Her Wildest Dreams

[Author's note: Harper James has turned to hypnotic scripts as therapy for her anxiety condition. However, they are opening up a new world of possibilities for her and her husband Peter.]

---

THE RULE OF LAW

Harper surfaced reluctantly from a dream of spices. She was lying on her front in bed, naked. There were sounds coming from the bathroom and when she prised her eyes open at last, the other side of the bed was empty.

"It lives."

Harper rolled over, gathering the sheets around her bare top, her long, dark hair tangled around her face. She clawed it into some semblance of order, then glowered at her husband.

"You're full of beans, Pete."

Peter was wrapped in a towel, already showered. "You're going to be late for work," he said, fishing underwear out of a drawer.

"What time is it?"

"Half seven."

"Ugh. Plenty of time."

Peter removed the towel and slipped his underwear on, padding barefoot across the carpet to her. He leaned down for a kiss, smiling brightly.

"How're you going?" he asked.

Harper shifted experimentally, then grimaced. "Stiff as a board, Pete."

Her husband went over to the wardrobe, picking out a shirt and pants, getting ready for his day. "And why on Earth would that be?" he asked over his shoulder.

"You know, Pete. You were there."

"Mostly."

Harper drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them. She watched her husband getting dressed, trying to summon up the energy to haul herself out of bed. Mostly, he'd said.

The memories came flooding back, of being positioned naked on the edge of the kitchen benchtop, confronted with an unreasoning beast whose sole purpose was to fuck. Peter had gone deep into a trance at the first attempt, and it had enabled her to unleash something in him, a primal element that she'd only ever seen glimpses of before, snatched in the moments that they made love.

Harper had clicked her fingers, sending him under again afterwards, enjoying him a second time. Then she'd put him into a deep, normal sleep and cuddled up to his supine body in the dark.

Her husband had gone under effortlessly. Harper couldn't fool herself into thinking that she was a master hypnotist. She'd just read the script out in the way she knew it needed to be read, her voice instead of the guy who did the original recording. Peter had resisted a man telling him what to do, but had succumbed quickly to his wife. That meant something.

"Breakfast?" Peter called out. "Get a shower and I'll get it ready. Come on slowcoach, you're really going to be late."

"That might have something to do with being your...." Harper stopped, breaking off the sentence.

"My what?"

Sex toy, Harper thought to herself. Fuck hole. Deep in trance, triggered to perform, with his cock hypnotically trapped at full erection, unable to cum until she did, he had sated himself in her body. She had never felt anything like it in her life: the need, the power. It had all been under her control too, like harnessing the beast that dwelt unseen within her husband.

"Your lover all night," Harper concluded lamely. There wasn't time for that conversation now.

Peter strode back to the bed, fully dressed now, cupping her chin to deliver a longer kiss. Harper broke away quickly, even as the feelings began to stir.

"No, Pete. I won't be able to walk straight as it is today. I can't believe you've got the energy."

Her husband's bright blue eyes sparkled with mirth. "You have no idea, babe. Last night was amazing. Do you think the trigger's still there?"

Despite herself, Harper looked at her husband's crotch. The temptation to tap his manhood was almost too much. Would he rise for her, and remain erect until she released him from the trigger? Looking into his eyes, she had the uneasy feeling that his cock was still firmly under her control because deep down, Peter wanted it that way. He'd responded enthusiastically to her hypnotic commands.

"Still think you're bewitched, Pete?"

Peter kissed her again. "Of course. You bewitch me every day."

"Go, let me get dressed. You're gonna make me late."

Peter gave her a smile and walked out of the bedroom. Harper rested her chin on her knees, staring into space. Her body ached because she'd been ridden thoroughly last night, cumming hard each time. It hadn't all been because of her husband's ardent efforts though. There had been the other part, the new thing. That was the issue with anxiety, the helplessness, knowing that it could come on and she'd have no control over it. Last night, she'd had control. She'd been able to stop and start her husband like a toy.

---

Sutherwell pitched itself as Walker Terrin for the rest of us. They knew their market, selling high-end designer-adjacent fashion at a more reasonable pricetag. Peter pulled into the front of the mall at five minutes to nine, and she bailed out of the car.

