Sandy didn't remember falling asleep, only waking up. She found herself sitting in her computer chair with her shirt pulled down under her cleavage and her skirt pulled up to her waist. She had no idea where her panties had gone. A red light told her that the webcam was on, but there were no browser windows open to suggest that anyone was watching her anymore. She reached up and shut the camera off anyway, just in case. She stretched, wincing slightly at the crick in her neck--the computer chair was comfortable to sit in, but it really wasn't made for eight hours of sleep. She got up and headed to the bathroom, taking care of some urgent needs that told her that she'd probably been sitting there for a few hours even before she finally drowsed off.
Then she went back to the computer desk and grabbed her notepad.
The notepad was...not exactly a precaution, because of course Sandy trusted Kevin. She didn't play with people she didn't trust, especially not with hypnosis. But Sandy knew that she was one of those people who simply had a knack for being hypnotized. It just seemed to be something her mind knew exactly how to do; she could lose herself in a spiral, a sparkling crystal, a soothing voice, even just a string of calming words on a computer screen. Sandy's brain loved to go under so much and went so deep that most of the time she didn't even remember her trances. She just woke up sticky and foggy and happy.
Which was hot--hell, it was unbelievably fucking hot, and Sandy spent a lot of her free time on the Internet for that very reason. (It wasn't exactly a coincidence that her most expensive and comfortable piece of furniture was her computer chair.) But sometimes she wanted to know what her subconscious got up to when she was staring at the pretty lights. Which was why she had the notepad.
Sandy flopped onto her bed and flipped back the pages to the beginning. It looked like she'd written quite a bit this time--it must have been a pretty long session, then. Normally, she only found a page or two of notes, scrawled in loopy handwriting that she barely recognized as hers. But last night looked like it took up about half the notepad. No wonder Sandy's hand was sore.
She began to read through the notes--they probably would have looked like gibberish to anyone else, but Sandy had gotten very good at reading her own hypnotized handwriting over the years. She'd filled something like ten or eleven pads of paper with her messages from her sleeping self to her waking mind, ever since she decided to use a little self-hypnosis to bypass her tendency toward spontaneous amnesia. It was a little low-tech, but that was the nice thing about pens and paper. You could carry them anywhere.
And it was a lot more fun to read her dazed, stream-of-consciousness notes to herself than it was to watch a recording of what she did when she was under. Sandy's subconscious always seemed to have a playful tone in the little notes that she wrote while she was in trance, compelled by an auto-suggestion to jot down every command she was given. Sometimes she went back over her old notepads just to remember her favorite sessions..or at least remember forgetting her favorite sessions.
Last night, for example, Sandy saw that she had written at the beginning, 'Sink deeper when I hear finger snaps. Forget this command. (As if I'd remember otherwise?)' She didn't remember writing it, of course; she didn't remember the trance, or even really talking to Kevin much before her mind wandered away into a warm, soft mist. But she definitely recognized her own sense of humor. It amused her, but more than that, it helped her feel a little more comfortable with the amount of control she surrendered to her own subconscious self when she went into trance. Hypnotized Sandy might be perfectly willing to strip mostly naked on a webcam and masturbate...like crazy, good Lord, the whole room still smelled like sex...but it was still her, deep down.
And it meant that she always knew what she had done. Well, more or less. The next note just said, 'Repeat everything Master says,' which didn't help her too much; her subconscious clearly didn't feel the need to write down what she was commanded to repeat, only that she was commanded to repeat it. But at least she knew what Kevin was telling her to do. Her subconscious wrote everything down, every single time; she remembered once waking up to see 'Stop writing NO NO NO!' on the notepad, and a sheepish wannabe Dom trying to explain to her that it was all cool and she could go right back under. His sorry ass got blocked in seconds flat.
But Kevin wasn't like that. Sandy knew she could trust him implicitly. She mostly wanted to read the notes to enjoy the faint stirrings of familiarity she got from reading things like, 'Reach down and cup my pussy with my hand. (No rubbing, that's for naughty girls. Good girls wait.)' It wasn't the quite the same as an actual memory--she didn't really remember resting her fingers gently on her labia, feeling the warm tingles of pleasure seeping into her sleepy mind and the delicious ache of anticipation at not being allowed to play with herself...but doing it now, while reading her scrawled command to do it last night, evoked all the same feelings while she was awake enough to enjoy it.
Sometimes that was the best part.
