Self-Hypnosis

by Daniel Guy

If you are weak then stop reading and go find something else to do.  This story could put ideas and maybe even voices into your head, and you might never be quite the same again. Still here? You’re curious. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Who am I?  Some would call me the devil; others say I am the femme fatale to be found hidden in the minds of most men.  Jake – the guy sitting on the couch over there, tells me my name is Isabella. It’s a pretty name.  I don’t mind it all. 

The trouble with Jake is that soon he’s going to be found lying dead on the floor of his bathroom, having asphyxiated himself.  It will be one of those embarrassing deaths that no one will want to talk about.  No one of course will imagine that I had anything to do with it.  Naturally I never leave any evidence.

Look at him, slouching on a large black leather sofa in his large fashionable apartment in the city, overlooking the river.  He’s sharing a bottle of wine with his best friend Jenny.  They chat over the sound of Miles Davis played softly in background on his expensive sound system. You wouldn’t believe there was anything the matter with him. He’s in his forties, still lean and good-looking. He drives a nice car and he has many friends.

But the thing is that Jake is a creative type and a bit of an outsider, which makes him perfect material for people like me.  What the outsider doesn’t find in other people he finds in himself.  Men like Jake have more active imaginations, less belief in the system, less desire to conform.  They are thus more likely to go crazy.  Jake has always thought he could earn the love and respect he craves by what he achieved, so he devoted himself night and day to his business.  When that didn’t work, he became disheartened.  He found himself alone at night with nothing else to do but worry about everything.  People like Jake are so easy for people like me. We can crack them up from inside.

Jake and I first got to know each other three years ago.  It was at a time when he was beginning to get particularly anxious about work.  The successful company he had started up was struggling and he feared that if it went under, he would have nothing in his life.  No one knew how much he worried of course.  His mind was making him unhappy and riddled with tension and stress. Each sleepless night he yearned to be more content.

But Jake’s mind is not a machine. Although it might churn out the same negative thinking over and over again, it becomes weary of the banal repetition. Jake’s imagination began to elaborate and distort his thinking, so that the constant state of anxiety slowly evolved into something else.  That’s when I showed up.

For him it was innocent enough.  One Saturday night, a woman he had invited out suddenly cancelled on him and he found himself feeling lonely again, with nothing to do. He lay in his bed and decided he would fantasise about a beautiful young woman who would distract him from the gloomy prospects whirling constantly around in his head. He imagined a woman who would take care of him and transport him somewhere else, far away. To his surprise the idea aroused him.

Thoughts of her continued to circulate in his imagination and he began to enjoy the idea of having someone like her, take responsibility for his actions and behaviour.  He would visualise her coming in to his study and saying,

Stop, come to bed. Let me massage you. Let me take care of you.

I guess that was all he really needed; someone to take care of him.

Each time he thought of her, the muscles in his body relaxed, and he felt calm and at peace. He would imagine her standing by his bed, watching him, lying still.  In the beginning sometimes this was all he had to do to make him slip away to restful sleep.  Sometimes he became aroused by the idea that she liked him like that, still, passive, exposed.

As the fantasy evolved he came up with the name Isabella.  In his imagination I am a tall and slender, with deep brown eyes and long streams of jet-black hair. He imagined how I would speak to him, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a soft, deep sensual murmur.

Alone, he would catch himself mumbling to himself, imitating my voice. One night, after drinking a bottle of wine, he lay drunk in a daze on the floor of his lounge, and with his hand fumbling down into his pants, he summoned me into his mind and called out to me in a whisper,

 I am yours, Isabella. 

That’s how I came to inhabit his mind. He invited me in. Now I am firmly in control.

At the beginning, he would seek me out when he found himself feeling particularly angry or lonely.  I was his distraction, his escape, his own private fantasy. I was created just for him and I was guaranteed to leave him satiated and at peace. As I evolved, the experience had with me became increasingly sexual and potent.  

Each time I visited, my voice would send gentle waves down his body, slowing his breathing until after a few minutes he would descend into a blissful trance. I would wash his mind of all that burdensome thinking, the responsibility, the disappointments of the day, and once he had sunk to a deep, vacant state, released from the burden of the outside world, he was mine.  

Together we invented a simple game. It was a secret game and only he and I would ever know anything about it.  It was a way of taking him down slowly into trance and to keep him there for as long as I wanted.  He made himself count down slowly from ten down to one, making sure that as he counted, he relaxed his body, sinking down into a cosy place where he could do no wrong because he was not responsible any more for his actions, letting himself slip down to a place where his head was empty of thinking and there was only one voice, my voice, in his head.

