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| EVERYBODY WINS by Hypnoboth Note - this is a very dark, disturbing story. It is a fictional work that in no way suggests or implies actions that should be taken. I picked her up at a bar. It is the first time I've ever picked up a woman at a bar, or rather, been picked up by a woman at a bar. It was amazingly natural. I think it was very skillful of her to make it so natural. For one thing, she was gorgeous. I don't think I've ever seen a woman that sexy, not in a movie, not in a porn film (not that I watch that many), not a model, nowhere. Every move she made radiated sex. When she focused on me, I was her whole world, and that made me the only thing in my whole world. It was heady stuff, and I was drunk on it. I don't know who suggested we go to my place. It might have been me, but it might have been her. Whoever it was, it seemed the logical, indeed the only thing to do. What else could we do, with such a connection? We walked out, and she laughed as she caught me when I stumbled. I had only had one beer, but I was drunk on her, on her presence. My apartment is a drab little efficiency: a small bed chamber, combined living room / dining room, kitchenette, and bathroom. The only interior door is to the bathroom. She acted like it was the most charming, coziest place in the world. At least I make the bed every morning. It didn't stay made long. In bed she was amazing. She knew just what I liked, just what turned me on, just what would prolong my pleasure. For all that, she seemed to take incredible pleasure herself; her orgasms were numerous, long, and loud. At the end of our first lovemaking session she was in my arms, spent, I was spent, and she was idly running her finger around and around my right nipple. That's when the foreplay ended. I knew it was coming. I was just hoping it would take a while longer. "Write something for me," she said. I twisted to look at her. "Like what?" "Something romantic. Something ecstatic. 'At least, I love ardently. Au moins, j'adore ardennement!' " She declaimed it, throwing her arms wide, making those fantastic breasts bounce. I looked at her quizzically. "That isn't what you want. This is what you want." I got up and went to the table, took a piece of paper, and wrote for a few moments. The I passed it to her. "My life was empty before she came. It is emptier now that she has left. Before there was only the daily slog of a job I hated, a life I hated, alone all the time. Now that she has gone, I can't go back to that. Please forgive me." I had signed my name. She read it silently, without moving. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had seen her still since we met. She was just as beautiful still as she was in motion. Some women get their beauty in motion. Not her. She looked up. "You know." "Yes, I know." "You've known from the first, down in the bar." "Yes." "Then why am I here?" I took the paper from her and laid it on the table. "I have my reasons." She took my hand and pressed it to her heart. It was an accident, I'm sure, that meant pressing it to her magnificent breast. "You mustn't think that you can win, or that knowing will make any difference. No man can resist me. It will happen in the end." I left my hand there. "Perhaps. In any event, I have my reasons." She looked up into my eyes. God! She was lovely. "It's me, isn't it? You want to free me." I shook my head, not so much answering the question as refusing to answer. She kissed my palm. I sat down on the bed. I had to; my legs wouldn't support me. She then turned my palm so it cupped her breast. "You can't overcome my conditioning. No one can. It's not possible. But I love it that you are willing to risk your life for me." She leaned forward and kissed me, and that put an end to the conversation for a while. Afterwards, we were both pretty blitzed. She put her head on my shoulder and went to sleep. It was a herculean effort, but I waited. It was hard, but I tried to stay awake by counting breaths. She took a while to really go to sleep, but she did. Hypnosleep is not a difficult procedure, and it produces the deepest trance of the non-drug trance induction techniques. She slipped down and responded very quickly, but I was not surprised. She has been subjected to a lot of trance in the past few months, if her husband can be believed. Once she was deep, I went cautiously. I didn't know how it would manifest, but I expected a "monitor" --- a personality that watched out for trance. "You are feeling very comfortable, aren't you, Chrissy?" "Yes." "And you want to follow my suggestions, obey me now, don't you, Chrissy?" "Yes. Obey." "And now, time seems to be bending a bit, even going backwards. It seems to be slipping past, an hour, we're in the bar together now, a day, a week, so hot now, two weeks, a month...." She interrupted me. "Focus. Relax. You are relaxed, tired." Her voice was hollow, mechanical. "No, your