Even on the second evening of the con, Carmella still had a little bit of trouble responding to her scene handle. She didn't post much online, and the few people she did talk to had gotten to a first-name basis with her long before they cajoled her into attending her very first 'erotic hypnosis event'. So when a gangly Caucasian man with unkempt, sandy brown hair and deep blue eyes stopped dead right in front of her, did a double-take, and said in a British accent, "You're Soporiffic, right? From the wall?" it took Carmella a moment or two to even realize that he was talking to her at all, let alone what the hell he was talking about.
When she finally parsed it out, Carmella was very grateful that her ebony skin swallowed up her blushes. She'd gone up to the wish board yesterday in a fit of enthusiasm and scrawled, 'TURN MY BRAIN INTO A FLUFFY PINK CLOUD!' in great big letters, signing her scene name underneath it and dotting the 'i' with a little heart. It felt incredibly liberating, confessing the fantasy that she'd spent most of her post-pubescent life nurturing to an audience of people who could genuinely fulfill it, and Carmella had spent most of yesterday wandering around as though she expected a hypnotist to pop up in a puff of smoke like a genie.
It hadn't happened, though, and she went through the second day more than a little subdued as she adjusted her expectations to match the realities of the event. It turned out that a lot of the convention involved going to classes, listening to lectures, and taking notes; even last night's play party turned out to be a lot of people Carmella didn't know clustering in small groups and chatting about ordinary things, with only a few scenes taking place here and there on the periphery of events. Her friends all told her that this was perfectly normal, that a lot of folks spent the first night catching up with people they hadn't seen in months, but Carmella couldn't help feeling like maybe her dream wasn't going to come true.
But all of a sudden, she had her very own genie standing right here in front of her... always assuming that your mental image of a genie was a skinny dude with floppy hair wearing a white suit with a black shirt that made him look like he was auditioning for the Pet Shop Boys. He had a white tie that somehow managed to make him seem even skinnier, a button on his lapel that said, 'Ask me about my Pre-Talk!', and a badge that listed him as 'The Goblin Viscount'. She'd seen him in passing a few times, and she recognized that scene name from the schedule, but this was the first time she'd spoken to him the whole con. And here he was, seemingly very interested in fulfilling her oldest and most enduring sexual fantasy.
The whole thing felt so unexpected that Carmella was reduced to stammering, "Um, yeah, that's... um, yeah, that's me, from the wall, yeah," like her brain had already turned into cotton candy inside her head; but thankfully, this was Day Two of an erotic hypnosis con. She was pretty sure that by this point, she could take off her clothes and do an a cappella rendition of Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive', and nobody would bat an eye.
Sure enough, the Viscount just gave her a little smirk and said, "And has someone already fluffed your brain tonight?" She could understand how he got that impression, even before she did her inadvertent Valley Girl impersonation; she'd dressed up for the play party in a bubblegum pink frock she repurposed from a Queenie Goldstein costume she did a few years back, and her cheeks and eyelids were dusted with bright pink glitter.
But she hadn't even gotten her hypnosis cherry popped yet, let alone had her brain melted to a cotton candy slurry the way she dreamed about. "I wish," she grumbled, trying to make it sound playful instead of vaguely resentful. She wasn't sure she entirely succeeded; this was already Saturday, and while her friends all assured her that there would be plenty of informal opportunities for trance on Sunday evening after the con wound down, Carmella was painfully aware that this was the last official play party. She was starting to feel like Kaylee at the ball, all dressed up and no one to dance with.
Then the Viscount's smile widened, a charmingly crooked grin that suddenly made it clear why he took his name from David Bowie. "Well, your wish could be my command," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief at the play on words. "Would you like to find somewhere to talk about what you really want to do? If I'm not interrupting, that is."
Carmella glanced over at her friend Monique, who responded by grinning widely and waggling her eyebrows the way only your very best friends can get away with. "Um, I think I can spare a little time," she mumbled, momentarily pretending that the Viscount's shoes were the most interesting thing in the whole world.