He would allow me to switch off his thinking, empty his head and become focussed entirely on my voice. Then when we had finished game, usually in the early hours of the morning, he would slowly count back up from one to ten and then the game would be over and he would pretend it never happened.  

This was the perfect way to train the mind.  Stop the thinking. Replace it with something much simpler, something irresistible.  He let me programme his brain so that each time sank into a mindless state he became instantly horny.  He imagined me giving him permission to play with his dick and to keep it hard for as long as possible. I keep him edging. I make him wait. The longer he waits the greater the thrill. This is the secret.

You’re probably thinking how daft this sounds. How can a man persuade himself to behave so strangely?  Addiction begins with an addiction to certain thoughts and ideas and the addict turns to drink or drugs in order to block them out from his mind.  What a person cannot find in other people, he finds in himself.  He is not the only one to seek companionship and gratification from an imagined friend.

My discovery, fairly early on in our relationship, of a very private sexual fantasy buried deep in his psyche, meant in time I was able to exert much more influence over him. He’d had a thing about women’s stockings. Nothing serious, just a dim sexual fantasy that he had managed to keep repressed all his adult life. One night, while we were playing our little game, and I was making him masturbate for me, I told him he should buy me some stockings. 

This frightened him and he didn’t play the game for two weeks after that.  I would wait for him to call me. I would tap on his window to try to attract his attention and distract him from his work, but he ignored me.  He’d made up his mind that I was corrupting him. He had convinced himself that I was intent on turning him into some kind of sad degenerate.  He decided that he had to find other things to distract him.  He called up old friends he hadn’t seen and started going out to the theatre again.  The fool.  He was destined to be just that – just what he feared the most, and it was pointless trying to resist me.  We become what we think about most. 

Finally he gave in, and found himself going into a shop and buying several pairs of stockings. That night we played the game and I made him put them on. This became a most effective trigger.  I made sure that from that moment on, whenever he saw women’s stockings, he would think of me and become aroused.

After that the games became more interesting.  I would make him wear the stockings and then I would tell him what to do.  Bit by bit, the commands became ever more daring.  You can’t keep doing the same old thing all the time. It’s got to evolve.  The next time it has to be just that little bit more extreme than the time before. Everyone knows that. So I made him buy other things too, more women’s clothing, and a leather collar, which he had to wear all the time to prove he was my slave.  I made him promise never to take it off.

Taking control of a man is a long and gradual process. It cannot be rushed.  It has taken three years to get Jake to this present state.

There was a significant moment, about a year ago, when it began to dawn on poor Jake that he was no longer in control of his life. It was the moment when he realised that he was doing the things I wanted him to do, without consciously realising what he was doing.  I now inhabited his unconscious mind.  Each time he played the game he  gave up control of his physical actions to another force. He was no longer free to do as he wished.   He knew that whenever he let me in, I was sure to grip his balls tight and transform him back into a dumb, obedient slave, grateful for the mind-blowing orgasm he’d have once I finally released him.

This was the tipping point.  After that he truly began to let go, allowing the game to evolve and become ever more dangerous. 

I dared him to put an ad on a gay cruising site so he could meet someone who wanted some fun with a transvestite.  Although the idea revolted Jake at the beginning, it stayed in his mind until eventually the humiliation began to appeal to him. In the end he had to do it.  A young Asian guy came over to his flat.  Jake looked almost convincing in his tight lycra skirt, stockings, pink spangled bra, blonde wig and bright red lipstick.  The Asian guy was happy for Jake to play the dumb bimbo whore. He made Jake kneel down in front of him and suck his cock. Poor Jake had never sucked cock before.  He choked and wretched as the Asian lad pushed it in as deep as he could. 

Jake's preoccupation with me resulted in him becoming more solitary.  There was no one else in his life around to give him that release from tension and that extreme pleasure. I became irresistible.

Most nights he would close his bedroom door and prepare for my arrival.  He would lay naked on his bed, close his eyes start counting down slowly from ten to one, waiting for my voice.  I would make him recite mantras and repeat rituals as proof of my supreme power and his unquestioning obedience.  He would fetch out his sex toys and his feminine clothes and lay them out on the floor around the room.  It has become a sombre private ritual.

He knew what he was doing.  Now he was able to visualise me instantly, I could close off all his usual patterns of thinking. I could control what entered into his consciousness.  I was in complete control of his cock.  I knew all too well what aroused him and what he was ashamed of doing.  I know that these are very similar things.  