It was a mid-sized mall, enough shops that the locals didn't have to travel an hour to the city, to Centrepoint, for their fashion. She'd had the attack in Centrepoint, hiding between parked cars, crying, until Peter had come along. This mall was more her size: two levels, a food court. Lane Beecham was already setting up the checkout till when she walked in through Sutherwell's high double glass doors.

"Morning, Harper," Lane called out.

That was a relief. Harper didn't need a look from her boss that told her she'd nearly been late. "Hey," Harper called back.

She went into the back office, stashing her handbag and taking a moment to check over her look in the mirror. Harper was in a little black dress that hugged her body and strappy flat sandals because she was going to be on the shop floor all day. She'd tied her dark hair back in a neatly-brushed ponytail and applied minimal make-up, just enough to accent her soft face and her wide, grey eyes. That was the advantage to working at Sutherwell: she got her pick of the last-season outfits at a substantial discount. She could also usually get a good deal on current season, providing she hit up Lane at the right time. Like now. Harper walked back onto the shop floor and took up her position at the counter, next to the taller, blonde woman.

"You're looking good," Harper began. "I like your hair."

Lane ran her fingers through her long, straight hair, smiling at the compliment. "Yeah, feeling good," Lane replied.

Harper fixed her boss with a look. Although Lane was a few years older, they'd always gotten on well. "Spill it," she said.

Lane hesitated, but then seemed to opt for a sly smile. She didn't say anything.

"Date night?" Harper ventured.

"Date night," Lane confirmed. "Kids at grandparents. Road-tested the green dress."

Lane nodded at a mannequin wearing a tight, short dress in dark green. Harper could imagine it on her boss's trim body, flashing her legs for her husband. Lane's smile was infectious, and Harper couldn't help but ask. "And?"

"Confirmed we are go for number three," Lane confessed, eyes dancing like she was confessing a dirty secret. "I managed to talk him into it."

"Talked. Sure."

"Well, I sort of had my hip like this," Lane mimed a motion. "And then my hand about here, and he came around to the idea."

She laughed, and Harper laughed too. A customer wandered into the store, interrupting them. Harper straightened her dress and stepped out to greet the newcomer. The subject of staff rates on a new dress would have to wait.

Business was steady through the morning, and Harper welcomed the distraction from the stiffness she felt. Peter had ridden her hard the second time too, pinning her beneath his spare body, glistening with sweat as he thrust deeply inside her. He'd been rock hard again, at just a touch of her fingertip, reacting instantly to the post-hypnotic trigger she'd placed into his mind. More than that, she'd looked up into his bright blue eyes and had seen them empty of their own volition of all higher thought, until he was reduced to being a fucking machine. Peter had positioned himself in place between her legs and brought her effortlessly to completion without complaint or demand, cumming powerfully inside her the moment that her orgasm had hit.

She looked down at the sweater in her hands. She'd been folding it, but that was minutes ago. The image of her husband's glistening, straining chest above her had transported Harper away. There was a tingle, and she grimaced. Even despite being ridden to blissful ecstasy twice, she could still get the itch the next morning.

Harper distracted herself with rearranging the clothes racks and thinking about her book. She'd managed to get as far as the main character meeting the man she'd been sent to ensnare, the master of the all-powerful Spice Guild. It was a framing scene for all the conflict that would happen later, so it needed to be powerful. Once again, she entertained the notion.

It seemed simple enough, like just doing research. Sala was well defined by now in Harper's imagination. She could write out a character synopsis like she'd written out Germaine Priestly. She could talk Peter into trying it at the weekend. But, after last night, the other possibility was tantalising. Carrick, the head of the guild was more of an unknown, but she'd be able to write a synopsis for him too. Would Peter agree to play him?

She'd come to a halt again, in front of one of the full-length dressing mirrors. She examined her reflection, imagining Sala looking back at her instead. Peter was certainly capable, and when he'd turned Harper into Germaine in the hotel room, she'd looked around and seen the fine silk sheets on the bed, the opulent penthouse around her, exactly as described. Stepping into Sala's world was enticing, and the possibility of being there with Peter too was an entirely new dimension.

There would need to be a plan, and safeguards. They would be both in a trance, playing their parts. She would need to set an alarm or something. Her mind buzzed with the possibilities.

