If she didn't know better, Avril would have said she found the blank page hypnotic. It felt like she'd been staring at it for days.
Watching the cursor blink on and off. Not a thought in her head about what words she should write.
It hadn't always been this bad, had it? She'd wanted to be a novelist forever. She'd had so many false starts. It always came down to this: sitting here staring at the blank page. You'd think, with her kink for being hypnotized, for staring blankly as her mind was paralyzed, this would be her favourite part. But wanting to write and not being able to was the worst form of torture.
It didn't help she'd been up so late last night, but it had been worth it. Rose had hypnotized her so deeply again--it felt like she went deeper every time--and given her an amazing suggestion: that whenever Avril was close to orgasm, she would feel all her arousal flow into Rose, and instead of getting off she'd have to get her girlfriend off instead. It had been so intense, getting right up to the edge and then feeling the helpless compulsion flow from her brain down to her cunt, stealing her release. Even as she dripped and moaned and squirmed, she could only slither between her lover's legs, her entire focus suddenly and completely on Rose's pleasure, abandoning her own.
Avril was almost rubbing herself over her panties before she realized this reminiscing was just another form of procrastination, and the smile drained from her face. She shook her head and muttered, frustrated with herself. It would probably help if she added getting dressed to her morning ritual: get up while Rose was still sleeping, make coffee, sit down, start writing. But she was trying to write in the oversized tank top and underwear she wore to bed, and the association with Rose, the eager, imaginative partner who wanted to fulfill all her kinky fantasies, was not conducive to focus.
Focus. If only Avril could focus. She watched the cursor blink and imagined Rose telling her to do that, telling her she couldn't look away, telling her to let the soft, steady blinking lull her into trance, where her mind was always so open and malleable...
But this was just making Avril horny, it wasn't helping her write.
Maybe she should get Rose to hypnotize her into writing. It felt a bit like cheating, though. If that worked, was she really a writer at all? Or just an extension of Rose's will? Ugh. Even thinking phrases like that filled Avril's head with erotic ideas. But this was supposed to be Serious Writing Time, and she couldn't reach the art she knew was inside her, let alone type it out, with one hand always between her legs, fantasizing about her sexy, hypnotic girlfriend.
She'd just felt blocked for so long. Avril had gotten desperate enough to ask Rose for help before, but Rose always said it felt a little too close to doing therapy for her comfort. She was a skilled hypnotist, but just in the realm of sexy recreation. Trying to use hypnosis to actually change Avril's behaviour so she could focus on writing, that just seemed like something an actual professional should do.
Avril furrowed her brow while she watched the cursor and the blank, blank page surrounding it. *So why don't I just hire a professional, already?*
But her pussy, uncomfortably sensitive as her underwear shifted over her skin, reminded her why: she had a hypnosis fetish. How could she go to a professional therapist, who might use hypnosis to actually help her, if she knew she was going to cum on their couch in the first fifteen minutes? And the one person who liked it just fine when hypnosis made Avril cum was the one person who *couldn't* hypnotize her to write.
It was a perfect Catch-22, ironic because reading Joseph Heller's classic novel in high school was among the things that inspired her to become a writer. She'd written lots of short stories over the years--in fact, it was a piece of fetish erotica she'd shared on a message board that had first connected her with Rose, which felt like the biggest success Avril's writing had ever brought her. But what she'd always really wanted was to be a novelist, like her heroes. People like Toni Morrison and Ursula K. Le Guin: they were all so prolific, and if they could see her sitting here in her underwear for the millionth unproductive morning in her life, she could only imagine what they'd think.
*They'd think, "That girl looks like she was well fucked last night."* Avril smiled. And they'd be right. God, Rose was such an amazing lover, she--
But then Avril realized what her brain was doing, and the smile vanished from her face again. She narrowed her eyes at the blinking cursor. *No. They'd just think, "That girl is fucked."*
Twenty minutes later, Avril's anxiety reached its peak, because she heard Rose's alarm go off in the bedroom and knew her girlfriend would soon be up and about and eager for Avril's attention. It made Avril feel like such a selfish, shitty person, but she resented Rose's presence at times like this, and the excuse it gave her to ultimately give up on her writing and get on with real life. That reflex made Avril feel guilty; after all, it was Rose's home, too. Avril had chosen to move in with her--chosen it eagerly, because she loved Rose and wanted to be with her all the time--and yet.
It felt like, if only Rose wasn't there, Avril could get some writing done. But that thought, commonly repeated, just made her scoff at herself: she'd only been with Rose for a year, and it's not like she'd been pouring out novels before that. No, Avril knew the problem was inside her and Rose was just a convenient target for her frustration. Before Rose came along, it had probably been not having the right light coming in through the windows in the morning, or not being caffeinated enough, or being too caffeinated.
Rose knocked softly on the sliding door of the apartment's "flex space"--a partitioned rectangle that let the landlords advertise the apartment as 1 bedroom *plus*--which Avril had turned into a writing nook. Avril sighed, hating the way her shoulders seemed to tighten up automatically when Rose did this, the way it signaled the end of Avril's morning writing time, and just put the period at the end of *One more day you didn't write.*
