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It wouldn’t have taken hypnosis at that point to make me stunned, confused, and open to suggestion.
Since he hadn’t asked me to drop to my knees right there and suck him off, I didn’t feel like I could say no to his request.
What stopped me for good was, one day I signed on from work.
For years you can go along making decisions, and one day you just make the wrong one.
I let him in, and he brushed past me and looked around. By the end of a bottle, I’d decided to sit next to him.
He sat on my couch without taking off his shoes and I followed him, not sure what to do with myself. Still in skirt and hose from work, clean underwear in place, I curled my legs underneath me on the couch and watched the wine swirl in my glass. I wanted him to just get it over with already, to tell me what my indiscretions would cost, but my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.
So he would come by at nine, and I drove home in tears with my hands shaking, and I was glad all I’d had for lunch was a sandwich because my stomach was still doing the not-good kind of flutter.
And ‘underyourspell69’ would log on, and then the next night and the next, and maybe I’d go through four or five nicknames in a year but I’d always end up spending five weeks on for every week off.Something like four-hundred files, all hidden in a sub-sub-sub-folder of a nondescript folder inside of ‘Jenna’s Documents’, probably a quarter-million words that I’d written. Probably a quarter-million words people had written back.They were internet chat logs, the majority of my personal correspondence since I’d moved into my first apartment and hooked up my first cable modem. Let’s go back to before I’d ever heard the ‘hypnofetish’.What would everyone think if they knew I imagined myself hypnotized when I did it? Four years, and I must have had hundreds of conversations with people. Whether they could tell I was a veteran who just got off on acting naïve or not, they’d just talk to me in that familiarly subtle way, lulling me a bit without coming on too strong, and then they’d turn the trick and I’d be in a trance, under their control, helpless. I was almost always out of my shirt and pants by this point, and usually my grown-up, non-training bra, too. I was a helpless, hypnotized slut, so controlled I got wet only when commanded. For a long time, I fantasized about being hypnotized to stop, but never sought that out – no normal therapist would take what I wanted to get over in stride and, as hot a fantasy as it was, I didn’t trust myself to get involved with someone unethical.
And I kept growing up, and I kept being more into hypnosis and less into magazines with hot muscular actors and guitar geniuses and professional wrestlers, but a jewelry-store catalog with a well-dressed guy in a suit inspecting a pocket watch made me weak. They fluttered through my head as I walked away from my apartment, from my computer with its fan whirring to cool the hard disk as it erased itself at seventy-two thousand revolutions per minute. I’d be staring at the screen, pressing my breasts together as though to present them to the unseen hypnotist, trying to do this with one arm while I scrunched my panties up around my slit, my heart starting to pound as I felt myself get wet. Every night here I was logging on, begging to be used. ‘iminatrance’ would stop visiting her regular chat rooms, and I’d satisfy myself with just reading the log files of her sessions, the ones where she became a robot, a doll, a dumb slut, a devoted servant.
You know the way your legs get shaky and your thighs turn to water, needing to be touched and stroked and spread, that’s how I’d get, picturing myself slumped on the couch with this guy swinging his watch back and forth in front of me. Those conversations were always pretty one-sided after a certain point, my responses dwindling down to a steady stream of “Yes.” Yes. Always getting relaxed, always getting sleepy, always getting blank.