Love, Honor, and Obey
One. The Ideal Husband
Her email inbox was full. It was always full these days. News of her services had gotten around on various websites. Women were buying her book, and then seeking her out for advice on how to put it into practice. Life was good.
“Hey, you look great!” said a voice behind her.
Languidly she looked around. It was Louis, her husband. He always said that to her when he saw her in the evening—almost as if he had been programmed to say it, or, indeed, to think it. Though when he was actually thinking for himself,he really did think it.
“Of course I do,” she said. She always dressed well; it was part of her professional identity as a hypnotherapist. She learned a lot about her subjects—sorry, clients—by the way they responded to her outfits. A lot of them were men; their reactions were particularly useful. Today was fairly typical: grey pencil skirt, silk blouse, nude stockings with a seam up the back, 3″ grey pumps. She pointed one red nail at the chair across from hers. “Tell me about your day.”
He sat dutifully. He loved to talk about the problems he encountered writing. He was alone most of the day, working on his latest YA novel, and he enjoyed having an ear. She enjoyed it too—up to a point.
He poured out his frustration. He was about to write a key scene—one in which his heroine, Kate (secret identity: Hypnoteen) learned the weak point of the character who had been fighting her. She faced a choice—use the weakness to get what she wanted, or bring the other character into camp, win her over. He couldn’t decide. It was immediately clear to her what the character should do—win the enemy over, make him an ally, eventually a loyal retainer. It was what the character did so well, it was why teenage girls all over the planet enjoyed the books. And of course, she herself was the basis of the character, so she knew the character at least as well as he did. Poor dear Louis, he was so in love with her that when he wrote he wrote about her. Now, that is; now that he’d given up the ridiculous avant-garde fiction and settled down to make a fortune. For her. Oh, for him too, but he enjoyed bringing her the royalty checks, the way a well-trained dog enjoys bringing his mistress a duck or fox. And she made the investment decisions; there was no question about that.
She let him talk on about the character. It was an important part of his creative process. He would resolve it soon enough—probably tonight—with her help.
Finally, he ran out of energy to talk about his chapter. His body was slumped in a kind of defeated pose, a picture of a man who’d had a hard day at work and was ready for his pipe and slippers.
“Say, Elle,” he said shyly. “What do you say we just order some food delivered tonight? I am so beat I really only feel like vegging out in front of the TV.”
He sometimes felt like this, and she might have been annoyed—she didn’t like takeout and she didn’t like TV—annoyed, that is, if his mood made any difference to her. It didn’t. Soon it wouldn’t even make a difference to him. “Louis,” she said. “I have something important to talk to you about. Look at me.”
His eyes rose to meet hers. They began to lose focus, drawn and held by her eyes. His face and then his body relaxed. “That’s right,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Let go now. You belong to me. One-two-THREE!”
His body slumped forward in the chair, head hanging down. He was a fairly muscular man, but right now she wouldn’t have guessed that; every part of his body seemed as loose and relaxed as a rubber band. “Isn’t that better?” she asked.
He nodded his head slowly, as if lifting a great weight.
“Good boy,” she said. “Now here are your instructions. In a minute you’re going to go into the kitchen and fix my dinner. You may fix some for yourself as well. Then you will serve me. When I have eaten, you may eat. Then you will clean up the kitchen. Remember it is very important that the kitchen be clean and perfectly tidy. The kitchen must be clean enough to pass a restaurant exception. Any untidyness, and spill, will be intolerable to you, you will not be able to stop cleaning until it is done. When you have done that, you will take the large silver spoon from the silver drawer and bring it to me. One, two—THREE!”
His eyes opened, though his face remained loose and blank. He stood smoothly and walked toward the kitchen without a word. She returned to her inbox and began to analyze a particularly complex problem one of her followers had shared. It was absorbing work and it seemed like only a few minutes before she heard his voice, sounding relaxed and easy: “Mistress, your dinner is ready.”
The table was set for one. The meal was leftovers but his cooking was so good—now it was, at any rate—that even leftovers made a satisfying meal. Tonight’s dish was tagliatelle alla Romana—narrow flat noodles with a sauce of fresh tomatoes and chicken livers. On the side was a fresh green salad with a delicate vinaigrette, and a glass of an Oregon pinot gris. It was precisely the kind of meal she enjoyed, and it was—now—the kind of meal he enjoyed cooking and eating too.
He stood across from her at attention as she ate. He didn’t speak; he didn’t even look at her. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall. Long ago she had told him that wall had a hypnotic spiral on it and his eyes would be drawn to it while he was waiting on her.
Of course there was no spiral, but each night now he saw it and it took him deeper while he waiting for her to eat.
“More wine,” she said, and snapped her fingers. Smoothly he grasped the bottle and poured her a fresh glass.
She studied him. He was a very good-looking man. He’d been handsome when he fell into her hands; with her instruction, he’d gotten fitter, more muscular, and generally more appealing. He’d had a moustache at one point. She didn’t like facial hair, and now he didn’t either. He was wearing his hair a little longer than he had, too, because she liked it that way.