I love to see him in that state, mindless, helpless, staring like a zombie, out at nothing, his head filled with just my voice, wanking helplessly, driven to the point of orgasm.  It is bliss, it is divine, his most heightened state of arousal, more potent a sexual force than he has ever felt before. When it is over and he is finally allowed to release and come, it is as pleasurable as any sex he has ever had with another person, real or imagined. Unlike all the women he has known in his life, I am always reliable. I will bring him to a sensational orgasm every time. When finally he comes, he lets out a long and tortured cry of pleasure and a few minutes later he is at last asleep.

Two months ago we reached a critical point in our relationship.I finally made him drink his own piss.  He resisted for a while but then one night he pissed into a cup and then drank it all up and it made him so hard he almost came instantly. When you can arouse a man by humiliating him, you have him for sure.  A week later I made him drink his own spunk and then the following night he was forced to eat his own shit.  After he’d come I released him from my spell. He lay there in bed in the darkness, breathless and covered in sweat and then I heard him whisper to me,

Isabella – what is to become of me?

I told him the truth.  I said that within a few weeks he would be found dead, in his apartment, dressed in women’s clothing, with a plastic bag tied over his head.  I felt he needed to face up to the reality of what was happening but of course it really scared him.  Naturally he stopped playing the game and one again he tried to put me out of his mind. He threw away the stockings, the wigs and make-up and hid the collar and the toys in the back of the wardrobe. He called his doctor and said he needed therapy because he thought he was going mad.  His doctor said waiting lists were so long he wouldn’t be seen for six months, so he gave up.  He knew he didn’t have six months left to live, not if I had my way.  He tried so hard to resist me. He stopped drinking and tried to be more sociable.  It’s pathetic.

I have waited and watched, patiently. This morning his resistance broke and he went out and bought more stockings.  He also bought clear plastic bags, some tape and some new lipstick (deep burgundy, my favourite colour).  Tonight, I think will be the night. 

Ah. Jenny is leaving now. She doesn’t want to.  You can tell she is worried about Jake. He looks very tired and she’s noticed he’s been quiet and withdrawn for weeks.  She has tried to get him to open up but he hasn’t told her a thing. All evening he’s been pretending everything is fine.  It’s not late but he’s told her he’s exhausted and needs an early night. 

At the doorway she hugs him tight, stares questioningly at him for a moment. Finally she leaves.  He closes the door.  He thinks for a moment. He bolts the door.  He clears away the wine bottle and glasses. He glances at his phone.  He stares out of the window at the city, deep in thought.  I wait, patiently.  He wanders into his bedroom, opens his wardrobe, and digs around till he finds the collar.  He sits on the bed and looks at it, and then slowly he straps it around his neck. Good boy. He goes to the drawer in his desk. He pulls out the stockings.  He puts them on his desk and stares down at them for a while…

He gets up. He switches off the Miles Davis and replaces it with his favourite Mahler Symphony.  He returns to his phone and switches it off.

He walks back into his bedroom and lies down.

I can hear him, whispering to himself. He’s starting to count.

Ten, nine, eight, seven…..

Jake - get undressed…

Good boy.

Now put on the stockings…

Jake - put on the lipstick...

Now look at him.  On his knees, transformed once again into a mindless zombie, staring out at nothing. He’s slipped a thick black rubber butt plug up his arse. His mouth is open, his tongue flops over his lower lip and he’s drooling.  His left hand is gripped around his stiff cock. He knows he must not come unless I order him to. The aim of the game is to keep him edged for as long as possible.

Now then Jake, go fetch those bags you bought and that tape.

Now go into the bathroom and do what you know I want to you to do for me.

Do it now, Jake.

Obey your mistress.

Obey your Isabella.  Isabella knows how to make you hard and to keep you edged for hours. Isabella knows how she wants you to come. 

Good boy, Jake.

Damn.  There’s someone at the door. Jenny has left her mobile phone on the coffee table.  Jake is oblivious. Jenny is banging on the door. She’s calling out his name.  Jake cannot hear anything because he’s close to passing out.  Jenny is insistent. She is worried. She’s not going to leave. She’s shouting through the letterbox. The lights are on. She can hear the Mahler. She can sense something is wrong. She kicking the door now and hammering it with her fist.

She’s broken in.  She’s calling his name, searching for him.  She’s found him lying on the floor in the bathroom. She’s screaming with horror. She’s paralysed for a moment.  She’s rushing over. She’s tearing off the plastic bag. She’s laying the inert body flat on the floor. She’s trying to resuscitate him.

He’s breathing. He’s conscious. Looks like she’s got there just in time.  Ah well.  I guess I will have to wait a little longer.  Until next time.

Daniel Guy