words are useless. Who is this?" "Mister Daniel." Damn. The monitor personality. Triggered by the age regression. "And why are you here, Mr. Daniel?" "I watch. Protect." I was probably screwed. Once the monitor is activated, there are not a lot of options other than to back off and go at it again later. But I'm a stubborn cuss. Never can tell what will be useful. "But there is the area beyond Chrissy, where you do not need to watch and protect." A pause. "Yes." "Then I can talk to that outside part, can't I?" A pause. No response. I let it go. There would be other times. I went to sleep. She made her next move later that afternoon, after we had both awakened, eaten, and we had made love again. "Hey, play a game with me?" "What sort of game?" She went to a drawer, and came back with my gun, a Smith and Wesson .38 caliber revolver. "It makes things better, spicier. Like this." She shook out the cartridges, put one back in, and spun the cylinder. "Put it to your head and pull the trigger just when I make you cum. It's ten times better that way, believe me." I looked at her like she was crazy. "You're kidding, right?" "No, really. I promise! It's a hundred times better than anything you've ever felt!" "You think I'm going to start playing Russian Roulette, just like that?" "Here. I'll show you." Then she started doing very educated things with her hands, her mouth, and her pussy. I tried to stay objective, but that lasted about forty-five seconds. I quickly lost track of individual events. She had me so close to the edge, and poised me there so expertly, that I was aware of nothing but her body. She kept saying, "You know you want to, you know you want to," until it was a mantra without meaning, going into my mind amidst the sex, the pleasure, and the frustration. I wasn't sure when she put the gun in my hand. I just became aware of it somehow. I tried to glance at it, to see where the bullet was in the cylinder, but I couldn't quite pay enough attention; every time I tried, another wave of pleasure would wash over me. I began to lose track of where my hand ended and the gun began. The pleasure began to edge into pain, the pain of protracted frustration, and the pain was pleasure too, as her voice became my thoughts. My nerves climbed a scale of pleasure and pain until I was a violin string being stroked at the highest possible pitch. Finally, my finger seemed to move of its own accord. The click was very loud, and seemed to go right down to my groin. She rushed me to orgasm, and it was like my entire body exploded. For a long time, I couldn't even move. When my vision cleared, she was sitting up, looking at me gravely, her breasts bare, the sheets pooled around her waist. I looked at my hand; the gun was still in it. I couldn't feel it there until I saw it, then I felt the weight, the heft of it. I opened my hand and it dropped to the floor. Bad firearm handling. I didn't give a damn. I got up and went to the bathroom and climbed into the shower. I took a long time in there. She was sensitive enough to leave me alone. When I came out, toweled dry, skin red from the hot water, wearing a robe, she had fixed some fruit and cheese, had made the bed, and had it laid out on the bedspread. I sat down and started to eat without comment. We both ate for a bit. Then she spoke, looking at her food. "I told you that you can't win. No man can resist me. I'm conditioned that way." "I know how you are conditioned. I'm not blaming you." The suggestions I had implanted to trust and talk were taking effect. "I don't remember when it happens. I just go into a kind of robot state. I dress and leave. The police can't really tell if the sex happened before or after the apparent suicide. Even if they can tell somehow, I just was traumatized and wandered out. That's really true, you know." "I know." She reached over and took my hand, and for the first time looked at me, hit me with those beautiful eyes. "My way everybody wins. We all die. This way you go in the midst of pleasure that you have never experienced, the high of your lifetime, that you could never duplicate anyway. You get an experience that you never would have otherwise. And everybody is happy." I felt like saying, "But the wives and the sons and the daughters," but it was too Gordon Lightfoot for me. Instead I said, "You have it all worked out." She dropped my hand, and her eyes. "Not me. The ones who own me." This was doing me no good, and I couldn't stand the desolated look in her eyes. "Enough of this. Let's play fantasy." She brightened up immediately, and I suspected that her previous sadness was as shallow as her persona. "What kind of fantasy?" "You like Star Trek, don't you?" She squealed and clapped her hands. I didn't know people really did that. I wondered if it were her programming. "My favorite!" Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't. I didn't care. All I cared about was what the images could produce. "Let's play a holodeck adventure. Where and when?" She didn't even hesitate a minute. "Camelot. I'm Queen Guinevere. You're Lancelot." She knows she needs to be rescued, deep down. Better and better. So we played. I gradually invoked all five senses, made it more real to her, hit the triggers I had left, until I knew she was deep in trance as we danced in what she thought was a ballroom. Then we went into several other holodeck programs, each one more romantic than the last. It was hard to keep my concentration, since she was very good at being romantic, but I managed to keep instilling the idea of a place, accessible only by emergency transporter code gamma, beyond anything in the galaxy, accessible only to the two of us, with no one able to see or hear what happened there. I kept on emphasizing the power of the transporter and the holodeck. That's as far as I went that afternoon. That night, I lost myself in her. The only thing that brought me back was the click of the hammer on an empty cylinder. I wasn't even aware I had taken the gun in my hand. I hand no memory of her handing it to me, if she did hand it to me. She didn't have to tell me to pull the trigger. It just happened. I dropped the gun and rolled off the bed. I was suddenly covered in a cold sweat. Any urge to orgasm was gone in the click of that hammer on the empty cylinder, just as was any arousal she had caused, no matter how insane. I leaned on the window sill. The window was open, and I looked out on the street below. It was night. I had lost track, and was vaguely surprised. The air was ice cold on my skin. She came up behind me and hugged me, pressing her breasts against me. I wanted to push her away, but I couldn't. For the first time, the possibility that I might lose this contest was real to me. In fact, there were two chances out of seven (about) that I had. My stomach heaved. I spewed acid bile out the window. An outraged shout came from the street below, and I drew in without really caring. She was still holding me from behind. "I told you I would win this." "I know." That was all we said. I stood there for a long time. Finally, she gave up, left and laid down on the bed. She fell asleep after about an hour. I imagined this happened with a certain percentage of her "clients"; they had to get it out of her system, and she had learned to wait for it. But this time I went through the door she opened. The careful groundwork was worth it. I used the image of the transporter to move us out of the range of any observer, and then undermined them. She was deep in trance, and I took her back to before they had built the personality of the seductress. It took a long time, but once the door was open the issue was never in doubt. I could have induced love for me. I could have made her madly obsessed with me. I wanted to. God, how I wanted to! But that was not the contract. I made sure she remembered everything they did. I installed safeguards against any re-induction. I know my job. By the time I was done, she was herself again, her own personality, remembering what had happened as if in a dream. I had her dress in trance, so that she was ready when she woke up. It took a while to answer the questions her conscious mind had, and I was dead tired, but she had to go through it consciously as well as unconsciously, and I led her through it. Finally, she was ready, and I made the phone call. Her husband had been waiting for days, and was so ready I thought he would crush the phone. He was only ten minutes away. Then the moment was there. The car pulled up outside and honked. She started out the door, then paused with it open and looked at me. "Thank you." "You're welcome." She still hesitated. "Do you love me? I mean, after all that. I remember it all, even if it does seem a dream, thanks to you. Do you love me?" "No." It was a truthful answer. I loved a woman who was effectively dead now. That personality was destroyed. I had killed her in any way that mattered. She read the ambivalence in my face and hesitated a moment longer. Then she went out and closed the door behind her. I looked around. In that moment, I marveled that I had ever thought that efficiency apartment small. It seemed enormous, huge and empty. It didn't matter. I could leave now, just walk out. The furniture was rented, the dishes cheap and disposable. I could close the door behind me and go back to my life with a very, very fat fee. Instead, I wandered aimlessly about for a few moments. Her scent was still so strong in the air. I saw it by the bed where it had dropped so many hours ago, black, blue-black, a slight sheen on its metallic surface. Absently I broke it open and moved it so that next time it cocked the single cartridge would move under the hammer. The clatter when the cylinder snapped into place seemed very loud in the empty room. Everybody wins. I put the barrel in my mouth. |
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