“Was there something in the coffee?” I ask, feeling that warm hazy feeling again. That’s how I’d met him, he’d brought me coffee. I’d been at this little cafe a few blocks away from my apartment trying to get some writing done. I had to finish off my latest short story for my publisher, and hoped that a different location would provide some new ideas. Being out in the world was more inspiring than sitting alone at my crowded desk in the small apartment.
I glanced into the cup, remembering that first one he brought me at the cafe. Feeling the same warm feelings now.
He’d sat at my table, or the table I was at rather. It had been rather empty in the cafe but he’d been friendly and outgoing. Asked what I did and I said I wrote erotica. Or rather at first I said I wrote short stories, and only after some prodding did I admit that they were erotic hypnosis tales. He’d been interested, and I’d felt a little flustered having admired what I do so I had accepted his offer of a refill on my coffee focusing on my writing instead of what he was doing with the cup.
“So what are you stuck on?” he had asked as he handed me my cup.
“I’m trying to do a story that’s more a romance and less the evil plotting hypnotist,” I said, taking my first sips.
“But the excitement is in the force isn’t it? The subjugation of the will, the surprise and the resistance,” he said.
I had nodded, surprised that he knew so much about my personal fetish. That was what had been a stumbling block, developing a romance around hypnosis when my natural desires and narrative impulses wanted to drive towards the dominant man taking what he wanted with no hesitation or reservation.
The coffee was overly sweet, too much sugar but I drank it quickly needing the hit of canine to keep me going. However it seemed to have the opposite effect. After a few minutes changing the tense of the story to past tense, I blinked and felt suddenly very heavy. I glanced at my table companion and blinked, my mouth opening to say something but no words coming out. Instead a bit of drool fell onto my laptop’s keyboard.
He smiled, “Pack up your items now.”
I nodded, my mind not even considering disobeying. It was too foggy and heavy to think, or worry or resist. My bag was soon packed and another order had me leading him to my apartment. There he guided me to the couch.
I sat down, my eyes focused on him but my thoughts vacant and drifting. He was talking, but I only listened really when he gave an active command. It was better to just drift otherwise. Listen. He’d been watching me for weeks. Had snuck a peak at my laptop when I was in the bathroom at the cafe a month ago, and realized what I wrote and figured out my pen name.
So he watched me when I came in, read my work to figure out what I liked, and then had taken action. A sedative in my coffee masked with too much sugar. My mind primed to obey because of my own writing, my own fetish. I’d been hypnotizing myself through my stories, and had just been waiting for someone to take me. Capture me.
Control me.
He grinned, explaining to me how I just needed to lay back and listen now. Lay back and listen.
Listen.
That was six months ago. He moved in a few days later. During the day I write, and at night I obey. Today as I look at my morning coffee and feel the same heavy and foggy feelings swim over me I realize I’m not going to get much writing done.
He’s going to control me.
I’m going to obey.
Listen.
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Thank you.