A few deep, slow breaths, and then she was on the edge of a cliff set up for rapelling. Peering over the cliff's edge, the subject saw a valley filled with fog that got deeper the further down into the valley you went. The fog represented trance. Being relaxed, happy, and empty. The lower the subject rapelled, the more they would become filled with that fog, and the deeper into trance she would go. She was eager to begin, and so got into position, then began to go down...
And then, stopped. Something was blocking her. The fog refused to let her through. Try as she might, push as hard as she willed, she could not break through. Could not go down. But she wanted to go down. Not being able to go down frustrated her, and so she fought harder, pushed harder. But all that did was made that desire to go under worse. There was a word, she knew, that would let her go under. She knew the word, it was right there on the tip of her tongue. But whenever she reached for it, the word just melted away. And besides, even if she could remember it, the word wouldn't work if she said it. It had to be me. I had to give the word, give the command. I had to give her permission to go down into trance, or she wouldn't go down at all.
Ugh, but what was the word? Dive? Descend? Fall? No, those were close, but wrong. Dive. Descend. They weren't right. They meant the same thing, but they were still so very wrong. All hearing or thinking them did was make her want the right word even more. Make her more and more desperate for my command, for my permission, to go down into trance. To let go of her mind and body. To surrender to the fog, let it make her become relaxed, happy, and empty. Not dive. Not descend. It hurt, how badly she needed to hear me speak the right word. How desperately she craved my permission to go under.
While all this played out in the subject's mind, already enthralled by my voice, I got to enjoy watching her body's response. Pouting became wriggling, squirming, and whimpering, her face became suffused with frustrated longing. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little turned on from watching how readily she accepted my suggestions, knowing that I already had this much control over her, and that I was giving her exactly what she wanted.
She needed my permission to go under. She needed to convince me to give her the right word, give the command, speak the trigger that would let her escape this agonizing, all-consuming need to go under. The word that was not dive or descend was the only thing in the world that mattered to her. Who knows what she would have done for me, or to me, in that moment, if it meant I would relent and give her the release her mind and body were dying to feel.
And were I less ethical, or if we'd negotiated for it before beginning, things might have taken a very interesting turn here. But, no. I have my boundaries, and she has hers, and a hard rule for us both is no renegotiating, under any circumstances, once the session begins. So instead I told her "ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you go under."
"Please?" she replied, soft and full of need.
"No, not good enough," I told her. "I need you to show me how badly you want to go under. Make me believe you need to go into trance." A pause, then, "Beg for it." She obeyed immediately.
"Good girl," I told her once I was satisfied. Then, I gave her what she needed. The trigger. The right word.
She obeyed, instantly and completely. Her head fell forward, her body went limp, her mind falling deep into the fog. Normally it would take hearing the trigger as many as half a dozen times before she'd let it take. But that was when she was bratting, fighting it, fighting me. Making me earn her submission. But this time, she was the one doing the earning, and submission was her reward rather than mine. "Good girl," I praised. "Very good girl, you're doing such a good job." But I was having too much fun to let her off that easy, so the next words out of my mouth were "Now, up-up-up!"
She couldn't resist the command to come out of trance, no matter how much it hurt to obey. No matter how cruel it must have felt to have the sweet release of such a deep trance snatched away so soon after being granted it. And in mere moments, thanks to my voice, the need to go back down made her once again squirm, whimper, writhe, and beg.
She was too out of it to properly form thoughts, let alone words. Maybe even too foggy to properly have feelings. But the need was there already, even before my voice made her whine and beg a third time. Her mind was mine, to do with as I pleased, and what pleased me was just a little more begging me to let her drop.
From here, the next phase of our session could begin. In truth, I would later find out, I'd put her too deep to fully enjoy what was coming next, but she'd still had an amazing time. Something to account for in the future, that. But here, in the present, it was time to have some more fun with her.
