The Hypnosis Show My Wife Dragged Me To

Before I tell you what happened to me, I want to pause for a moment on something almost nobody understands about hypnosis. People keep saying that, even in the deepest trance, a person would never do anything against their own will. It’s true. But it’s also an incomplete truth, and that gap is where everything slips through.

Let me give you an extreme example so it’s easier to understand. I would never obey an order to kill someone. I suppose you think the same: that nothing in the world could force us to do something so unlike who we are. And you’d be right.

Now then, what if, under suggestion, the hypnotist convinces me that the man standing in front of me is a terrorist about to blow up a bus full of children, and at that same instant puts a gun in my hand? My reaction would be completely different. I wouldn’t be killing an innocent man. I’d be saving lives. At least that’s what I would believe.

See where I’m going? You never do certain things knowing you’re doing them. But the hypnotist’s tool is not a direct order: it’s reality. They move it around, dress it up, convince you that things are different from how you perceived them when you were awake.

You’ll think I’m exaggerating. So let’s dial the intensity down a bit. The subject in trance is enormously suggestible; that’s what smoking-cessation treatments are based on. The therapist implants the idea that tobacco tastes rotten, that every puff makes you nauseous. And it works.

Using the same technique, a memory that never existed can be planted. That in your teens you had an experience with another guy and it was pleasant. That that time a friend stared at you in the locker room, you got hard. That you’ve already tried a cock in your mouth and liked the way it filled your throat. Or they can guide your fantasy toward a specific place: that a skirt is nothing but a piece of clothing, that the soft skin under your fingers is the most natural thing in the world, that opening your legs and letting yourself get fucked is nothing to be ashamed of.

If you had asked me a year ago whether I was capable of doing what I’m about to tell you, I would have said no, flat out. Under no circumstances. More than that: some things repulsed me, disgusted me even. The mere idea of having another cock near my face made me gag.

So how did I go from being a happily married man, faithful and completely heterosexual, to this thing I became? How, in barely a few months, did I travel such a road? And how is it that Carla, my wife, whom I love madly, not only accepted it, but was the one who pushed me, who pried other things wide open for me?

This is the story.

***

—Come on, Damián, it’s Friday night. Are we really staying home again? —Carla said from the sofa.

—I’m shattered. I just got home from work. I thought we could spend the night together, put on a movie, have a drink and then, who knows, maybe get a little romantic.

—There you go again with the same old story. You always tell me the same thing and half an hour later you’re snoring on the sofa. Me, bored, watching you sleep with your flaccid cock inside your pants.

She was right and I knew it. More than once I had suggested exactly that plan and it always ended the same way. I could blame the work pace, the fact that the logistics company I run doesn’t give me a break. I wasn’t complaining about the money; we lived well. But the truth was that our life as a couple, for all that we loved each other, had become predictable. Flat. The sex, when there was any, was the same old script: five minutes of kissing, her on top for a while, me on top for a while, a quick finish and then sleep.

—A hypnosis show? —I protested when she told me what she had in mind—. You know that’s not my thing. Some guy gets made to think he’s a chicken and starts clucking. How am I supposed to take that seriously?

—This one’s different. It’s not one of those TV acts that humiliate people. I promise.

—And why don’t we just go out to dinner instead?

—Because for once I want to do something different. Besides, it’s the same show I went to see with the girls two months ago. It’s worth it, Damián. Really.

—All right —I finally gave in—. But when I get bored, at least remember that I love you.

—Sure, now you start holding it against me before we even leave.

—Fine, let’s not argue. I’m in a good mood, I swear.

—That’s more like it. You’ll see, you won’t regret it.

There was something in the way she said that last sentence, a tone I couldn’t quite make out. I attributed it to the silent promise of good sex as a reward for my obedience. Maybe, if I was lucky, she’d even kneel between my legs and suck me all the way down, something she almost never did and that drove me wild.

With that fantasy circling in my head, I got into the shower. Hot water ran down my back while I, instead of thinking about the damned show, thought about the last time Carla had really sucked my cock. It had been her birthday, almost six months earlier, after the third glass of wine. She had dropped to her knees in front of the couch, with that dark look I saw so rarely, and without a word had pulled my pants down.