---

That night, at dinner, she broached the subject with Peter. She arranged the cutlery neatly on her empty plate and waited for him to look up.

"I've had an idea, Pete."

"Again?"

"No, I'm still a bit tender from last night. It's about what I'm writing."

"The Rule of Law?"

Harper nodded. She'd called it that, and Peter had been following each chapter as she wrote it. He offered his viewpoint sparingly, but it encouraged her immensely that he was taking an interest, eager to read each new installment.

"It's good, babe," he continued. "I'm not usually into fantasy, but you're really building the world. I don't know where it's all coming from."

"Me neither, Pete." Harper allowed herself a little smile. "Which is why I've been thinking."

Peter finished his meal and put his cutlery down too, leaning back in his chair. He was waiting.

"Remember Germaine's penthouse scene?" she asked.

"Unlikely to ever forget. You were on fire."

"Yeah, well, I was thinking whether you wanted to try something like that again." Harper bit her lip, scrutinising her husband's expression for a hint of his feelings. "It could be fun," she finished, lamely.

"And who would you be this time?"

"I've got notes."

"Of course you have, Harper. Of course you have."

She knew that she was stalling, and she came out with it. "I've got notes on the male main character too."

Peter's face clouded, and he leaned forward. She met his gaze with as much grace as she could muster. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts.

"You want me to do it as well?" Peter asked. His posture gave nothing away.

"You'd be the master of the Spice Guild. His name's Carrick. She's there to seduce him."

Peter regarded her levelly across the table, then he shrugged. "What's his motivation?"

"He's the man. He rules the guild with an iron fist, and through that, he's highly influential in the city, too. There isn't much that happens there that he doesn't know about or have a finger in."

"And her?"

"Sala? She's been sent to lure him in, to get hold of his secrets so that her owner can destroy him."

Peter contemplated her words for a moment, then rose smoothly to collect their plates from the table. She watched him cross over to the dishwasher and begin to load it. Her palms were itching, and she realised that she was holding her breath, but Peter let the silence lengthen.

"Ready for dessert?" he called out.

"Sure."

Peter busied himself chopping strawberries, adding a dollop of ice cream. They were both drinking water, Peter in support of her abstinence just in case she'd fallen pregnant. He deposited her bowl in front of her and resumed his seat.

"What do you think?" Harper chanced.

"There are issues."

Harper's face fell. "I know, but...."

"I mean, Carrick, he's not stupid, right? And in your world, women are just property. Why would he just accept the fact that another guy's property has walked into his office, let alone wants to be with him. He'd see it as theft."

"Maybe her owner has leant her out."

"And Carrick isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, correct?"

"Maybe he's got his reasons, Pete. There's where I'm struggling. That's why I want to get into the scene and walk around in it. If it isn't believable, the rest of the story's pointless."

Peter scooped up a strawberry, popping it into his mouth. Harper watched her husband eat, waiting on his judgement.

"How much artistic license would I have?" he said at last.

Harper smiled, relieved. "As much as you want, Pete."

"Do you have a visual? I'd need to know what they looked like."

"I can dig something up."

---

Sala arranged her silks carefully, and ran fingers through her long, dark hair again. If she'd been red, or even blonde, this would have been a lot easier. That her owner, Marko, the leader of the Merchant Adventurers, had sent a mere brunette could be taken as an insult to the man behind the impressive wooden door. Sala fussed with her hair nervously. She could have lightened it like some of the women did, but Carrick would see straight through that, and it would make her look cheap, like she was lying to him, and that wouldn't help her at all. Sala had seen women like that in the market on the sale blocks, hair bleached in a desperate attempt to increase their price. No, better to be how she was, who she was, and trust that Carrick would at least value her honesty.

Sala fussed with her silks again, exposing just a little cleavage, clad in russet and green with her finest sandals tied and cross-tied up to her knees. She adjusted the leather collar around her neck then drew in a deep breath. She knocked, and waited.

A man's voice called out, "Enter."

Sala pushed the heavy, oak door open just enough to slip through into Carrick's chamber. She closed the door carefully behind her, her heart fluttering in her chest, and then turned to the owner of the voice.

