“I’ll be taking a few more questions now,” Mistress Susan said. “Does anyone want to ask something about what you just saw?”

A forest of hands shot up in the audience, eager to probe deeper into the mechanics of linguistic hypnosis. Questions flew - at first in polite, stilted succession, then in a more chaotic volley, as if no one wanted to risk missing their chance to unravel some small portion of Mistress Susan’s uncanny skill.

Meredith returned to her seat, her body possessing the same stillness that comes after a long, slow shudder, her posture perfectly upright yet vibrating with invisible aftershocks. She watched the hands rise and fall, the faces of her fellow attendees split between academic hunger and something subtler, a kind of longing that mirrored her own. She was acutely aware of the way her pulse still lingered in her fingertips, the faint electric hum along her jaw, as if she could fall into a trance again at any moment.

A woman in a linen suit, her graying hair gathered into a barrette, was the first to intervene. “Could you elaborate on the overlap between semantic processing and post-hypnotic suggestion? To what extent does the subject’s native language structure the trance?”

Mistress Susan’s lips curved into a precise smile, her gaze settling on the woman with a laser-like intensity. “An excellent question,” she said, her voice modulated to a pitch that seemed to vibrate just beneath the skin of every listener. “Language isn’t merely a communication tool; it’s a neural architecture that shapes perception itself. Certain  constructions only exist in certain languages, and that means that…”

Meredith drifted off, not really paying attention to what came after. The academic discourse was mesmerizing in itself, each word feeling like another delicate layer of a complex mechanism being carefully unpacked.

The woman in the linen suit adjusted her glasses, her posture betraying a scholarly intensity that matched Mistress Susan’s own. “So the linguistic structures themselves create cognitive pathways for suggestion?”

“Precisely,” Mistress Susan replied.

Another hand rose, this time a pale, freckled man with the nervous energy of a first-year grad student. “But is it possible to create persistent effects without the subject’s agreement? Like, could you make someone forget a language entirely, and have that persist after the trance?”

Mistress Susan paused, as if parsing the ethics of such a thing. “The answer,” she said, “is yes, but only with extraordinary rapport, and even then, the effect is rarely permanent. The mind’s natural resilience is formidable. What you can do, however, is plant a kind of… seed. A concept that waits, dormant, until the right conditions trigger it again. Like a linguistic sleeper cell.” She let that hang for a moment. “Of course, we’re not in the business of breaking people. The joy is in playing, not ruining.”

A ripple of laughter again, but this time tinged with nervousness. Meredith wondered how many in the room were recalculating their sense of safety, how many were newly alert to the vulnerability in their minds.

The Q&A session gathered pace, each exchange a duel of intellect and implication. There were questions about the limits of selfhood, the mechanics of trance, and the overlap between hypnagogia and erotic surrender. Meredith followed the thread where she could, but more often she found herself drifting back to the moment Susan’s voice had slipped past the soft tissue of her ear, the instant the world had become nothing but suggestion and want.

Out of the corner of her eye, Meredith caught sight of one of the staff members, an androgynous figure in a tailored oxblood suit, whispering to Mistress Susan. A subtle gesture, a glance at the clock. Time was almost up.

“Before we adjourn,” Mistress Susan said, reclaiming the floor, “thank you all for your curiosity. Hypnosis is not merely a tool for control or entertainment. It is a language in itself. And like all languages, it is most beautiful when shared.” She cast a final, lingering look at Meredith. “We’ll continue our explorations after lunch. For now, take care of your bodies, and your minds will follow.”

The staff member stepped forward, projecting their voice with gentle authority. “Thank you, Mistress Susan. Lunch is available in the East Conference Hall. Chef Maurice has prepared a Mediterranean-inspired buffet, including vegan and gluten-free options. We reconvene at 1:30 sharp for the afternoon workshops.”

The spell of the demonstration broke, replaced by the awkward, anticlimactic logistics of reentering the “real” world. Meredith watched the sea of attendees rise in a kind of collective exhale, the scraping of chairs and the gathering of bags as abrupt as a bell. Around her, snippets of conversation ricocheted off the walls: “I’ve never seen anything like it…” “Did you notice how she set the trigger?” “If she could do that to a volunteer, imagine what she could do to someone who resisted…”

Meredith made no move to leave immediately. She sat, fingers interlaced on her lap, letting the din flow around her. She could feel the warmth of where Susan’s hand had rested on her shoulder, a ghostly imprint that seemed to radiate outward. She wanted, for a moment, to be alone with her thoughts - to replay the demonstration and to inventory the new terrain of her mind. But the room was quickly emptying.

As she gathered her things, Meredith became aware of the woman from the earlier Q&A - the one with the barrette - lingering by the exit. She was watching Meredith with a curious, appraising look, as if she’d identified some shared secret. When their eyes met, she smiled and mouthed the word “brave.” Meredith felt a flush climb her cheeks.

She realized then that she wanted to talk to Susan again, and if the connection they’d shared on stage was real, or simply an artifact of suggestion. But the hypnodomme was already surrounded by admirers, her every word being hoarded and dissected for later use. Ava and Rachel were there, and Dominic had already disappeared into the crowd.

The crowd funneled into the hallway, and Meredith let herself be swept along, her body light and unfamiliar. She passed the refreshment table, the familiar landscape transformed: what once would have been a utilitarian spread of sandwiches and bottled water now struck her as a decadent feast, each detail heightened by her lingering state. The grapes looked plumper, the olives glossier, and even the paper napkins were soft as silk.

She filled a plate almost absentmindedly, her attention returning to the shadow-Susan in her mind, the fantasy sequence looping with minor variations. She wondered if it was possible to self-hypnotize, to fall back into trance just by wanting it enough.

A tap on her shoulder. Meredith turned, half expecting to see Susan, but found herself face to face with the grad student from earlier.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” he said, his fingers fidgeting with the lanyard around his neck. “I just wanted to say that I admired your performance up there. The way you responded to Mistress Susan’s suggestions was... remarkable.”

Meredith felt a sudden heat climb her neck. She didn’t expect anyone to single her out, let alone comment on her time on stage. The grad student’s eyes were bright with a mixture of academic curiosity and something else - admiration, maybe, or a kind of nervous excitement.

“Oh…  Thank you.”

He shuffled closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve read many things about the power of suggestibility, but seeing it live - watching how quickly you went under - that was something else entirely. Truly fascinating.”

Meredith wasn’t sure if he was complimenting her or analyzing her like a specimen. The intensity of his gaze made her want to step back, to reassert some boundary that had been blurred during Mistress Susan’s demonstration.

Before she could respond, a voice called out from across the room. The hypnodomme wanted the pleasure of her company again.