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Please be advised before reading this story that it contains adult content and non-consensual acts.

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“What the fuck?”

I can’t help but think that when I see the pretty, petite, barefoot woman open the door to Cyril’s house.

Thankfully, I only think it, not say it.

“Hello,” is what I do say with a pleasant, albeit forced smile.

She smiles back.

“Hi, I’m Joy. You’re Cara, right? Cyril said you’d be coming over tonight. Come on in.”

Stepping back, she opens the door further to allow me entrance. With a nod, I step inside. She closes the door, then offers me her hand in greeting. I accept and shake it politely. All the while I size her up.

She stands half a head shorter than me. She has long, black hair that hangs straight down past her shoulders. Her complexion is tan and her eyes are brown. She is slendor but curvy. She wears a casual blouse and tight jeans that fan out below the knees into bellbottoms. Her bare toes peak out from beneath the flared hem of her pantlegs.

“Cyril said to meet him in the den,” she tells me. “It’s back through–”

“This doorway and around the corner, yes, I know. Thanks.”

As I make my way to the den, I wonder who Joy is and what she’s doing here. Tonight is supposed to be about Cyril and me. We both agreed on the date and time. So this isn’t like a couple of weeks ago when I dropped in unannounced. If he double-booked or even just forgot, I’m going to be pissed off.

In any case, I shouldn’t take it out on Joy. She is likely innocent, and it’s Cyril who needs to do the explaining.

Still, I have a hard time dispelling the ire I feel towards Joy. I’m not jealous of her, am I? That’s not why I’m upset, is it? No, I don’t think so. I mean, she is a cutie. But so am I. Even in my more-casual-than-usual outfit of cami, leggings, and flip-flops, I look just fine from head to toe. 

So, no, I’m not jealous. But it is Joy that I’ve seen and Joy who surprised me. I think that’s why I’m upset with her. Once I see Cyril and have a chance to confront him, I’m pretty sure I’ll focus my negativity where it belongs: on him.

After all, Cyril shouldn’t have anything going on tonight–like another woman being here–that takes his attention away from me. That’s because he expects me to keep my attention on him–to focus on him, to concentrate on him–so that he can hypnotize me. It’s what he does. It’s why I come over. It’s what we both want. It’s what we both love. We both get off on it.

But there is no resaon to have another woman here during our session. At least, there is no reason I can think of. So, he better have a good explanation for her presence. Make that an excellent explanation.

Reaching the den, I sit in one of the two catty-corner chairs there. And then, I wait.

Several very annoying minutes later, Cyril comes in. I stand up and accept his hug and peck on the cheek. But I’m not as enthusiastic about his greeting or our upcoming session as I normally am. And he can immediately tell.

“Are you okay, Cara? What’s up?”

“How about you telling me what’s up? Like, shouldn’t we be alone this evening?”

“Ah, I take it you met Joy.”

“I did. Who is she, and why is she here?”

“Apologies, Cara. You deserve an explanation. And you’ll get one. Promise. Follow me, please.”

I follow his lead out of the den. We head down the hallway to another part of the house that I haven’t been to before. He opens a door and beckons me inside.

The room is small and empty except for one item: a chair. I’ve never seen a chair quite like it, but I know exactly what it is. It’s the reason I’m here tonight.

“The Cyril Machine,” I say.

“That’s right.”

“So, I plant my cute butt in the seat. Then the helmet thingy lowers down over my pretty head. And then, it hypnotizes me into blissful submission and obedience.”

“Right again, for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“The hypno-helmet won’t exactly hypnotize you. It will render you suggestible, submissive, and obedient, thus allowing us both to get what we want out of our session. But the induction won’t feel like a normal hypnotic induction. It’s not about you actively taking part by focusing and concentrating. You’re forced into it. You’re made to go under. Whether you want to or not. I’m not sure that you’ll find it as pleasurable as the other methods I’ve used on you. You might. But, you might not. Because of that, I want to you to see it in action before you try it.”

“So, you’re going to use it on Joy while I watch?"

“Exactly. If you still want to try it after seeing it used on her, great. If you don’t, then we’ll skip it, and I’ll use another induction on you. Either way, we’ll still have our session tonight.”

“Okay. Fine. Explanation received and accepted. Just give me some warning next time. A girl doesn’t like spending time and money on a pedicure for her hypnotist, only to have another girl open the door when she comes over, you know?”

Cyril’s eyes travel down my shapely legs toward the floor. Along with his predilction for hypnotizing women, he also has one for bare female feet. He smiles when he sees the fresh pedicure I’m sporting. And though my feet aren’t completely bare, he knows that my flip-flops will come off soon enough, either before or during our session.

