Beginnning To Drop

I talk about this a lot, the most erotic thing about hypnosis for me is the drop. The eyes fluttering a bit too much, perhaps the sub takes in a deeper than usual breath. The slight movement as they readjust their position, almost to combat this manifesting arousal spreading from their legs to the rest of the poor body

This is the most erotic thing, it is the beginning of me getting my way. The tendrils of temptation and desire beginning to tantalize your mind, the thoughts slowing down to make way for this behemoth of pleasure I will command you with.

How can one not be aroused by it, how can one simply acknowledge it? I want you squirming with the idea of my voice simply whispering away your identity and make your will, wishes, and purpose to be corrupted to seeing me as the only thing needed for your pitifulerotic happiness. This is where I get to make my bed, and I will certainly lie in it.

t.w. harassment, politics

“Priscilla,” I shout, and my shout travels down the winding, echoing halls. No answer. I make a mental note to fire her the next time I see her. Or possibly put a hand on her ass or, if I have the time, objectify or assault her in a more creative way, something inspirationally degrading, something that befits a U.S Congressman. 

“Goddammit,” I mutter, picking myself up off the floor. It’s shiny and slick and white, hard, and I feel bruised as if I fell here. I don’t remember falling. “The fuck is this shit, Priscilla? Priscilla, where am I?” 

My secretary still doesn’t answer. For the first time in a year, she’s not here.

“Siri?” I ask. “Alexa?” My hands started patting my perfectly tailored suit pockets frantically. I still have my flag pin. Thank god for small mercies. If the constituents saw me without that… But where is my phone?

“Alexa?” I holler, starting to breathe heavily. I pause, count to ten like my wife’s therapist told me. (She really is my wife’s therapist. I saw her one time, goddammit. I don’t need a therapist. My mind is strong. My mind is fucking jacked, like Chuck Norris, or Hulk Hogan, or someone else equally muscled and mentally fearless.) But Alexa isn’t answering, and counting to ten isn’t working.

“ALEXAAAAA!!!!” I scream, starting to stumble down the long, smooth white hallway. “JEFF BEZOS!!!!”

No Priscilla, no Siri, no Alexa. I’m alone with my thoughts. It is silent like a grave. Like my grave. 

Oh fuck, don’t think like that. You are fearless, you are powerful, you are a badass. You are the ranking member of the U.S. House Committee on Railroads, Pipelines, and Hazardous Materials. You have seen battle, and three different filibusters. 

“Somebody, anybody, just tell me where I am!” I shout into the still, quiet air. As I stumble forward, the path splits into three. I turn right, and then right again. A dead end. I stumble back.

“What is this, some kind of maze?” I ask. I’m scared and hungry. I search my pockets for some kind of food, and grab something pleasantly squishy. A tide pod? I put it back in my pocket for later. “Whoever did this, I’ll have you up on treason! Let me out!”

Still nothing.

“Where am–SHIT FUCKING FUCKER!” I trip on something, crash to the floor. Scrambling behind me, I grab a book. A book? It’s weird, musty. I haven’t smelled a book since Jeff replaced all the books in my house with individual kindles in return for that little favor with the whipped cream and the midnight vote. This book seems old and moldy, and the pages are weird and–

“Ugh, it’s skin!” I shout. I throw the book away from me. I realize how middle class I just sounded, and murmur more calmly, “Aha, what well-preserved vellum.” One never knows when the voters are listening, after all. I pull the book back again hesitantly. 

In looping, dark maroon letters it says The Ivory Labyrinth. In smaller writing underneath, it says Written In 1156.

The ivory…all the smooth white stone lining everything I see, it’s not stone at all. And it’s not a maze, it’s a labyrinth. I just put things together in a way that resembles intelligence. I feel kind of proud of myself. 

The first page only says Pay for your crimes, Congressman. I’m surprised for a second. Did they have congressmen in the 12th century? I suppose so. We are a noble lineage. I try to remember when America was founded. I know it was in July. Can’t remember the rest. 

Or maybe it means me specifically? Was it written just for me?

Pay for my crimes. I don’t like it. Sounds ominous, but I’m probably overreacting. I count to ten again like Myrtle taught me.

But it couldn’t be me. I’m 99% sure I was born in the 20th century. The 1% is vaguely concerning. I should be more sure. But I definitely wasn’t around in 1156. I wasn’t even elected until 1984!

I walk forward, leaving the book behind, drawn by something, and slowly, I lose myself in the endless white. Step after step, the smooth walls curve away from me, twisting and swirling until I lose all direction.

What does it all mean? Why me?

I’m parched, and I fall to my knees. “Water,” I croak. For Elephants, my head supplies. Am I delirious?

“No,” I gasp, “It can’t be.” I subside into silence, and then, “The elephants,” I murmur hopelessly. “The ivory trade.”

I pull myself up. “It wasn’t my idea!” I shout. My shout echoes emptily along the ivory veins. “I’m sorry I told Trump to lift the ban on ivory trading! You’re overreacting! It was just a deal between friends! The elephants were fucked already, and somebody had to benefit!”

There is no noise, only the endless silence of my ivory prison. Somehow, I knew the elephants would have their revenge. Somehow, wasting away in the ivory labyrinth feels fated.

Am I insane? 

Does it matter?

I won’t escape here in time for midterms, I realize.

Nothing matters at all.

FIN

Yeah idk what happened here either, but sometimes inspiration strikes and brings you to weird places. Credit to the creators of Magical Realism Bot