Consciousness returns slowly, and with the greatest of reluctance. His eyes open...or perhaps they were already open, and he's just now realizing it. He's not sure. He's not sure of much, really. He feels drowsy, as though he's taken a little too much cold medication. He feels the softness of the pillow beneath his head, the blankets against his naked skin, and it's a continual effort not to just sink back down into sleep all over again. He feels a faint, delicious thrill as he realizes just how enjoyable that constant undertow is against his mind and body.
He becomes aware of a voice, and he slowly turns his head to look at the bedside table. There's a pair of speakers there, broadcasting the voice over the faint hum of the air conditioner. "And you realize that everything the voice says seems so right to you...so natural...and it feels so easy to listen to the voice, so effortless..." The woman speaking seems faintly familiar to him, but he can't quite put a name to her. In fact, he realizes, he can't quite put a name to anything, even to himself.
The thought feels like it should frighten him, but instead it feels soothing. He doesn't need a name, he thinks loosely to himself. It's not important. The voice is tranquil, peaceful, and warm, and he finds himself feeling passive and dreamy as he continues to listen. "And you're so peaceful now, and you can remember to forget every bit of this..." The words seem familiar, but at the same time, he can't remember hearing them before. He can't even remember the words he heard a moment ago. It's as though they're sliding past his memory, out of sight into the recesses of his mind. He wonders how many times he's heard them, but the gentle tide of the voice washes away the wonderings and leaves him docile, placid, and content.
He lets his eyes drift over his surroundings as he realizes he has no memory of how he wound up in this room. It's a hotel room, generic enough that he could be nearly anywhere in the world, but again, the idea of being worried or afraid that his memory is a total blank and he's in a strange location just doesn't seem to gain any traction in his mind. It's as though the rules of the normal world have been suspended, leaving him in a strange, dreamy twilight where he doesn't have to do anything but lie there and listen and relax. Even as he fights the drowsiness, he understands that he's only fighting it because the struggle feels pleasant, not because he has any need to be truly awake.
He hears a knock on the door, and his body moves with relaxed grace to get up and answer it. He feels like a passenger in his own flesh, like a sleepwalker. As he walks over to the door, he notices idly that his cock is just a little bit swollen--not stiff, but definitely aroused.
He looks through the peephole and sees a short woman with long brown hair and blue-gray eyes waiting in the hallway. He doesn't recognize her, but his cock instantly twitches--she's gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. Not in the skinny, scrawny supermodel way, but in the way that a real woman is beautiful--her body is voluptuous, curvy, with lush breasts and a full, round belly, and wide, swelling hips that make his hands ache to embrace her. Her beauty is primal, sexual; it touches him on some primordial level, like the Venus of Willendorf brought to life. Before he can even think of putting on clothes, his hand reaches out to open the door for her. As it does, he notices the small bracelet around his wrist, but somehow it seems too familiar to really register in his sleepy mind.
She steps into the room and closes the door, smiling at him. Without even saying a word, she slips her t-shirt off, then wriggles her shorts onto the floor and steps out of them. He finds himself sinking to his knees as she kicks her shoes off, and it somehow seems perfectly natural to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on her feet. "Good boy," she whispers, and the words send a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He realizes that her voice is the voice in the recording, and somehow that just seems so right.
"Time for a shower, pet," she says, turning and heading towards the small en suite bathroom. He's absolutely transfixed by the motion of her ample, heart-shaped buttocks for a moment before some part of his subconscious realizes his role in all this, and he stands up and follows her. He doesn't need to undress, he's already naked, but he absently unclips the bracelet and sets it on the counter before stepping into the shower with her.
She starts the water flowing, but the water pressure isn't good and very little of the spray gets to him. He isn't sure whether he's shivering from the chill of evaporating water or the intoxicating nearness of her; watching the water run over her body in rivulets is a mesmerizing experience.
"Hold out your hand, pet," she says, and he obeys instinctively as she pours out a dollop of shampoo into it. He moves without being told, without any conscious thought at all to massage the liquid into her long hair, feeling the warmth of her scalp as he lathers up the suds. He's standing close enough to her that he knows she can feel his stiffening cock press into her flesh, but there's no shame to his arousal, only a delicious heat that suffuses his whole body.
"Good boy," she whispers again, her voice stroking and caressing his mind as she hands him the soap. He takes it and lathers her back and body with more soapy suds, the feel of her soft, silky skin only enhanced by the way the soapy water makes his fingers glide over it. His hands embrace her wide, lush hips just like he'd wanted to moments ago, and it feels just as good as he'd hoped it would to lean into her and hold her for a brief instant before continuing with his task.
He feels a wonderful, intimate heat as he slides his hand into the valley between her ass-cheeks to soap up the warm skin hidden from view; he feels her shudder in delight as he touches the sensitive flesh, and she whispers, "Good boy," yet again as she rinses her hair.
"Thank You, my Lady," he responds, without even thinking. He doesn't know why he says it; he doesn't know how he knows that in his mind, the words are capitalized as a mark of respect. It's just one more thing that seems to come from a deeper part of his mind, a part that understands the things he doesn't need to remember, and that feels so wonderful.
He slides down to his knees now, soaping up her legs and feet, and as the water washes the soap off of her body, he gently places a kiss on her ass. He can't help himself, it just feels right to show his devotion to her wonderful body, her powerful, sensual form. She turns, and the swell of her belly presents itself to him. He places another kiss there, but his eyes are drawn lower, to the sweet delta between her thighs. His head swims a little at the sight.
He stands again and carefully soaps her front, making sure not to lather too much of the astringent hotel soap onto her tender nipples, and then watches as she rinses herself clean. "I'll have to take another shower when we're done," she says, and the implications of the words almost make him swoon with arousal.
She turns off the water. "Towel, pet," she says, and he pulls back the curtain to grab one for her. He gently pats it against her, soaking up the water, and again he drops to his knees to ensure that she's dry all over. "Warm," she says as he finishes, and suddenly his whole body feels like it's been wrapped in a soft blanket for a moment. He wonders briefly how just a single word could have such a powerful effect, but the harder he thinks about it, the harder it becomes to think about it, until eventually he's forced to simply let the thought go and sink back into his peaceful, empty state.
She smiles at him, and he knows she knows everything that went on in his head in the last few moments. She enjoyed watching him try to think, and she enjoyed watching him fail, he realizes. He realizes that he enjoyed it too. "Can't think," she purrs at him.
"Can't think," he responds. He hears it in his voice, the difference between repeating and responding. He's not just echoing her words, he's accepting them, like they're filling in a hole in his being that he wasn't even aware of until she spoke.
"Don't want to think," she sighs out, stepping out of the shower.
"Don't want to think," he says, and he briefly wonders if she's making him believe that by saying it, or if it was always true and she's just acknowledging that truth. But then it becomes too hard to wonder, and he lets his mind go smooth and still again as he steps onto the mat next to her and begins to use the other towel to dry off the spray that hit him.
She picks up the bracelet from the counter and clips it onto his wrist. "Mine," she says.
"Yours," he whispers. The tones of absolute reverence in his own voice astonish him. It's not that it feels wrong--nothing has ever felt so right in his life, he knows it even if he can't consciously remember any of the things he's comparing it to--it's just that he'd never thought a person could sound so happy. Could feel so happy. The single, simple word completes him in a way that nothing else could.
She heads out to the bedroom and climbs up onto the bed, switching off the recording as she does so. For a moment, he hesitates, but she knows without being told what he's waiting for. "Onto the bed, pet," she says, and it feels so good to be commanded and so good to obey. He climbs up eagerly.
