I think I hypnotized myself for real in a dream

A couple of weeks ago I was taking an afternoon nap, and I had a lucid dream. I'm pretty good at doing that, and if you want to learn how to have a lucid dream, there are lots of YouTube videos that will teach you how. Just don't buy the crap about astral projection.

Well, in this particular lucid dream, I decided that I wanted to act out a hypnosis fantasy. These are usually difficult for me because deep inside, I always know I'm controlling myself. But this time Agnes Zee came to mind - Agnes and her male hypnotist. Of course, normally I'd prefer to be controlled by a female; but Agnes is so hot in trance that I can't help but appreciate the man who sends her there.

I remember a video (which, sadly, seems to have been taken down), where he keeps snapping his fingers and using Agnes' trigger to send her deeper - and to bring her closer and closer to orgasm. She doesn't quite go over the edge, maybe because she doesn't want to do porn - and in fact maybe she took the video down because she decided it was too close to porn. But in this video she comes close to orgasm, so in my lucid dream, I tried to reconstruct what her hypnotist had said, using his words and snapping but my own trigger. And I think I really was hypnotizing myself in that dream, using the man's voice to help me imagine I was under someone else's control.I was also, to put it delicately, experiencing the same sensations as Agnes. Unfortunately, just like her, I didn't reach the finish line. In my dream somebody interrupted me and then I at a daycare center watching over a pack of kids.

But I still have two weird things to relate about this dream. The first is that I got stuck in it so deeply that I couldn't wake up even when I asked people in the dream to slap me. I ended up napping for four hours. I don't know if that's because I hypnotized myself and didn't have anyone to wake me up, or if it was just coincidence.

The second weird thing is that all through the daycare part of the dream, I was gasping for breath. Now, I think I have a bit of sleep apnea, although I've never been tested, but I also think it's mostly under control now. If I dream I'm underwater, I tell myself I can still breathe, and I do; or if I dream I'm about to get swamped by a wave, I tell myself I won't hold my breath until just before it hits me. These techniques seem to work. But in this dream, there was no water, so I had no reason think about holding my breath; and I thought I was out of breath from exercising. I guess in real life I didn't stop breathing, but I was probably breathing very shallowly - and even though I was lucid enough to try to wake up, I wasn't lucid enough to remember my apnea. Weird.

Again, I have no idea whether the length of my nap or my breathlessness was due to hypnosis, but it's something to think about. Anyway, I will try the stunt again if I think about it during a lucid dream. Maybe next time I won't get interrupted.

Vampire mermaids?

I've talked before about my strange fascination with mermaids. I wonder why they play harps that lure men to their death, or why they drag shipwrecked sailors down into the depths to kill htem. What's it all for? Are they just doing it because they can?

I've also talked recently about being on a Lovecraft bender, searching the internet for public-domain stories from his predecessors and contemporaries. I won't weigh you down with a long list of names or links, but I will say that Robert Bloch is by far the best writer in the crowd. (As an aside, I'll also say that, having seen and read lots of Weird Tales stories by now, I'm amazed at what those 30's-era authors and artists got away with. Naked women left and right, just barely disguised sexual imagery in every climax, and gore enough to make Stephen King applaud.)

Well, I wasn't kidding about the vampire mermaids. I've just finished reading a story by Robert Bloch about a sorceress who inhabits the body of an alluring sea-creature, then saps a male victim of his will with repeated dreams and steamy hot kisses (which were no doubt more than kisses, nudge nudge wink wink) so that she can...well, I'll keep that a secret in hopes you'll read the story. I've uploaded the PDF here.

And just to whet your appetites, I'll share this little excerpt where she lures him into a clearly vaginal cave (Notice how he has to squeeze between two jutting points of rock) and sucks a little more of his will away:

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The salt breeze blew coldly across his face, and the sea glistened like silver in the moonlight. A faint splash told of a sea-thing that broke the surface of the waters. To the north the sea washed against the rugged surface of the cliff, barred and speckled with black shadows. Dean felt a sudden, inexplicable impulse to move in that direction. He yielded.

