Hypno Hoodie Pink

The best trances left a void in Clara's brain, and a sense that she'd been made into a different person without knowing why. When her thoughts kept being redirected any time she thought she'd figured out what had happened, sending her looping and lost until she could only give up. But this trance was beyond that. There was just a hole, no context, not even a slightly fuzzy patch of light in the void that gave a little, teasing hint of what just went on inside her head. Thinking further back just conjured memories clearly before trance, like Darren had simply cut a segment out of the film and stitched together the bits left in. Clear memories telling her she had to go deep for what he had planned. That there was going to be lots of surprises. That he was going to take her all the way down.

Her mind was buoyant now, rising up into awareness with conflicting feelings. One part of her wanted to embrace the control she'd lost and stay mindless and pliant, where she was totally open. The other wanted to immediately rush back up and let whatever had been done to her unfold. Involuntarily, she clenched her thighs together and shuffled around while she simmered in the implications such a deep trance could bring.

Her boyfriend, Darren, watched over her. She knew that without having to open her eyes. He always watched her intently as she came up, taking in every detail, making sure she was okay. He never touched her while she was out, just admired, like she was a sculpture in a museum. A lithe, finely carved model that his eyes loved to explore. Although now her statuette stillness was stirring, just gently. That was the first sign of success.

Clara was anything but green when it came to hypnosis. She was the one to introduce it to Darren all those years ago, and she was quite experienced at it before they met. Going deep and fuzzy and losing memories was so second nature she could do all the work to introduce it to him, surrendering her mind on the spot. But after a few months of learning habits and understanding her signals and reactions, she had lost control of her own submission. And now, all on his own, he'd gone and fucked her brain so hard she could only imagine of what was to come. Or cum, ehe~

Clara squirmed, and looked up at last at Sir-at her boyfriend. He had that smile on his face he always did. A patient, reassuring smile. It almost seemed to be mocking her, but then that was the point. She was the dumb little girl being told who to be, what to do, where to go. She smiled back up at him, silently.

Right. She was meant to talk. Could she? What if he took away her ability to speak? But what if this entire thing was just to psych her out? Make her thoughts run away with the possibilities of what he did, only for it to turn out he did nothing. And her own submission, her own obedience, would still instate some sort of post-hypnotic effect and drag her back down for further fractionation.

Yet her eyes didn't go heavy. And his smile straightened, just fractionally. Did he overdo it this time?

She distinctly remembered the hour hand on the clock being some obtuse angle counterclockwise. Fuck. She was out for hours. She was his mindless plaything for hours. Her hand rushed between her legs, then she stopped herself, composed herself with a big, deep breath in, looked at him, and gave a smile that indicated some level of awareness. "Yes! Sorry! A lot to take in. Four hours?"

"And thirty-seven minutes," Darren casually said. Fuck. His voice went straight to her core. "Are you finally up properly?"

"Uhm..." On one hand, she wanted to hear him count. On the other, she didn't actually need it. She was awake. "I think I'm good." She scrunched her face up. "Properly?"

"It took a few tries. I had to count you all the way up to one hundred just to pull you out of it." He spoke slowly, and softly, in a tone that could easily be mistaken as condescending, like he was talking to a pet, not a human. It implied everything he said was merely matter-of-fact, not something to really even question or think about. He knew everything there was to know.

She squirmed again, this time with a moan. She let the wave of pleasure leave, and sat up straight. "So, what's the surprise?"

He smirked, and leaned back into his chair. She waited for a trigger or suggestion to take place, automatically forcing her to crawl to him, unbuckle his jeans, and get to work. Instead he said, "I'm a little too tired tonight." But before her disappointment could even be seen, he added, "but trust me, you'll fall over what I've got planned one way or another.."

A mess of incomplete thoughts stumbled over each other, fantasy after fantasy strobed into her mind, and she felt herself getting wetter at every possibility. And then Darren just fucking went to bed, hardly giving her naked body more than a passing glance as he walked to the bathroom.

