fills my head as he turns me truly into nothing, and I think that this could be the rest of my life, sitting like this forever, waiting, used, just the simplest, most low-maintenance thing.
He refers to me as âit,â and there are years of layers to it. The first and one of very few long-standing anchored words, making me preconsciously and automatically act to do whatever he says, âit sucks,â âit smiles.â But the memories are lost now, replaced simply with perfectly tuned, instant action. Obedience is wilful, this is mechanistic and too fast, and we have sunk into a place where it is my entire identity, a thing that responds, a nothing toy. I have a sense of feeling pretty, but it is far away and I have no attachment to it.
Time is meaningless until he wakes me up again.Â
I blink slowly. As if on a delay, my face scrunches in my discomfort and arousal. My body still feels like a doll.
âDid my dolly go very deep?â he asks, dark and soft and big.