As he clambered over the rocks he was suddenly conscious of a strange sensation, as though keen eyes were focused upon him—eyes that watched and warned! Vaguely in his mind rose up the gaunt face of his uncle, Michael Leigh, the deep-set eyes glowing. But swiftly this was gone, and he found himself before a deeper niche of blackness in the cliff face. Into it he knew he must go. He squeezed himself between two jutting points of rock, and found himself in utter, dismal darkness. Yet somehow he was conscious that he was in a cave, and he could hear water lapping nearby. ... He stepped forward, and, as the floor shelved sharply downward, stumbled and fell headlong into icy, shallow water. He felt, rather than saw, a flicker of swift movement, and then abruptly hot lips were pressed against his.

Human lips, Dean thought, at first.

He lay on his side in the chill water, his lips against those responsive ones. He could see nothing, for all was lost in the blackness of the cave. The unearthly lure of those invisible lips thrilled through him.

He responded to them, pressed them fiercely, gave them what they were avidly seeking. The unseen waters crawled against the rocks, whispering warning.

And in that kiss strangeness flooded him. He felt a shock and a tingling go through him, and then a thrill of sudden ecstasy....

---

Again, if you'd like to read the full story - which is well worth your time - just click here.

Ready...set...imagine!

I just found this over on Deviant Art. If you haven't subscribed to this particular poster, you really, really should. Right now.

Ohh, the fantasies I can build around this image!

Heat and chills

This is a post that grew in the telling (ten points to anyone who gets that reference). I had originally intended to post the first video, and only the first video, two weeks ago. Then I found something better for that weekend; and then last weekend I was as nauseated and terrified as most of the world at certain election results. But let's not talk about that. Here we go with the original video, which is just a fun, hot piece of fluff; and then I'll give you something new and creepy that I just found yesterday.

First up is - warning: controversial opinion ahead - the only scene worth watching in what's supposed to be a camp classic. I tried to watch Barbarella in full. Honestly, I did. But it felt like a Saturday morning kid's TV show with overt sex thrown in, so I kept feeling weirder and more uncomfortable until I had to turn it off. But I did like this scene, where one of the villains tries to torture Barbarella to death with unexpected results. I especially love her exclamation of dismay at the end:



Now here's the creepy second video. Some of you know about a SF anthology series called Black Mirror, which until now was made in the UK (I only saw one episode and loved it, but reviewers everywhere rave about it). Now it's being made in the US and coming to Netflix, so Netflix designed this very...counter-intuitive...promotion for itself: "Hey, you! Forget the rest of the world and be Netflix's zombie slave! You'll love it!" Well, I love it, anyway. Especially that last little bit at the dinner table. Plus, the ad gives me so many, many ideas for corrupting this imaginary technology. I'm sure it will do the same for you:

Holy. Shit. Watch. This. Now.

two words: eye roll

Here's another case where I went to YouTube to get a video I'd already planned to share with you, but I found something much, much better.

First, I stumbled across this one:



Then, as you know, one thing leads to another:



And all the best hypo videos always lead you back to the glorious Agnes Zee:



All three of these videos will link you more hypno-goodness than you can sit still for, and I was sooo tempted to keep following those links! But I couldn't go on without leaving you a few gifts, so here are three of the best I've seen so far. Enjoy!

Halloween horror MC

art by Richard Corben

Imagine you're in a canoe, floating down a wide, slow part of the Amazon river. You've been sick for several days with some kind of jungle virus, so you're very weak and feverish. In fact, you lost your oar at some point during a fit of delirium.

Opposite you sits something that used to be your friend. The two of you were orchid hunters, but Falmer went off alone while you were sick. He was exploring a sepulchre full of vine-bound skeletons when he inhaled some strange spores that made him sick. Now he has an alien plant growing out of his skull and slowly taking over his whole body. You tried to cut it out with no success, and when you thought you were getting over your sickness, you got him int the canoe and set off downstream in search of a doctor. But now you're sick again, Falmer is so far gone that you can't tell if he's dead or alive, and in your condition it would be suicide to jump out of the boat and try to swim to shore. So you're stuck here with him/it, waiting to see what will happen next.