If it weren't for her discipline training, she would've cum a few times before she went to sleep with him. But she was a good girl with a very open mind, so it didn't take long before she only wanted to cum if Darren could watch her. Right now he was doing his best to ignore her, not even casting a look as he came from the bathroom to drop straight into bed. He didn't even react as she slipped into her place as the little spoon, naked and together, too tired to notice.

Still more theories rattled in her head. At least it could occupy her as she tried to sleep. Sleep. That one skill you think would come naturally to someone who spends so long at the edge of it. But no matter how they tried, it never happened, so she just found a comfy spot, her far smaller body nestled in his arms, and got comfy.

The size difference was most exaggerated when they slept together. He was 6'6 with broad shoulders, towering over everything but the ceiling lights, which he instead intermittently headbutted to intimidate them. She was 4'11", so they kept a step in both rooms. He could eat plate after plate and actually direct that energy into working out. She tended to avoid full sized chocolate bars, lest they fill her up for the rest of the day, before she could even attempt to dig into a proper, balanced meal. Despite his muscled physique, he was just so damn comfy to cuddle up to at the end of the day. And he seemed to appreciate her lean, lithe body.

Clara nuzzled her ass over his crotch and finally got some form of reaction out of him, albeit while he was fast asleep. Then she guided the gentle giant's arms around her, cupping each of her breasts into a handbra. And she thought more about all the secrets hidden from her conscious mind as she drifted off to sleep.

-- -- --

She awoke to an empty bed, as typical. Clara's natural rhythm was late sleep, late start, which worked relatively well for them. Usually Darren could go straight to that cute little tent-cubicle-thing he worked from home in, so after a power shower to wake himself up and a short warmup session, he could get on with being the breadwinner. When Clara rolled out of bed some hours later, she'd make some coffee and get him a snack while he was trapped at a desk on call.

Nothing happened when she got out of bed. Or when she peeked out the doorway into their joined kitchen and living room arrangement. The blinds were up, curtains wide open. It was unlikely that her walking out in the nude would crash the productivity of the office block opposite hard enough for them to sue, but they sure didn't have the funds to take chances. She was really fucking hot. And she didn't quite fancy the idea of putting herself on display like that.

The entire time she was watching herself for anything that smelled of hypnotic suggestion. She didn't gain any sudden compulsions. Nor did she see anything that reeked of triggers or suggestions. This was far too subtle to be Darren's work. Usually his triggers involved making her moan at volumes that annoyed the neighbours' neighbours, or made her forget how to speak any sentence but, "Please fuck my ass, sir."

At least he kept her polite.

Her head swung around slowly, like she was being watched in the completely empty bedroom. Unless there was someone here that she couldn't perceive. Except, if she couldn't perceive them it wouldn't make sense to let her think of that possibility and risk breaking the illusion on the conscious mind, so therefore there couldn't be anyone there. Or was there? Clara narrowed her eyes and mulled over the sexy variant of the unexpected hanging paradox.

A mess of hoodies hung from the door, a spectrum of colours congealed into one warm, wool blob. At least it softened the blow when they kicked the door open, and now the door only made a dull thud instead of the crackling of drywall. There was enough to never double up for a fortnight. Probably. Who counts how many hoodies they have? All of them were oversized, the kind of thing she threw on without anything underneath to be around the apartment, so she could answer the door and then get back to 'me' time without having to skip a beat. The pockets didn't hurt either.

The newest was still a few months old, the oldest were about a decade. They were all the same hoodies she'd worn many times before. So it was strange that they had an energy to them, all wrapped up together. The first one she could untangle from the mess was a pastel pink one she'd worn for the same purpose only yesterday. It was practically buzzing in her hands. She buried her face in it, and whatever it smelled of was pure aphrodisiac. In a moment, she pulled it over her head, and it dragged down a hot, electric feeling with it.

She was horny.

Her legs quivered and she lost her footing for just a moment, stumbling as she adapted to the new, overwhelming feeling. It engulfed everything about her. The only noise she made were moans of pleasure, squeezed out of her body as it became so sensitive, as the hoodie felt so tight and constrictive just loosely covering her body. Her hands groped her tits, and her ass, and she writhed against the garment and pushed herself against the wall. Any and all pressure felt good, but she quickly found out what felt best. Her hand rushed down between her legs, where her aching pussy was already wet-already desperate and needy to be fucked.