The door formed in her mind, guided by the words my voice planted there. A plain door with a steel handle. A doorway into another world, separate from this one. One that she could exit at any time, by activating the failsafe I'd installed in her early in our dynamic. An emergency eject trigger that she could use any time she needed to red out of a scene, and come back out of trance fully awake and alert. But so long as she was inside, I controlled everything she experienced. My voice would not just be her thoughts, but her entire world, crafting the bones of this new, temporary reality which her own subconscious would flesh out.
Through the door she stepped onto a sidewalk, in a neighborhood familiar enough to know it wasn't exactly safe for her to be. Not alone, not at night, and certainly not dressed as she was: her high heels, short skirt, and revealing top made her a beacon for predators. But she'd chosen this route, chosen to be here, chosen to walk down this dangerous stretch of sidewalk with only the orange street lamps to light her way. She heard the sound of rubber on asphalt, then turned to see the unmarked van slow down. Stop for a moment, as whoever was inside took a good, hard look at her and what she was wearing. Then start moving forward again, slower this time, just barely faster than she could walk. Fuck. She knew what that meant. Knew she needed to get away. But there were no alleys to duck into, no open bars or coffee shops for shelter. Just boarded-up storefront after boarded-up storefront down a seemingly endless stretch of deserted sidewalk.
She picked up the pace, but the van kept closing. Broke into a run, but the van adjusted effortlessly. Closing slowly but inexhorably, closing in on her. Twenty feet behind. Then ten. Then five. Then the hood passed her, the side door opened, and three men jumped out. She tried to fight. She was strong, she was trained. She wouldn't go down easy. But the men were stronger. Better-trained. It was barely a contest at all, and then she was tossed into the van. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, zip ties digging into her wrists and ankles. As the van drove off, her captors began joking about her. Wondering how much of a slut she'd turn out to be. How much fun they might have if they took turns fucking her. One of them declared he'd go first, running a hand up her bare thigh. But then another voice barked, quieting them, reminding them that she was off-limits to them. They weren't part of the show. Small comfort as the van hit a pothole, sent her flying up, then down hard on her thigh, elbow, and shoulder.
Check-in time. An inflection point in the story. "Use your hand to tell me how you're feeling." We'd agreed to use ASL as a way to keep the traffic light system in place for when she was too deep to be verbal. Green for all good, yellow for hitting a limit, and red... well. If we hit red, she'd eject. Didn't need my permission for red, and in truth I didn't want her to even think of asking first if it came to that. But she signaled green, with a little waver. "I'm good, but don't push too much harder."
It was impossible for her to tell where the van was taking her. Too many twists and turns. Too much of her captors lusting over her, then being shouted down when they got on the edge of breaking protocol. They backed off each time, and kept their hands off her, but she could feel their eyes boring running greeidly over her, trying to bore through what little fabric she'd chosen to wear. Eventually the van reached its destination, coming to an unceremonious stop. The zip ties holding her ankles together were cut, but not the ones around her writsts. Her gag and blindfold stayed in. Rough, uncaring hands pushed her out the now-open door, into more that manhandled her towards whatever further abuse lay in store. Through another door, down some stairs, then another door.
The shift in the air was palpable as she was shoved through. After just barely keeping her balance, she heard the low din of voices muttering and whispering, felt hungry eyes once again roaming over her thighs, tits, and ass.
Onward the was pulled, tugged if she slowed down, paraded like a show dog for the viewing pleasure of the crowd seated all around her. She tried to listen to what they were saying, hoping for some clue as to why she was here. But their murmurs were indistinct, undecipherable, save for a few stray words like “stupid,” “bitch,” “slut,” and “whore,” always spat with contempt… and a hint of lust. She felt something wet and sticky land on her calf… spit. Phlegm. Someone had spat on her. Then another, and another. Most missed, but more than a few loogies ended up peppering her shins before the crowd fell unto smug chuckling and clinking of glasses. Then is was back to whispers, stupid, bitch, slut, and whore.
She was getting off on it. Getting off on being helpless. Getting off on being reduced to something less than human, a collection of curves and holes for the crowd to defile with their mouths and fuck with their eyes. Getting off on knowing she had no choice but to obey the leash pulling her along like a naughty pet on its way to be punished.