I remembered clearly how she had pulled my half-hard cock out of my briefs, how she had weighed it in her hand, how she had run it over her parted lips before taking only the tip into her mouth and teasing the frenulum with her tongue. My whole skin prickled under the shower water just remembering the way she spat on the head and used that spit to slide her fist up and down my shaft, while she licked my balls, one first, then the other, sucking them whole into her mouth.

I grabbed my cock in the shower, already rock hard, and jerked off slowly thinking about how Carla, that night, had opened her throat and taken in the eight or nine centimeters I had, coughing a little, eyes glassy, drool running down her chin. How I felt her moaning with her mouth full, the vibration running the whole length of my cock. How she dug her nails into my thighs to keep herself still and not pull away when I, unable to help myself, thrust my hips upward and fucked her mouth for a few seconds. How, when I warned her I was about to come, she didn’t move away: she barely pulled off a little, closed her fist around the shaft and pointed her open mouth and tongue out at me. I filled her face and tongue with semen, thick ropes that splashed over her cheek, over her lips, over her tits. Then she licked her fingers, one by one, never taking her eyes off me.

I almost came right there, in the shower, fist wrapped around my cock. I let go in time. If I held out, if I behaved myself at the show, maybe that night I’d get a second round. I turned off the tap, dried myself with my cock still hard, and went out thinking more about the ride home and my reward as a good husband than about the damned show.

***

The venue was in a remote neighborhood, south of the city. It wasn’t a theater, which surprised me, but rather a small, windowless bar set up in what looked like an old house with high ceilings. Five tables, a tiny stage, and not much else.

The place was almost full, all the tables occupied, though with only two or three people at each one. That gave it an intimate feel, quiet, almost conspiratorial. I relaxed as soon as I sat down.

It was clear the idea wasn’t just to watch a show, but to settle in, have a drink, and, incidentally, enjoy a performance whose quality I still doubted.

A very pretty waitress took our order. I remember forcing myself to stop staring at her neckline, at the two firm white breasts spilling out of the bodice, so Carla wouldn’t catch me. We ordered a couple of drinks, talked about things we hadn’t had the luxury of discussing in a long time, and I started to feel genuinely good.

At some point the room lights went out. A couple of spotlights came on over the stage and Madame Soraya’s show began.

The woman who came out left me speechless. Jet-black hair tied up in a high ponytail, a dark dress of a material that from a distance looked like latex because of how it shone and clung to her body, outlining every curve. Long, almost to the ankles, but with a brutal slit up the right leg that climbed all the way to the hip, leaving it clear she wasn’t wearing panties underneath, or at least that’s what I wanted to believe.

The makeup in deep tones, the lips painted a nearly violent crimson —cock-sucking lips, I suddenly thought, and surprised myself— made her even more magnetic. Her tits pressed hard against the latex, with two tiny points showing where the nipples were. Completing the outfit were black stockings and at least twelve-centimeter needle heels, in which she walked with a naturalness that seemed impossible to me.

—Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my show. I’m Madame Soraya and I hope tonight you not only enjoy yourselves, but that, in some way, it changes your life.

The line struck me as arrogant. I was already confirming my theory that I had a con artist in front of me when she went on:

—But, as you can imagine, before we begin I need a volunteer from the audience. Who’s up for it?

Without giving me time to react, Carla grabbed my arm and raised it for me.

—Him, please! He’s as skeptical as they come. Maybe he’ll learn something.

—What are you doing? —I hissed at her—. You know I hate this stuff. What if one of my clients sees me making an ass of myself?

—Come on, there’s hardly anyone here. Or are you a little girl and you’re scared?

She hit exactly where she knew it would hurt. I got to my feet almost without thinking.

—You’ll see how this “little girl” shows you your hypnotist is a fraud.

—Very well —said Madame Soraya, with a smile I took too long to understand—. We have a volunteer. Come on up, please.