So fucking horny.

Coming out of a four hour trance yesterday only to be left to wait and stew in her own arousal set some kind of record for being turned on, where all she wanted to do was touch and play with herself and be used. Yesterday wasn't shit compared to this. She needed to be fucked to be fucked to be splayed out and used to bounce on a cock to be pumped full of jizz-She threw herself on the bed and hiked up the hoodie. Not a single thought about being a good girl who didn't cum unless it was for Sir crossed her mind. She was too far gone in an instant. And fuck did her fingers feel good today. Her entire body felt amazing, like her own touch could do no wrong, like every single action she took just drove up the pleasure to new heights. There was no coming down, just getting closer and closer and closer until-.

Her moans stalled as she braced for orgasm, gasping for a breath she needed nearly as much as to cum. Except the damn conditioning stopped her, held her on edge, kept her pinned right where pleasure was about to peak, but couldn't because deep down she was a perfectly conditioned good girl. She needed Sir.

The open window was enough to put her off openly masturbating as she crossed the room. She dragged the curtain in one hand, groping her tits with the other, to the privacy cubicle in the corner. Darren was speaking, possibly on a call. Together they might've been pushing the limits of noise cancelation tech with her activities in the other room, and the meeting he was probably in. And times like this are probably why push-to-talk was invented in the first place.

Darren had a headset on, solitaire on one monitor and Teams on the other. There's no way he didn't hear her, but still he kept looking forward, eyeing the little icon that lit up every time his mic activated with at least a little bit of anticipation. The screens were swung out of view a moment later, as his chair was spun around, and the quaking, needy mess of his girlfriend stood there, like a dog waiting for its owner's permission to take the treat. "Excuse me one moment," he said, nudging the mouthpiece upwards just to indicate he was talking into it, then reached over his shoulder to simply disconnect his headset. "I knew it was going to be pink," he said, with a little crook on his face, barely betraying his concealed smugness.

Clara wasn't really listening, without the capacity to process expressions like smug. She had already lunged forward to hook his joggers and pull them to his ankles. He'd gone commando today, not that the implication of his preparedness really meant anything to her. There was no critical thinking left. She straddled his legs and shuffled her body towards her release, clumsily reaching for his dick. All morning it had been somewhere between semi and full mast, and by now the tip was glistening with precum. In any other state she would've admired it, as Sir's good girl had been conditioned to do. But she was delirious, lost somewhere in a fever dream of lust. She held it and grinded against it on him, writhing in complete and total ecstasy at just the faintest brush. Without his strong hands holding her upright, she would've collapsed backwards off his lap. Driving her hips into him without care for balance, letting his hands hold her shoulder, cup her chin, play with her how he wanted.

A string of drool glinted in the light when he released her, and he brushed it off, very purposefully, on her chest, catching both nipples as he swiped across. She stiffened up, frozen for a split second, a moaning yelp screamed even louder, before relaxing into his hold, hips still grinding up against his cock. By now she was barely even making contact, his cock was painting the front of the hoodie more than connecting with her clit. But she didn't notice. All she felt was arousal, and pleasure at every touch. Her clit could've been on her nose for all she cared, she just needed to be fucked.

At last he granted mercy, grabbing her by the hips, lifting her up and towards him, all the while she snapped and twitched like a breaker circuit, tripping again and again with each electric touch. Her spasms didn't affect him, being so much stronger and heavier than she was. She could never escape where he wanted her. In the brief moments where the pleasure peaked and spiked and her body felt limp and heavy, she truly was the doll she always felt like in his hands, entirely at his guidance and control. Until he lowered her down onto his cock. Her moans ramped up like a siren, screaming again and again in pleasure at the twitches and throbs of him. Everything she'd felt from putting on the hoodie was building up to this. Automatically, she began to ride, slipping loose just to stop him from interfering with what she needed. She had to fuck.

