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From the pages of GQ

I AM SITTING IN A RESTAURANT on the waterfront in Los Angeles.  I am having a glass of wine with a friendly computer programmer.  Martin Knight* is in his early fifties, and his pale face maintains an alert yet quizzical expression.  His sport shirt hangs from his slight frame in what must be the same way it hung from his adolescent body when he was acing math and being ignored by high school girls.   *His name has been changed for this article.

"I'm a submissive," he tells me as matter of factly as if he were saying "I'm a Republican."  He's an ordinary, perfectly sane, entirely pleasant submissive whose great desire is not to be whipped, stepped on or spanked---although I suspect he wouldn't necessarily want to rule out such options, under right circumstances.  What he has always wanted is to be hypnotized by a beautiful woman, and as luck would have it he has found someone who is very good at doing just that.

If there's a SUPERSTAR in the hypnofetish world, Lady Krystal Mesmer is it!  Her Web site [www.ladymesmer.com] is sophisticated; her CD's of hypnotic fantasy [A beautiful teacher invites you after class, for a special meeting..."] are professionally produced.  As well as maintaining her Web site, creating her CDs and producing her videos, Lady Krystal does both phone and in-person "sessions" with her clients. As a result, she receives as many as fifty E-mail inquiries a day and almost as many phone calls.

It was Krystal who put me in touch with Martin Knight.  A leg man, Martin tells me Krystal has terrific pair.  Somehow I'm not surprised;  when I called to arrange a session with her, she sounded like someone who has great legs.  Martin is not unmoved by her feet either, particularly when they're in black stocking, and high heels, which they usually are.

Generally it's Martin who gives Krystal gifts---it is not uncommon for a submissive to bring tributes to his mistress---but for Martin's fiftieth birthday, Krystal, who has a kind heart for a hypnotic dominatrix, took him out to dinner.  They went to the very establishment in which Martin and I are sitting when, with almost no prompting, he tells me the story of his birthday.

It was a pleasant evening, Krystal ordered champagne.  They had an enjoyable meal.  Afterward, Krystal suggested to Martin that they go for a stroll along the boardwalk, and while they stood out there, they looked at the lights sparkling on the water---isn't it interesting how the lights shimmer and dance on the water; shimmer and dance; if you watch closely, you can see the patterns they make; shimmering, dancing lights so nice to watch as if there were nothing else, as if everything but the lights is fading---and she put him in a trance.

Krystal does not have a great deal of difficulty hypnotizing Martin.  His is not a very impressive wall of resistance.  And so, on the boardwalk that evening, her spell put him under like a tossed anchor.  Demonstrating an undeniable flair for birthdays, Krystal ordered him to get down on his knees and worship her feet.

There were people around, but that didn't bother Martin.  He's an excellent hypnotic subject,  He also had a hard-on from here to next Tuesday.  As a result, he was oblivious to everything except Krystal's irresistible command.  He couldn't think of a nicer present than to be made to kiss her size 7 1/2 black open-toed patent-leather four inch heels.

"And anyway," he says, "this is Los Angeles.  I don't think anybody paid much attention."

A FEW HOURS AFTER my drink with Martin Knight, I arrived alone at the front door of Lady Krystal Mesmer's house in Los Angeles, I was nervous.

After I rang the bell, I waited.  It was a lovely evening.  The air was soft and smelled of the ocean.  The houses along the street were all flying American flags.  The front gardens were tidy.  Krystal's Corvette was parked in her driveway.  I was beginning to think that perhaps she'd forgotten about our appointment when the latch on her front door clicked... 

The door slowly opened. Apparently, by itself.
I stepped inside the darkened hallway. And the door closed.

Lady Krystal Mesmer was standing in front of me wearing a black silk kimono, under which was a satin camisole.  Martin Knight had been right about the legs.

I noticed her blond hair and her gleaming white teeth as she parted her lips and smiled.  She hadn't held back with the perfume.  Her eyes were intense and focused.

I followed her down the hallway to the living room.  She was in no rush.  The satin rustled.  The click of her high heels was like a slow, steady metronome.

Music was playing that sounded like softly clanging wind chimes.  A glass of red wine had already been poured for me.  The house seemed decorated in the style of a hypno-domme's lair, and described in the hypnofantasies I'd been reading.  There were old books about hypnotism on the bookshelves, dangling crystals, and sumptuously swaged draperies.

The actual title picture from this Article on Krystal Mesmer.

With a tilt of her head, Krystal invited me to sit on a deep pillowed sofa.  She laughed when I said the ambience seemed like a blatant attempt to compromise my journalistic integrity. "I thought you wanted to experience erotic hypnosis," she said in a low voice.