I went up onto the stage. Two waitresses, now acting as assistants, brought over a chair and invited me to sit. Up close, the woman was even more imposing than from afar. My eyes roamed over her body without permission, settling on the legs encased in black stockings, on the slit in the dress that revealed the white inner thigh, on the deep neckline from which those big, hard tits rose, on the painted lips that struck me as fleshy and hot, on the legs again. My cock stirred inside my pants and I crossed one leg to hide it.

—Relax. Trust me. Now I want you to look carefully at the pendant I’m wearing around my neck.

Hanging from her neck was a fine chain finished with a cut crystal that rested right in the center of her chest, between her two tits, swaying slightly with the rhythm of her breathing.

Well, if she’s asking me to, I thought, delighted to have official permission to stare at such beauty with total shamelessness.

Good things don’t last long. That thought is the last thing I remember.

***

What came next, for me just a blink of an eye later, was finding myself seated in the same chair with Madame Soraya two meters away, her back to me, addressing the audience.

—And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the real power of hypnosis. We’ve taken a little walk through this man’s mind. And I can assure you that, from now on, it will never be the same again.

The room, for all the few people in it, burst into applause. I looked for Carla and found her clapping like a maniac, with a huge smile on her face.

—What happened? Did she make me look ridiculous? —I asked when I returned to my seat, still dazed.

—Not at all. Honestly, if it had depended on your participation, it would have been pretty boring.

—Well, you wanted to come, it’s not up to me. Don’t complain now.

—I’m not complaining. The show was awesome.

—Then tell me what I did.

—Nothing worth telling. You’ll see for yourself.

She said it smiling and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. I was insanely curious, but I knew Carla: when she got mysterious, there was no getting a word out of her. Pressing only made her enjoy the secret more.

The rest of the night passed completely normally. We had another drink, she laughed at something I said, I slid my hand under the table and squeezed her inner thigh, slowly moving up until my fingers brushed the warm bulge between her legs, feeling through her panties that she was hot. She batted my hand away with a playful gesture and whispered in my ear, “Patience, at home.” I got hard again. Then we went back home, I drove, she hummed, and I spent the whole drive dreaming of my reward for having gone along, imagining her on her knees again, imagining myself buried between her legs licking her cunt until she came, imagining her on all fours with her ass raised, waiting for me to shove it all the way in.

***

I got into bed while she lingered in the bathroom. I could hear the tap, the rustle of clothes, the click of a cream jar. Here comes my reward, I thought, and settled against the pillows with an idiotic smile. I put a hand over my cock through my briefs. It was already hard just from imagining what was coming: Carla’s mouth wrapped around me, her tits brushing my thighs, her tongue working my head while she held my balls in her other hand.

She finally came out, wearing an old T-shirt of mine that was far too big on her and with her hair loose. She had nothing on underneath: her hard nipples showed through the thin fabric and, when she came closer, I could make out a dark patch of hair between her legs. My pulse shot up. She climbed onto the bed on all fours, came up slowly, leaned over me, stroked my cheek with the back of her fingers. She smelled like that almond cream she always uses. I slid a hand under the T-shirt, grabbed a full hot breast, pinched the nipple between two fingers. She closed her eyes and smiled. I leaned in to kiss her.

—Good night, princess —she whispered in my ear.

And then something happened that even today I still struggle to put into words.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch in some corner of my head I had no access to. A warm heaviness climbed from my chest to my eyelids. My erection melted away in my briefs as if it had never been there. The arousal, the desire, the need, all of it dissolved at once and in its place remained a strange calm, obedient, almost pleasurable. I felt no fear. I felt nothing like the rejection I would have felt any other night at hearing that word directed at me.

I felt, absurdly enough, that the word fit. That I had been wearing it all my life without knowing it.

I sank into sleep unable to resist, my arms heavy, my breathing slow, Carla’s hand still resting on my cheek as if she were blessing me. And just before crossing the threshold, I caught Carla’s voice, soft, satisfied, speaking to someone who wasn’t exactly me:

—Welcome to the club.

I didn’t understand those words that night. It would take weeks before I even started to understand them. And by the time I did, it was already too late to want to turn back.