That's the setup for Clark Ashton Smith's story "The Seed from the Sepulchre," which you can read in full here. I'm only going to give you the last section, as a Halloween gift. Fair warning: although the story does contain MC, it's a horror story above anything else. That's why I chose it for Halloween (I''ll share something much lighter next week, I promise). I'm putting the squickiest bits in spoiler text, but even if you don't read those parts, you're still in for a very scary ride. Hang on tight.

---

During the interim of Thone's delirium and his lapse into slumber, the monstrous plant bud, merely stimulated, it would seem, by the act of excision, had grown again with preternatural rapidity, from Falmer's head. A loathsome pale-green stem was mounting thickly, and had started to branch like antlers after attaining a height of six or seven inches.

[highlight for squick]More dreadful than this, if possible, similar growths had issued from the eyes; and their stems, climbing vertically across the forehead, had entirely displaced the eyeballs. Already they were branching like the thing from the crown. [/squick] The antlers were all tipped with pale vermilion. They appeared to quiver with repulsive animations, nodding rhythmically in the warm, windless air... From the mouth another stem protruded, curling upward like a long and whitish tongue. It had not yet begun to bifurcate.

Thone closed his eyes to shut away the shocking vision. Behind his lids, in a yellow dazzle of light, he still saw the cadaverous features, the climbing stems that quivered against the dawn like ghastly hydras of tomb-etiolated green. They seemed to be waving toward him, growing and lengthening as they waved. He opened his eyes again, and fancied, with a start of new terror; that the antlers were actually taller than they had been a few moments previous.

After that, he sat watching them in a sort of baleful hypnosis. The illusion of the plant's visible growth, and freer movement – if it were illusion – increased upon him. Falmer, however, did not stir, and his parchment face appeared to shrivel and fall in, as if the roots of the growth were draining his blood, were devouring his very flesh in their insatiable and ghoulish hunger.

Thone wrenched his eyes away and stared at the river shore. The stream had widened and the current had grown more sluggish. He sought to recognize their location, looking vainly for some familiar landmark in the monotonous dull-green cliffs of jungle that lined the margin. He felt hopelessly lost and alienated. He seemed to be drifting on an unknown tide of madness and nightmare, accompanied by something more frightful than corruption itself.

His mind began to wander with an odd inconsequence, coming back always, in a sort of closed circle, to the thing that was devouring Falmer. With a flash of scientific curiosity, he found himself wondering to what genus it belonged. It was neither fungus nor pitcher plant, nor anything that he had ever encountered or heard of in his explorations. It must have come, as Falmer had suggested, from an alien world: it was nothing that the earth could conceivably have nourished.

He felt, with a comforting assurance, that Falmer was dead. That at least, was a mercy. But even as he shaped the thought he heard a low, guttural moaning, and, peering at Falmer in a horrible startlement, saw that his limbs and body were twitching slightly. The twitching increased, and took on a rhythmic regularity, though at no time did it resemble the agonized and violent convulsions of the previous day. It was plainly automatic, like a sort of galvanism; and Thone saw that it was timed with the languorous and loathsome swaying of the plant. The effect on the watcher was insidiously mesmeric and somnolent; and once he caught himself beating the detestable rhythm with his foot.

He tried to pull himself together, groping desperately for something to which his sanity could cling. Ineluctably, his illness returned: fever, nausea, and revulsion worse than the loathliness of death. But before he yielded to it utterly, he drew his loaded revolver from the holster and fired six times into Falmer's quivering body. He knew that he had not missed, but after the final bullet Falmer still moaned and twitched in unison with the evil swaying of the plant, and Thone, sliding into delirium, heard still the ceaseless, automatic moaning.

There was no time in the world of seething unreality and shoreless oblivion through which he drifted. When he came to himself again, he could not know if hours or weeks had elapsed. But he knew at once that the boat was no longer moving; and lifting himself dizzily, he saw that it had floated into shallow water and mud and was nosing the beach of a tiny, jungle-tufted isle in mid-river. The putrid odor of slime was about him like a stagnant pool; and he heard a strident humming of insects.

