It must have taken her months to make. That was the thought that remained in Ryan's head the longest, persisting well after the rest of his mind had descended into a drowsy bliss so perfect and profound that he didn't even notice the burning sensation in his eyes or the weariness in his wrists and fingers. He'd drifted away from his own body, lost track of Miriam's voice, given up on resistance even in the privacy of his own head, but he still couldn't stop thinking about how much work had gone into the parasol she showed him.
Every panel was carefully embroidered with the most intricate of patterns, dozens of colors of thread cross-stitched through the fabric to create a blazing tableau of gorgeous blended hues. Ryan couldn't pick out the details; his eyes kept crossing and uncrossing in an effort to follow the swirl of decorated needlework as it flowed past his vision in an unceasing, hypnotic kaleidoscope of beauty. But he could tell that they were there. The constant motion wouldn't have seemed so smooth and captivating if not for all of the diligent work that Miriam had done to seamlessly integrate each gradation of dyed floss into the next. Just laying it all out on paper must have taken weeks.
Ryan didn't know what had happened to Miriam. He was sure she was around somewhere; it was her hotel room, after all, and he could still hear her calm, implacable voice saying... saying... saying something to him. Something important. Something very very important that he didn't need to think about or remember right now. He knew he needed to listen to each and every word, because he was a good boy and good boys paid attention and did what they were told, but he also knew that he could let all the details swirl away into the pretty colors that danced past his blank, glassy eyes and swept his thoughts along with them. That was the right thing for a good boy to do.
Even so, Ryan still couldn't stop thinking about the sheer amount of time and effort it must have taken to hand-stitch the parasol in such precise and perfect detail. No wonder Miriam worried about losing her um... her um... um... ummmmmm... Ryan blinked in confusion, a glacially slow blink that made his head swim as he opened his heavy eyes and tried to adjust his gaze to the constant motion of the flowing colors once again. He couldn't remember what he was thinking about. He could barely remember thinking. The past had taken on a distant, irrelevant quality in his mind, leaving Ryan mired in an endlessly stretching and distending present.
But the colors centered him again. Ryan's eyes locked back into their glassy stare, once again finding that the trick to following the flow and drift of the hues as they rotated past his field of vision was simply not to follow them at all. He could gaze unblinking at the red as it flowed into fiery orange, at the orange as it melted into cheery yellow, at the yellow as it mellowed into cool green, and simply let the optical illusion created by the spinning parasol become real and vivid in his mind. Trying to anticipate the motion only left him dizzy and weak and helpless. It was best to just watch and listen and obey.
Ryan didn't wonder anymore about that last word. It came naturally to him now, following along in his mind as automatically as the flow of green to peaceful blue and from blue to deepest violet. Watching the colors always led instinctively to listening to Miriam's words, nodding vacantly and repeating when prompted without realizing at all what he was saying. Listening to Miriam always led to agreeing, his numb and drowsy brain accepting everything she told him to say and think and do without question or hesitation. And obeying led to... oh. Ohhhhhhh. Of course. Obeying Miriam led immediately to pleasure. Pure, perfect, sexual pleasure. Ryan's cock throbbed and pulsed as the ecstasy once again filled him to the very brim.
But never past it. The moment Ryan felt like he might lose control and gush out all his arousal in one titanic spurt of wonderful release, he found his gaze falling back into the intricate patterns that swirled endlessly in front of his tired, heavy eyes. The climax was carried away along with the violet, receding into twisting knots of pitch blackness that tangled up his vision until he found himself following a different band of the twisting, captivating hues. They laid one over the other in contrasting plaits that constantly tripped him up with their continual motion whenever he tried to think of anything at all, even his own body. The only way to keep his brain from tumbling into helpless giddiness was to let go of everything and just stare.
But Ryan couldn't help thinking about the beauty of the parasol. He couldn't help wondering how Miriam had made the needlework seem to move the way it did, how she'd gotten that perfect illusion of precession in the colors that kept drawing away his mind into dazed, dizzy pleasure. He no longer connected the motion of the parasol's handle in his hands to the flowing kaleidoscopic dance that captivated him so completely; indeed, Ryan had long ago stopped noticing at all that his fingers spun the shaft around and around in a smooth, ceaseless movement, never stopping, never slowing down or speeding up. He had other things to pay attention to. And they were utterly fascinating.
Another wave of pleasure washed through him, coinciding with a strangled moan that came from somewhere very close by in a familiar voice that Ryan couldn't quite place. There was a pattern to the surges of sexual heat, too; Ryan was sure that he could piece it together, if only he had a moment to think. Just a tiny bit of respite from the mesmerizing flow of colors that drugged his sleepy brain into insensate bliss would be enough. But it never came. He just kept sinking deeper, his overwhelmed brain straining and straining against the tide of ecstasy before finally surrendering and--
Ryan heard another desperate moan. He felt another intense throb of heat and desire coming from his cock. But he had no idea what caused it.
