Ronald walked across the lobby to the front desk and said, "I need the key to Room 126, please." He had no idea why.
He didn't even recognize the hotel he was in. It looked like it might have been grand once, but now its glory was threadbare and worn. The elaborate rug that covered the lobby floor was worn thin by thousands of footsteps and faded by the sun until the pattern was almost indistinguishable, and the burnt-out bulbs in the massive chandelier overhead gave the room a sinister air in the fading light of the late afternoon. Even the desk clerk looked worn out, his eyes hooded with exhaustion and his face expressionless as he said, "Of course, sir. Room 126."
He handed Ronald a key. Of course it was still an actual key. Ronald couldn't imagine a place like this upgrading to electronic locks. They probably still thought that a television in every room was the height of luxury.
Ronald took the key from the clerk's outstretched hand and turned away, walking up the grand staircase at the far end of the lobby as though he knew exactly where he was going. That didn't seem normal. He didn't recognize the shiny, worn red carpeting that poured down the stairs; he didn't recognize the tarnished brass handrails. He had no idea where he was at all. He remembered walking home from work along his usual route, and he remembered a momentary sense of disorientation as the buildings stopped matching his memories. And then... he was pushing on the revolving door in the lobby. It didn't make sense.
The clerk never asked for his name. That didn't make sense either. Ronald was so caught up in the creeping sensation of bewilderment that he almost didn't notice that his legs were carrying him up the stairs as though they were following an intimately familiar path. When he did notice, it only served to heighten the feeling. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know how he'd gotten here, and he didn't know what his own body was doing. Ronald could feel a gnawing confusion at the very core of his identity, unmooring him from reality and giving everything a strange, dreamlike air.
Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe this was all a dream, and he was just following the dream logic to nowhere. Any second now, he would make his way to Room 126, and it would contain a giant spider or something, and he'd wake up and get ready for work. He'd forget this place, forget the dream, and it would all just fade to the back of his mind leaving nothing but a little twinge of confusion whenever he walked into a hotel lobby and subconsciously expected it to look dilapidated and mysterious. He walked a little faster, trying to get it over with.
He made his way to Room 126. He unlocked the door with the key. He opened it. There were no spiders, giant or otherwise. There was just a hotel suite, with thick beige carpeting and light blue wallpaper and a double bed that took up almost half the room. It didn't look like the rest of the hotel; this room had been renovated recently. All the furniture was new, expensive, and very tasteful. The blinds were drawn. The only light came from a single lamp on the bedside table.
Ronald went inside. He carefully took off his suit, folding each piece of clothing one at a time and setting it on a tasteful Herman Miller lounge chair, then went to lie down naked on top of the covers. He noticed idly the way that his dark skin contrasted vividly with the white bedspread, and the arrangement of the pillows that perfectly supported his head so he could stare down at his own cock. He was very hard, he realized. He had no idea why.
He didn't know how long he lay there, watching the tip of his cock twitch and quiver in an almost metronomic fashion. The room was warm enough to be perfectly comfortable without any clothes on, and the drawn blinds prevented him from drawing any kind of temporal references from the outside world. His wristwatch was sitting on the other side of the room-he could hear it ticking, his cock seeming to pulse and throb in time with the methodical rhythm of the passing seconds, but he couldn't associate it with anything. There was no clock in the room. Hotel rooms always seemed like they were designed to negate the passage of time in any event.
Ronald kept thinking that he should get back up. If this wasn't a dream... and he still wasn't sure about that, lack of spiders notwithstanding... then there was nothing stopping him from clambering off of the warm, soft bed, putting his clothes back on, and leaving the same way he came in. He knew that. Empirically, intellectually, he knew that he could get up anytime. And yet... his muscles remained loose and motionless. His eyelids drooped in relaxation. His eyes continued to follow the motion of his cock as each tiny pulse of arousal sent it swaying ever so slightly from side to side. He felt somehow attuned to the motions, as if they were magnified in his view a thousandfold.
Eventually, the door opened. A Caucasian man entered the room, a short wiry man with sandy blond hair and gray eyes. He smirked in satisfaction on seeing Ronald lying naked on the bed, and began taking off his t-shirt and jeans. Once he was nude, he stepped back out of view for a moment and returned with a bottle of massage oil. He sat down on the bed in between Ronald's spread legs, fixing him with a warm gaze. "Hello, Ronald," he said. "Do you know why you're here this evening?"
"Yes," Ronald said. This came as a complete surprise to him; he didn't recognize the strange man, any more than he recognized his strange surroundings earlier. Ronald wasn't exactly a prude; he'd had his share of casual partners, male and female. But he wasn't prolific enough to have lovers he couldn't identify by sight. This man was a total mystery to him. It unnerved him, but somehow his anxiety seemed to be pressed between thin sheets of glassy calm that prevented him from touching it. He could observe his emotions, just like he could observe his passive body, but he couldn't access either.
"Very good, Ronald," the man said, his hand stroking smoothly up and down Ronald's thigh. "And why is that?" His fingers brushed up against Ronald's hairless groin, teasing the sensitive skin and making Ronald's cock dribble out a surge of precum. Ronald hadn't noticed before now that he'd shaved his pubic area. When had that happened? How had he gone this long staring right at his crotch without realizing it was bare?
He wanted to ask so many questions. But instead, he gave an answer. "I am here to reinforce my hypnotic programming." Internally, Ronald scoffed. He wasn't under any kind of hypnotic programming-hypnosis didn't even work on him. His mind was so naturally resistant to outside control that he didn't even need to consider the possibility that he might be acting under hypnotic influence. Everything he did was something he wanted to do, and he didn't need to resist his subconscious instincts. What he said a moment ago was obviously incorrect.
"Good boy," the man on the bed said, his fingers roaming sensuously over Ronald's pubic area. "That's exactly right." Ronald made a mental note to revisit some of his conclusions from a moment ago.
The other man squeezed the bottle out over Ronald's groin and belly, drizzling lavender-scented massage oil onto his body until it dripped down and puddled on the bedspread below. Whatever material it was made out of, it obviously wasn't porous, and Ronald could feel it pooling around him where his weight pressed into the mattress. The man began to slide his hands over Ronald's slick flesh, making him tingle with pleasure. "You don't remember being hypnotized, do you?"