Carrick's chamber was as opulent as she'd expected. The stone floor was carefully laid, the walls hung with maps of the world, each one a treasure in itself. The windows admitted a sweeping view across Andimon city, the stone towers shimmering in the heat haze of the midday sun. Her skin prickled from the warmth, and she could feel the silk sticking to the small of her back. But her dress was gossamer-light and she was naked beneath. In the middle of the floor, seated behind the impressive bulk of a time-worn oak desk, was the man she had been commanded by her owner to seduce.

Carrick stacked the papers in front of him carefully and replaced his quill in its holder. He rose from his seat and Sala finally got a good look at her target. He surprised her with his youth. Sala had imagined a guild leader would be older, even an old man, but Carrick was about her own age, young and lean. She could see why her owner would find him a threat: the man who had risen up through the ranks in the most powerful guild in the city in his twenties must be a formidable adversary.

He was lean, almost wiry, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing bronzed, muscled forearms. From the way his collar gaped open in the day's heat, exposing a glimpse of a hard, flat chest, she had the impression of a body honed by swordmasters for action. His hair was ragged blonde, speaking to a high-value mother and therefore a man of status as his father. Perhaps that's how he'd achieved his position, through his father's work. But then he looked at her and she found herself staring into eyes as blue as the clear, crisp air of sunrise over the desert.

In contrast, her owner Marko was an old man now, over forty, looking to his legacy. He'd purchased Sala with the intention of breeding her for sons, but she had proved adept at other things, and he'd soon realised that she was more useful to him as a tool with which to manipulate his opponents. So, here she was, tasked with the seduction of the young man before her, then his destruction.

"Marko sends his best wishes, Sir," Sala called out, as she'd been instructed. She remained on her feet instead of going down on her knees, not as instructed, and she could see that Carrick had noted it.

Carrick circled around the desk and made a come-hither motion with his hand. Sala approached him. She spread her arms wide and turned slowly in a circle, feeling those blue eyes alighting on the curves of her body, giving her a secret thrill to display herself for such a powerful figure. She faced him again at last.

"As you can see, I'm unarmed."

Carrick laughed, and Sala felt a surge of relief.

"Just because you don't carry a sword, doesn't mean you're unarmed."

Sala chanced the opportunity to step closer to him, smiling wryly at his comment. "I might have a little dagger secreted about my person. My lord is welcome to check."

"I think we've established your sharpest tip."

Sala closed the distance between them a little more, stunned at her own audaciousness. "And what would that be?"

Carrick smiled amiably. "Your tongue. What's your name, Marko's girl-of-the-silks?"

"My name is Sala, Sir."

"And why are you here?"

"As a token of my master's respect for you."

Carrick seemed to consider her words for a moment, then he shrugged nonchalantly. "As you say."

Sala bore the Guild Master's scrutiny in silence. He was wearing a simple shirt, but it was the finest cotton, loose over dark pants in the same material. Surprisingly, he was barefoot, and she caught herself staring at the way his sculpted calves shifted as he moved. A part of her wondered if he, too, was naked beneath, in the heat of the day. Carrick seemed to read her mind.

"Intolerable weather. Would you like some water?" he asked.

Sala parted her lips, discovering how dry her mouth was. "Please," she replied.

"Fetch us two glasses. Let's talk."

Carrick turned away from her and she looked on as he retreated to the windows and settled on the cushions arranged on the seating there. She scanned around, finding another door and she bustled through it.

There was a kitchen area, and she located two glasses in a cupboard. The fact that Carrick could afford glass, that he just kept them in a cupboard, amazed her. Marko had them on display, only using glass to impress the city dignitaries when they paid a visit. She filled each glass carefully with water, as instructed, and brought them over to Carrick. He looked at the glasses and smiled.

"Now, which one shall I have?" he asked, slyly.

"I don't understand."

Carrick pointed at the one she was holding out to him. "Is the poison in this one? Or," he pointed to the other glass, "Would you expect me to think that, and the poison's in the one that you're keeping for yourself, waiting for me to swap?"

"You think I've poisoned one?"

"I'm a careful man."

"May I?"

Carrick nodded, and Sala took a sip from both glasses, holding them both out for him to choose. Carrick laughed, his blue eyes twinkling.