A few minutes later, and they were in the convention's informal dungeon, trying very hard to ignore the squeals of a busty white girl who was apparently hypnotized to come every time she heard the sound of a bell. "Really, giving her jangly earrings seems almost like cheating," the Viscount muttered appreciatively, before tearing his gaze away from the shuddering woman and putting his full attention on Carmella. "So tell me," he said, his smile fading into sincere interest, "what does 'turn my brain into a fluffy pink cloud' mean to you?"
Carmella was momentarily taken aback; despite two full days of classes emphasizing the importance of negotiation, pre-talk, and consent, somehow she imagined their conversation would begin with 'Look into my eyes...' and go on from there. She struggled to find a way to describe years of masturbation sessions, furtive explorations of highly specialized kink sites, and fantasies that always dissolved into orgasms so spectacular that she saw stars.
"I... I guess I just want to, like, not think?" she said at last, all too conscious that she already sounded a bit like a stereotypical airhead. "But, like, I want to be able to think enough to know that I can't think, if you know what I mean? I want to know that it's getting harder and harder to push my brain to work, and every time I notice it just makes me more and more horny and giggly and..." Carmella paused, her skin flushed and hot with arousal or embarrassment--she couldn't tell which. "Um. Foggy. Like the cloud is filling up my head and pushing all the thoughts out until all I want to do is believe everything I'm told."
The Viscount nodded. He didn't seem to find Carmella's fantasy silly or stupid at all, which helped her relax a little as he said, "So do you want to be mindless, then, like your brain is literally emptying out, or do you just want to feel dumb like a bimbo?" He must have noticed her wincing, because he immediately said, "Right, okay, the first one."
Carmella shook her head rapidly. "No, no, the second one!" she blurted out rapidly, like a diner calling back a departing waiter with a last-minute substitution. "I just... I don't like that word, I'm sorry. I know a lot of people like it, and that's cool for them, but it kind of gives me bad memories. Can we not call it that?" She really hoped he wouldn't ask why--the last thing she wanted was to dredge up a whole bunch of toxic shit from her teenage years when she was trying to get herself in the mood for her first official Hypnotic Sexytimes.
Thankfully, he just gave her a solicitous smile and said, "Sure. It's no problem at all. We can stick with 'intelligence play', if you like." Carmella nodded gratefully, breathing a sigh of relief inside. "But you do want to be less intelligent, and have a harder time thinking as you go deeper. Do you want to feel that way for a while after you wake up, or...?"
Carmella squirmed a little as she pictured wandering the con on the Viscount's arm, her brain reduced to a little fluffy cloud of cotton candy as she giggled aimlessly and agreed with everything she was told. She imagined floating along in a haze of arousal, constantly horny and happy and compliant... then she imagined bumping into Monique in that condition. "Um, maybe not this first time?" she murmured, her voice high and nervous. "I'm sorry, I know I'm putting all sorts of conditions on this, I know I'm probably being such a pain, but..."
The Viscount shook his head vigorously, his eyes wide with concern. "No, no no no no no!" he said, sounding for all the world like an off-brand David Tennant impersonator. "You're letting me know what a good experience feels like to you, and that's really important!" He reached out to her, then paused. "Um, are you okay with touch?" he asked, his hand hovering uncertainly a few inches above her knee.
Carmella looked at him for a moment, almost too surprised to say yes. "Um, no, that's fine," she babbled after a moment, when she saw him start to withdraw his hand. "Sorry, I just..." She gestured at her knee, trying to somehow convey the complicated concepts of living in a world where black women normally didn't get asked permission for a lot of things including but far from limited to touch. It didn't really work. "Um, never mind. Yeah. It's fine."
The Viscount patted her on the knee. Somehow, it felt like he understood just what she meant. "Look," he said, his hand warm and reassuring through the thin fabric of her frock as he spoke, "we both want this to be a really wonderful, happy session for you. The more you tell me about what you want and need, the better the scene is going to be. So don't feel like you're being too demanding, don't feel like you're doing something wrong by asserting yourself. The time to give up control is once the induction starts, not when we're negotiating. Okay?"
