#hypnose

Why think when you can sink?

My eyes get so heavy when I blink

Blinking makes me sink and sinking makes it too hard to think

All I have to do is blink then sink and forget how to think

Woodwind

The scent of old sheet music and rosin filled Mr. Harrison's studio, a familiar perfume to any of his students. But for Clara, it was mingled with the sharp, nervous tang of her own anxiety. She was twenty, a music major with a natural talent for melody but a crippling case of performance anxiety. Her problem wasn't in her fingers or her breath; it was in her head. And Mr. Harrison, a man in his late fifties with a patient demeanor and eyes that seemed to see a little too much, knew it.

"Again, Clara," he said, his voice a low, soothing hum. "Just the first phrase. B-flat, C, D, E-flat. Simple."

Clara brought the gleaming silver flute to her lips. Her full chest, barely contained by the thin fabric of her summer blouse, rose and fell with each shaky breath. She was a striking girl, with wide, innocent eyes and a cascade of blonde hair that fell over her shoulders. The flute looked delicate in her hands, which were currently trembling. She played the phrase, but a slight tremor in her made the C sharp waver.

"No, no, that's not quite it," Mr. Harrison said, not with frustration, but with a gentle, guiding tone. He moved closer, his presence filling the small space between them. "You're tensing up. Your shoulders are practically touching your ears. Relax. Let's try something different."

He took the flute from her hands, his fingers brushing hers. "Close your eyes. Just listen." He played the melody himself, the notes pure, clear, and perfect. It was a simple tune, almost like a lullaby. "Now, I want you to play it back to me. Don't think about the notes. Don't think about your fingers. Just listen to the melody in your head and let it flow out of you."

Clara closed her eyes. He played it again. She lifted the flute and played it back. It was better.

"Excellent," he murmured. "Now, we're going to repeat that. I will play it, then you will play it. Each time you play it, I want you to let yourself feel how easy it is to follow along. Playing on your own can be a challenge, but you're not alone here. You have me to help guide you. And each time you get it right, take half a second to recognize that you did it and how it's not so hard after all."

He played the simple four-note phrase. Clara played it back. As the last note faded, she did feel a strange warmth of gratitude and accomplishment spread through her. He played it again. She played it back. The warmth was stronger this time, a pleasant heaviness in her limbs.

"That's it," Mr. Harrison's voice was a soft caress now, seeming to come from inside her own head. "You're a natural musician and a natural follower. Just focus on the music. The music is all that matters. Play it again, and feel yourself letting go of all that nasty tension, all that worry."

He played. She played. The world outside the melody began to dissolve. The hard bench, the scent of rosin, the feeling of fabric against her skin, the taste of metal on her lips... everything faded into a distant, unimportant hum of those four notes. Her mind, usually a frantic storm of self-doubt, became a calm, still lake. She was no longer Clara, the anxious student. In the depths of her focus, she was a virtuoso, a goddess of music. Her body was merely an instrument, and she didn't need to worry about it. She just needed to relax and let her mouth do the work. It was a profound, liberating thought.

"Very good," his voice echoed. "You're doing so well. You can let go completely now. Just open your eyes when you're ready."

Her eyelids fluttered open. The room was hazy, dreamlike. She looked down. Her blouse was gone. Her bra was gone. Her skirt and panties were pooled on the floor around her ankles. She was completely naked. And between her lips, pressing gently against her tongue, was not the cold metal of a flute, but something warm, alive, and unmistakably fleshy. Mr. Harrison stood before her, his trousers around his knees, his hard cock buried in her mouth.

His hand resting on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Don't worry. Don't think. Just relax. Remember what I told you? Let your mouth do the work."

The words were the key. They unlocked the last of her resistance. 

Let your mouth do the work.

She was a virtuoso. This was her instrument. Her lips, soft and pliant, sealed around his shaft. Her tongue, once so clumsy against the flute's tip, now moved with a natural, instinctual grace. She wasn't thinking; she was just letting her mouth do the work.

She began to suck, slowly and rhythmically. Her head bobbed back and forth, taking him deeper with each pass. The world shrank to this single, primal task. The only thing that existed was the thick, hard presence in her mouth and the low, encouraging sounds he made above her. She felt a sense of pure, mindless purpose. This was easier than playing the flute. This required no thought, no anxiety, no skill she didn't already possess. It was just relaxation and obedience.

His grip tightened in her hair, his hips beginning to thrust gently, meeting her movements. "That's it... just like that... such a good girl..." The praise washed over her, warm and pleasant. She was doing a good job. She was succeeding. She increased her pace, her mouth working him with a devoted, mindless intensity. She could feel him swelling, throbbing against her tongue.

With a guttural groan, he tensed. His cock pulsed, and a hot, thick stream of cum shot directly down her throat. She didn't gag. She didn't flinch. The virtuoso simply did what was expected, swallowing instinctively as he pumped his release into her mouth. When he was finished, he slowly withdrew, leaving a glistening trail on her lips.

Clara remained kneeling, her eyes unfocused, her mind a placid, empty pool.

Mr. Harrison stepped back, pulling up his trousers. He picked up her flute and brought it to his own lips. He played the simple, hypnotic four-note melody once more.

As the notes filled the room, Clara's mind, already adrift, sank back into the deep, silent abyss of trance. Her body slumped slightly, completely limp and receptive. The virtuoso was asleep, waiting patiently for her next cue.

This story was originally requested by @amuscobblestone on my old blog with the following ask: A music student who's covertly hypnotized by her teacher during their lessons. Possibly a flutist who drops steadily into trance as she does her drills, listening to the teacher's voice, maybe over a few lessons, or maybe just one, learning to play the same melody over and over. When she wakes from trance, she finds she's no longer playing the flute, if you catch my drift.

Heheh yoh know what to do