Spend as many years as I have messing around with erotic—all right, Femdom—hypnosis or self-hypnosis, and strange things begin to happen at unexpected times. Especially if you were an overimaginative kinkster to begin with, like me.
I started exploring this back in the days before instant Internet MP3 downloads. You placed your order, then waited for an actual cassette tape to arrive in a padded mailer. And if you were buying from Goddess Marquesa, it arrived perfumed as well, which quickly became a Pavlovian trigger all its own. So I’ve been at this, in one way or another, for two decades now, which is more than enough time for old instructions to get crossed and triggers to evolve.
Especially if you actually want it to happen, and on its own, because your messed-with-by-a-stong-woman subconscious mind taking control of your conscious body also pushes your submissive buttons. And I’ll admit, I do, and it does.
Even if it can be kind of unnerving.
Not that I’ve done much hypnotically this year, at least not formally. Subspace is a kind of trance, though, and I’ve definitely spent a lot of time there. Especially those early morning hours when I wake well before the alarm, with the kind of before-dawn erection that just pulls the rest of me onto my side and up against my still-sleeping wife. Even before our contract, when I signed away my sexuality to her, I knew better than to wake her. But now, when any—and I mean any—physical contact with her carries a charge like never before, rolling away is the last thing I want to do. And when you have no idea when your next physical release is coming, even something as simple as spooning is an absolute tease-and-denial session, a tightrope in that I can only push (or even throb) so hard without waking her up and being grumpily ordered back to my side of the bed.
The morning my subconscious decided to make it a threesome, maybe my still-sleeping wife had already primed me by grunting and pushing me away as she rolled onto her back. Or maybe the ten mostly-awake minutes spent remembering not to play with my morning wood had something to do with it as well. Either way, when she rolled back onto her side, and when I rolled back over and up against her back, the frustration soon had me just below the point of tears.
I’d been to the point before, of course. It’s a place the submissive in me craves, a strange brew of sexual control and emotional release and knowing your damn place. Subspace, essentially. But I’d always been able to roll away if things threatened to spill out of control.
Until that morning, at least.
I tried to roll back, and I couldn’t. I tried again, and I still couldn’t. I tried more forcefully, and then even more forcefully, and each time, it was like being bound to her, if invisibly, with the bonds growing stronger than harder I tried to break them. Or at least, that was what I thought at the start, until I realized that every single inch of her pressed against me had this hold, like some even coating of power and control.
Maybe the lack of any recent, actual bondage had primed me. Or maybe the time since our last full-on tease-and-denial session had done it. Not that much time had actually passed, but a few months into our new arrangement, and even a day or two can be hard to bear.
My subconscious had taken a hand in my kink life enough times over the years that I knew what was happening, at least. Not that it did me any good. Twenty years of increasing depth and suggestions had seen to that. My conscious mind understood the situation completely—and understood just as complete that it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. I had passed that point years ago.
So I struggled, as much as I could without waking her, and got nowhere. And I pressed against her, and only grew more frustrated. And I wondered how long until the alarm would sound, because my subconscious would break the spell at that point, I knew, or at least hoped, but I couldn’t see the clock. And I tried not to cry actual tears, of frustration and sexual pain but also of utter submissive joy, because this was the kind of experience I used to fantasize about. And still do. Only fantasy might not be the best term anymore.
The dog, not the alarm, finally brought it to an end. And I saw that it had been well over an hour since I first woke up. I rolled onto my back and away from my wife and felt exhausted, drained, but also humming from head to toe like I do after subbing to her in one of our too-rare public play party scenes.
The only thing better was my wife’s face later that morning, when I told her what had happened.