“Point taken,” he says. “No more surprises on session night, even if they are meant to be for your benefit.” 

“Speaking of Miss Cutie-Patootie, when do we commence with her Cyril Machine test drive?”

“She’ll be here in a minute. Oh, and she doesn’t know she’s demonstrating a hypno-helmet for your benefit. She thinks she’s trying out a massage chair. So, mum’s the word.”

“Cyril, you sneaky devil.”

He shrugs and grins impishly. His less-than-moral ways are neither a surprise, nor a problem. Still, I want to give him at least a little bit of snarky grief about his evil mind-controlling practices. I have a playfully mean zinger ready to unleash at him, but then I’m interrupted by Joy’s untimely arrival, which feels very much like deja vu at the front door.

“Hey, guys,” she greets us cheerfully. “Is the chair ready?”

Cyrils nods and gestures toward it, indicating that Joy can take a seat.

“Are you next?” she asks me.

“Maybe. Depends on how much you like it.”

She gives me a thumbs up and then moves over to the chair. She sits down and settles into it.

“Comfy,” she says, approvingly.

“This is just a prototype, so the user controls aren’t on the chair itself,” Cyril says. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll start it up.”

“Oh, I am definitely ready to get the best massage of my life!”

We all laugh, although only Joy has no idea that the joke is on her.

Cyril takes out his phone, opens an app, and taps some commands into it. In response, the chair hums to life. The bottom front portion of it begins raising up, lifting Joy’s legs until the bare soles of her feet face us. As far as I can tell, this position serves no purpose for either massage or hypnosis. But it does serve the purpose of giving Cyril a view that he likes.

With a knowing smirk, I elbow him. He winks back at me, fully aware that I accept his fetish and recognize the things he does to fulfill it.

“Ooh,” Joy says, as the chair begins a mechanical kneading regimen up and down her back. “Oh, yeah. That feels so good. Ahhh…”

“So, it is actually a massage chair?” I whisper to Cyril.

“Yeah, I built in that functionality. But give it a moment. The induction will start soon.”

As if on cue, five steel bands emerge from hidden openings in the chair and silently encircle Joy’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Then, the actual hypno-hemet part of the machine lights up and starts lowering down until it covers the top part of her head. She notices none of this, as her eyes are closed in blissful enjoyment of her massage.

But when the helmet’s lights begin pulsing rhythmically and a droning buzz sounds within it, her eyes shoot open.

“Is this part of the massage?” Joy asks nervously. “It feels…weird. I don’t like it. Can you make it stop, please?”

Cyril says nothing.

Joy begins to tremble all over.

“Cyril, please. Please make it stop.”

She gasps. Her fingers and toes twitch. Her eyelids flutter. She shakes all over.

“Cyril! Cyril! Cara! Cara, please! Cara! Cara! My head! My head!”

I am shocked. I have never seen anything like this. I turn to Cyril.

“She’s all right,” he assures me. “The induction is confusing and dizzying and disorienting all at once. But she isn’t in pain. And very soon, she’ll be under.”

Torture isn’t his thing, so I have no reason to doubt him. When I turn back to watch Joy, her physical reactions have already lessened. Her eyes have closed. She no longer cries out for help. And then, a few seconds later, she sighs and slumps back in the chair.

For another minute or so, the helmet continues its rhythmic flashing and buzzing. Then, it stops. A moment later, it lifts up off her head. The restraints silently retract into their openings. And the chair lowers back into its original position. Through all of this, Joy remains asleep/hypnotized/zonked out.

“Is that it? Is she hypnotized?” I ask.

“Watch,” Cyril says.

Joy’s eyes open. She stands up. She walks towards us. Her gait is slow and purposeful. But when she reaches us, she does something I don’t expect: She turns toward me.

“You are my mistress, I am your slave,” she says in a monontone drawl. “I will do whatever you tell me.”

“Wait, what?”

I look at Cyril, not understanding. He winks at me again, this time devilishly.

“I know your thing is being the hypnotized slave. And believe me, you’re going to be one tonight. But, I thought you might also like to see how the other half lives. She is programmed to do anything–and I do mean anything–that you tell her to do. Go. Pick one of the rooms. Or, stay here if you want. And have some fun. Come get me when you’re done. Unless…you don’t want to. In that case, I can snap her out of it. And you and I can get right to our–”

“Nothing wrong with seeing how the other half lives,” I say to him, and then to my new devotee, “Follow me, slave.”

Then with a wink of my own to Cyril, I lead Joy out of the room.

About an hour later, I meet Cyril in the den. I am hot and flushed and dissheveled but smiling as I sit down opposite him.

“Joy?” he asks.