Every action resonated through her body. Like the pleasure, intense in her core, was trapped by the hoodie and thrown back at her. She threw her arms around him, pushing her chest up against him, and kept riding and moving and doing anything she possibly could to extract more pleasure. It was all so intense, yet nothing was enough. Clara only knew limitless satisfaction and an insatiable need for more.

The awkward, thoughtless angles and positioning strained her body. She didn't notice the aches, nor the way she was getting slower and more sluggish, as she kept riding on and on. The pleasure swamped everything else in her mind, covered in a pink mist that clouded any judgement. She needed to feel him bottoming out in her again and again, filling her up, giving her the only thing she was capable of desiring. Her breath was going short, getting thin, from the way she was straddled across his lap with her toes just barely touching the floor. One foot slipped and she fell, too lost in lust to even think about finding a steady footing. The scream of pleasure into his chest as her full body weight drove her as deep onto him as she could go was pure perfection to her hypnotically drugged up brain, but being stuck stagnant there was agonising. "F-f-fuck me." The only words left in her brain.

A response would've been nice. A sweet condescending little note about how weak and useless and desperate she was right now, so utterly desperate to be used. Darren liked hearing her beg. But she was in no state to say anything better than what she was showing. She fought weakly as he picked her up, as he pulled her off his cock to carry her to the bedroom, to lay her down face down, ass up, on the end of the bed. And she could only comply, she didn't have the mind left to do anything but fuck or be fucked. Being handled by Sir, thrown onto the bed and laid out, lit an affirmative lightbulb in her mind that this was the good option. So she didn't dare move, as much as she wanted to turn back and throw herself at him again.

He worked far faster, with much less delay to tease and bring out the begging, than he usually did. He could sit patiently for hours if he needed to, working on other things, while Clara begged him to force her face into the bed and choose whichever hole he wanted. And yet this time, no work needed to be done on her end. She just laid there, on display, her wetness washed down her thighs, and then the flood of pleasure came back all at once.

The screaming moans of pleasure built up quickly, muffled by the duvet she was face down in. Usually Clara would've got in some sense bored of the repetition so far, riding and moaning without any talk, any interaction. But this wasn't Clara, this was an embodiment of lust in her place who couldn't comprehend a scenario where being thrown on a bed and railed wasn't the number one priority.

Darren slowed his pace, holding rhythm, keeping himself dynamic as he enjoyed what currently remained of his girlfriend. She had finally settled, although as he slowed, she tried to pick up the slack in weak shimmies back into him. In that position, he reached forward and dragged the hoodie off her. It wasn't a smooth movement, her being limp on the bed caught it more than once, but the sheer size of it compared to her made it somewhat easy to get over her body.

Not a thing changed, besides the fact he could admire her properly. He reached around her body, reached for her tits now they were free, and she responded with a pickup in moans. The pace increased with her cries of pleasure, she was rallying him to thrust faster again, and his own orgasm was building up with hers. She'd been close this entire time, hypnotically unable to cum with a suggestion that slipped on with the hoodie, but thanks to her overwhelmed, clumsy attitude, Darren managed to hold on so far.

The pleasure ramped up in both of them. She knew, on some subconscious level, that his orgasm was coming. There was a change in pace when he got closer, as the animalistic desire, the need to cum, took over. Pleasure hung so close, luring him ever closer to the edge. And when he stiffened up and pulled her close against him, she came with him, clenching and spasming around him in a weak effort to milk out everything she could get. The gasps of pleasure became choked, exceeding what her vocal chords could produce, and she convulsed as he wrapped both arms around her tightly.

The lust-addled mind of Clara didn't want to stop now. Being fucked didn't go any lower in her list of priorities from one orgasm. Nothing could pull her out of this feeling, there was no escape because she was only pink mist. Until Darren leaned in and whispered, "You're naked now, you know, you silly little slut," in that condescending tone that typically reduced her to mush, somewhat cleared and solidified her. She came down from the height, slowly, gasping, processing what had happened in her own time. Darren simply made sure she was comfy, in bed with her face up, and went to clean up as she simmered in a mix of afterglow and confusion.