It was either late morning or early afternoon, for the sun was high in the still heavens. Lianas were drooping above him from the island trees like uncoiled serpents, and epiphytic orchids, marked with ophidian mottlings, leaned toward him grotesquely from lowering boughs. Immense butterflies went past on sumptuously spotted wings.

art by Sergiy Krykun

He sat up, feeling very giddy and lightheaded, and faced again the horror that accompanied him. The thing had grown incredibly: the three-antlered stems, mounting above Falmer's head, had become gigantic and had put out masses of ropy feelers that tossed uneasily in the air, as if searching for support – or new provender. In the topmost antlers a prodigious blossom had opened – a sort of fleshy disk, broad as a man's face and white as leprosy.

Falmer's features had shrunken till the outlines of every bone were visible as if beneath tightened paper. He was a mere death's head in a mask of human skin; and beneath his clothing the body was little more than a skeleton. He was quite still now, except for the communicated quivering of the stems. The atrocious plant had sucked him dry, had eaten his vitals and his flesh.

Thone wanted to hurl himself forward in a mad impulse to grapple with the growth. But a strange paralysis held him back. The plant was like a living and sentient thing – a thing that watched him, that dominated him with its unclean but superior will. And the huge blossom, as he stared, took on the dim, unnatural semblance of a face. It was somehow like the face of Falmer, but the lineaments were twisted all awry, and were mingled with those of something wholly devilish and nonhuman. Thone could not move – he could not take his eyes from the blasphemous abnormality.

By some miracle, his fever had left him; and it did not return. Instead, there came an eternity of frozen fright and madness in which he sat facing the mesmeric plant. It towered before him from the dry, dead shell that had been Falmer, its swollen, glutted stems and branches swaying gently, its huge flower leering perpetually upon him with its impious travesty of a human face. He thought that he heard a low, singing sound, ineffably sweet, but whether it emanated from the plant or was a mere hallucination of his overwrought senses, he could not know.

The sluggish hours went by, and a grueling sun poured down its beams like molten lead from some titanic vessel of torture. His head swam with weakness and the fetor-laden heat, but he could not relax the rigor of his posture. There was no change in the nodding monstrosity, which seemed to have attained its full growth above the head of its victim. But after a long interim Thone's eyes were drawn to the shrunken hands of Falmer, which still clasped the drawn-up knees in a spasmodic clutch. Through the ends of the fingers, tiny white rootlets had broken and were writhing slowly in the air, groping, it seemed, for a new source of nourishment. Then from the neck and chin, other tips were breaking, and over the whole body the clothing stirred in a curious manner, as if with the crawling and lifting of hidden lizards.

At the same time the singing grew louder, sweeter, more imperious, and the swaying of the great plant assumed an indescribably seductive tempo. It was like the allurement of voluptuous sirens, the deadly languor of dancing cobras. Thone felt an irresistible compulsion: a summons was being laid upon him, and his drugged mind and body must obey it. The very fingers of Falmer, twisting viperishly, seemed beckoning to him. Suddenly he was on his hands and knees in the bottom of the boat. Inch by inch, with terror and fascination contending in his brain, he crept forward, dragging himself over the disregarded bundle of orchid-plants, inch by inch, foot by foot, till his head was against the withered hands of Falmer, from which hung and floated the questing roots.

Some cataleptic spell had made him helpless. He felt the rootlets as they moved like delving fingers through his hair and over his face and neck, and started to strike in with agonizing, needle-sharp tips. He could not stir; he could not even close his lids. [highlight for squick]In a frozen stare, he saw the gold and carmine flash of a hovering butterfly as the roots began to pierce his pupils.[/squick]

Deeper and deeper went the greedy roots, while new filaments grew out to enmesh him like a witch's net. For a while, it seemed that the dead and the living writhed together in leashed convulsions. At last Thone hung supine amid the lethal, ever-growing web; bloated and colossal, the plant lived on; and in its upper branches, through the still, stifling afternoon, a second flower began to unfold.