“She fell asleep as soon as she we were done.”

“Good,” he says with a nod. “She’ll wake up later feeling great and with no memory of anything but a luxurious massage that made her sleepy. Now, are you ready for your turn?”

“Very much so.”

“Here or under the hypno-helmet?”

“Well, despite some reservations, I think I should keep my promise and try the helmet.”

“Excellent. Let’s do it.”

We head back to the small room. I walk over to the chair, shed my shoes, and sit down in it. Cyril taps commands into his phone. The front of the chair raises up, giving him the view he desires of my soles.

“Like what you see,” I say teasingly while wiggling my toes.

“When it comes to you, always. But especially so right now.”

I’m about to tease him more, when I see the restraints close around me.

“Hey, you don’t need to lock me in. Unlike Joy, I know what I’m getting into.”

“When I use this machine on a subject, it doesn’t matter if she knows what’s about to happen or not. It’s about control, specifically me having control over her. So, strapping you in, even if I know you won’t try to get away, is part of the process. You don’t have a choice now. You can’t escape. I’m going to control your mind and make you my slave, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Right. Okay. Wow.”

This is definitely different than hypnosis where–at least at the start of an induction–I know that I can stop it. I can choose not to focus, not to concentrate, not to let myself drift down into trance. Cyril can’t hypnotize me unless I want to be hypnotized.

But now, that isn’t the case. He told me before that the machine forces a subject into a state of submission and obedience. And I believe him. I saw what it did to Joy. And then I experienced first-hand how truly brainwashed she was. So, no, I don’t have the choice that I would if he were hypnotizing me. I made my one and only choice when I sat down in this chair. Now, all the choices going forward are his to make.

I flex and strain against my bonds. It’s not that I want to get out of the chair, it’s just that I find them unnerving. Then, I see and hear the helmet activate. It lowers down to rest over the top of my head.

This is it. Ready or not, here we go.

Beneath the helmet, the pulsing lights are blindingly bright, and the droning buzz is deafeningly loud. Cyril was right: The bombardment of stimuli is confusing, dizzying, and disorienting. 

Shutting my eyes doesn’t help, and I can’t close my ears. I twist and squirm within my bonds as much as they allow, which isn’t much. I try to concentrate–not on going under, but on not being overwhelmed. But overwhelmed I am.

I don’t like this. It’s too much. It’s getting harder and harder to think. I can hardly keep a thought in my head…

Where am I? What’s going on? When will this stop? When will what stop? What’s going on? What…W-what…w-w-whuh…w-w-whuhhh…uhhhh…

“Uhhhh…” I say, as I open my eyes.

“Hello, beautiful,” Cyril says.

Like morning mist burnt off by the rising sun, my grogginess fades quickly. Soon, wakeful awareness returns to me. I look around, surveying my situation.

I’m lying in bed, atop the blankets, propped up on a pile of pillows. I feel hot and flushed and wonderful–as I always do after a session. Cyril sits on the edge of the bed beside me.

For some reason, my feet are cold. I look past him and see that they remain bare and are quite wet. It’s not the most pleasant feeling, but neither is it a surprise. I’ve learned after many sessions not to be surprised by the condition of my feet when I wake up.

“How about a towel?” I ask, rubbing my damp soles together.

“We used them all. Just wipe them on the blanket.”

“Must have been one hell of a session if it required all of the towels.”

“It was indeed. What do you remember?”

I’m about to tell him that I don’t remember anything. But then, it all comes flooding back:

Coming here right after getting a pedicure, letting myself in as he had told me I should, meeting him in the den, talking about whether to use his machine, deciding to go with a more standard induction method, and then finally the session itself.

And, oh, what a session it was! He used my all-time favorite induction method of a swinging pocket watch. I went under quickly and easily, and I was extremely suggestible–maybe even more so than usual. We had several hours of sexy, kinky, dirty fun together, with him commanding me as my master, and me serving him as his slave.

Finally, when we were both spent, we came into the bedroom where he told me to sleep until I was rested. And I did just that.

“I remember everything,” I tell him. “It just took a second for it to come back to me. Wow! That was one of our best sessions!”

“Agreed.”

“But maybe next time, have more towels on hand.”

“Also agreed.”

“And hey,” I say, poking him with a wet toe. “I am sorry that I wouldn’t let you use your machine on me. I just wanted a tried-and-true hypnosis experience, you know?”

“No problem. I totally understand.”

“Really? You’re not upset?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, good. I’m glad. Maybe next time I’ll be up for trying the machine.”

“You know, I think you will be,” he says with a chuckle.

I don’t understand why he’s laughing. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve just had the best hypnosis session of my life. And I can’t wait to come back for the next one….