What's this?

Accept that you can't resist

You watch the watch. It’s a trick. A trope of television and bad movies. The sort of thing that happens in a porn where someone swings a watch two or three times and all of a sudden the other person is a zombie slave.

You watch the watch. For longer than you think you should have to. In the shows and stories it’s always quick, a rapid transformation from awake to deeply hypnotized. But you watch it, swinging back and forth no more a magical object of mind control than the watch on your wrist.

You watch the watch. Sure your eyes are getting heavier just as he’s telling you they are. But you’re looking up, straining to watch this watch swinging above you. It would be more magical if your eyes didn’t get tired and heavy. The fact that they want to close just means you’re human, not that he’s hypnotizing you or that you’re slipping into some kind of magical trance.

You watch the watch. He’s been talking to you for what feels like forever. Maybe he hopes to bore you to sleep. Truthfully you stopped paying attention to what he was saying, and started just letting your mind drift. You’re thinking about how you used to see hypnosis in shows way more than you do now. It’s not a plot point anymore. You used to see women being hypnotized a lot. They’d just look at some disco lights or watch a watch.

You watch the watch. Eyes heavier now, almost closing. Tired. Heavy.

You watch the watch. Your mind stops reviewing hypnotic tropes. The girl watches the watch and gets hypnotized. Your mind simply relaxes it’s too much work to think. You don’t need to think or even listen to what he’s saying you just need to watch the watch.

You watch the watch. Your eyes heavy begin to close. Close. You can still see the watch, in your sleeping mind. Swinging. Back and forth.

Does it amuse her? When I’m tied to a chair, with one arm left free? My only purpose then is to hold a vibrator. A shock collar locked around my neck. The remote in her hand as she sits across from me, watching, her lips occasionally gracing the rim of a wine glass.  

“Edge. One hour,” she says with a sweet smile. It unsettles me. “Though, for every edge, you’ll also be gifted a shock. Oh, and you can expect the intensity to increase each time.”

Choice is irrelevant. False hope. Once the hum of the vibrator begins, I know it’s mere minutes before I reach an edge. She reads me like a book, my thoughts written across my face. As if I had any hope of hiding from her anyway.

“If you don’t want to be shocked, maybe you shouldn’t be such a desperate, sensitive thing in the first place.”