He really was very appealing. She liked having him around. In fact, she was as in love with him—in her way—as he was with her, and he was madly in love with her. Having a man around permanently was really not worth it otherwise, no matter how well he served. Dominating a man, after a while, got to be hard work—unless you loved and respected him.
“This was very good,” she said. “You can eat now. You will enjoy it. You will feel satisfied with your meal, you will not feel hungry at all. When you are done, you will feel the need to clean the kitchen. When you have done a perfect job, you will join me in the study. You will take a seat next to me. As soon as you sit down you will fall into a deep trance. One, two—THREE!”
She rose from the table. He sat where she had sat and began to eat, staring blankly at his plate. She knew he would eat a moderate portion, chewing each bite 50 times—no more and no less. He would not be hungry, indeed would not think of food, until time for the next meal. Snacks were unhealthy. He did not want them—any more.
She went to the study and returned to the inbox. Half an hour later he appeared in the doorway, carrying a large silver serving spoon. She pointed at the chair across from her. He sat. “Look at the spoon,” she said. He held the silver spoon in front of his eyes. “The spoon holds you. The spoon is all there is. TYour story is in the spoon. Hypnoteen is in the spoon. You will see what she does. It will flow to you calmly and happily. You do not need to try, or even think; the character will guide you and you will know what you will write tomorrow. Nod your head.”
He nodded, eyes fixed on the middle distance.
“When you have seen what to write, the spoon will slip from your fingers and you will pass into deep hypnosis. Nod your head.”
Another nod.
“Good boy. Take the spoon. Watch the spoon. The spoon is your world. One, two—THREE.”
She had finished at least sorting the emails. Now she had a blog entry to finish. That kept her busy—with a smile on her fact—for nearly forty-five minutes. When she surfaced again, she saw her husband sitting across from her, head drooping over his chest, apparently fast asleep.
“Good boy,” she said. “You are sleeping now so that your uunconscious mind will know what to write tomorrow. You will wake shortly, feeling sleepy and ready for bed. You will remember the pleasant evening we have spent together, with me listening to your thoughts about your novel and you enjoying my attention. Come up now! One, two, THREE!”
She went back to studying the screen, smiling again; after a few minutes his voice said, “What time is it? I’m tired.”
“Louis, I read something interesting today,” she said. “Did you know that male orcas never leave the pod they are born in?”
He looked a bit confused. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “How did you—why did you—what?”
“You look a little tired, honey,” she said. “Isn’t it bedtime?”
She had asked him about the orcas for two reasons. First, an irrelevant question can make a hypnotic subject forget what happened under hypnosis, which she wanted; and, second, it can confuse and disorient him more, making him easier to rule by suggestion, whether awake or asleep.
He yawned. “Wow, yes it is. I need to get in bed.” He smiled slyly at her. “Will you join me?” he asked.
She would have loved to. But she just didn’t have time tonight, though their regular romps were very satisfying to them both. Tonight, though, she needed just to keep his engine tuned while she finished the weekly blog post. “Go get in bed and call me,” she said. “I will join you in a few minutes.”
The words triggered him again. He got up at once, without a word, and headed for the bedroom. After fifteen minutes, she head him calling, “Elle? Come to bed, darling.”
She entered the bedroom. Like the kitchen, it was spotless. He had cleaned up up before he could alllow himself to get between the sheets. It was a very peaceful, dim, cozy, sexy, bedroom—the kind of bedroom girls dream of, and boys resist, until they are persuaded not to. He was lying in bed watching her. She went over to him and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Look at this,” she said, holding up the same laquered fingernail. “Look closely. In one minute, you will feel me join you in bed. I will be naked. You will be filled with desire. You hear me tell you to call my name. As you do, you will become more and more aroused until I allow you to come. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Okay, one, two, three—now!” she said. On her way out, she turned out the light.
Back at her computer, she heard him in the bedroom. “Elle!” he said, then again, “Elle!! ELLE! Yes, Elle, yes, oh God, Elle, yes, Elle—oh-my—GOD!”
Now he would go straight to sleep and she could work until ready for bed.
It was remarkable how much work she had to do. She didn’t do it for the money; since she had taken over Louis’s literary career, the royalties on the teen books had made them both wealthy. Her work she did only to make the world a better place.
And because it was fun.
She looked down at her blog post. HYPNOSIS FOR WIVES was her webpage; so was HYPNOSIS FOR GIRLFRIENDS. GIRLFRIENDS instructed women how to spot a potential submissive mate, how to gradually tame his will without arousing his suspicions, how to condition him to obey and then “persuade” him to propose (unless the woman found him wanting in which case she could “persuade” him to break up with her and never bother her again—or, equally often, to do errands and chores for her while remembering only that they were “just friends”).
HYPNOSIS FOR WIVES was more exciting. It was what one did with the fish once he was caught, and the possibilities were endless.
She worked on for several hours, laquered nails clicking the keys, until she got tired and went to bed. She looked at the clock—11:30 p.m. He would greet her in the morning with breakfast in bed; then she would send him off to his writing with a smile on his face.
He enjoyed being her servant. She was a merciful owner, and he was her prized possession, her hypno-husband.