Krystal turned toward me and leaned forward,  She suddenly intensified her focus on me.  Her beguiling gaze suggested the common ground between the erotic and hypnotic, and she made it clear that as professionally interested in her as I was, there was something else to be considered here:  She wasn't the most successful hypno-domme in the business for nothing.  She knew exactly what she was doing...

HYPNOSIS CAN FACILITATE CONTROL Sometimes extraordinary control.  Or so one enthusiast who also happens to be a certified hypnotherapist told me as he and I drank coffee on the sidewalk of a shopping mall in Marina del Rey and watched the mesmerizingly lovely California girls sway by.  A lithe beach girl in not very much of a halter top caught my companion's attention, and he was immediately spellbound.  About ten seconds later, his gaze found it's way back to the table and he remembered I was there with him.  He had been telling me about the perks of being a certified hypnotherapist, of which there are a few, and he gestured toward the beautiful passerby as he made his next point.  "I once had a girlfriend who looked like her, he said.  "One night I hypnotized her and I said, "If the orgasms you're having are a 1 or a 2, then this time we're going to crank them up to a 10 or a 12."  And guess what?  After that she didn't want to have sex without being hypnotized.

It's possible for a skilled hypnotist, using suggestion and a smattering of Tantric techniques, to create a fantasy and build an orgasm---even a lonely, over-the-phone orgasm--to fireworks of Fourth of July proportions.  Furthermore, in exactly the same way that a Stage Hypnotist can suggest to her volunteers that they are feeling hot or cold or perhaps seeing Elvis in the audience, the erotic hypnotist can assist a subject in visualizing a harem or Britney Spears covered in whipped cream.

Having uncovered a secret--something the man has told no one else, ever:  a foot fetish, a need to dress like a little girl--the erotic hypnotist is then invested with enormous power by her client.  She controls him not only with her hypnotic skills but wishes.  Being instructed by a female hypnotist to wear, or to imagine wearing, women's clothing is probably the most common fantasy in this regard.

WHEN I ARRIVE AT A HOTEL in Orange County, California, for my interview with Soforia the Enchantress, a package is waiting for me at the front desk.  It contains four of Soforia's CDs, as well as a handwritten note.  The letter is not a greeting, but a page of instructions as to how I will spend my afternoon.  I wonder if this is the routine for visitors who come great distances to be hypnotically bossed around.

WHEN I MEET Soforia in the lobby, it is, I have to say, weird.  She has the look, posture, and manner of a girls' basketball coach about her -- a kink  that would be a stretch for me.  Probably , there is a good deal of interest in submitting to a woman who knows  when to pass and when to shoot and when, precisely, to call a time-out?  The only outward indication of her exotic vocation is the crystal pendant around her neck.

Female Erotic Hypnotists are very suspicious of one another.  They make sure to keep track of who else is working in this mysterious field.  Erotic hypnotists are more than a little competitive, and most of the ones I spoke to on the phone were worried that because I was being hypnotized by so many people--I might possibly be under another hypnotist's control.

ON THE HOTEL BED, I realize I cannot lift even a finger from the bedspread.  I may as well be gagged, since I cannot speak.  I am in a trance again--If indeed I'd ever been out of trance since the afternoon when I listened to Soforia's custom CDs.  The only difference this time is that the owner of the voice I've had ringing inside my head for hours, is actually sitting on the other bed in my hotel room, reading through my notebook.

She's what??? I think to myself.  Until I realize that nobody can read my notebook!  The handwriting is indecipherable.  Apparently Soforia has arrived at the same conclusion.  The next thing I know, I'm sitting up, reading my private notebook to Soforia.

I'm what??? I think to myself.  Until I realize I haven't yet had a chance to go over my notes from my encounters in L.A. with Krystal Mesmer.  This may be a good opportunity to review, I decide. 

This is the classic rationale of the hypnotized subject [I'm not really hypnotized, but I may as well go along with what the hypnotist says"].

Soforia wants to know what happened next!  I can't blame her.  I am more than a little curious myself.  But there is a problem; a frustrating gap in my notebook at this very juncture.  My notes are full of frustrating gaps.  It is their most consistent quality.  But Saforia is not as familiar with my ineptitude as I am.  She's not at all willing to let the discretion of a gap remain unexamined!  She insists on knowing exactly what happened when Krystal hypnotized me and instructs me to recall the entire session in graphic detail!

Frankly, Soforia's curiosity trespasses on my hard boundaries.  But what I decide to do, rather than simply refuse to obey Soforia, is to see if I can make things up while I am hypnotized.  I'm curious to find out if this is possible.

It occurs to me, as I spin my story for Soforia--describing the candles, the scent of the perfume, the intensity of Krystal's hypnotic gaze, the seductive temptation of submission--that I should write it down someday.  As hypnotic fantasies go, it has a certain flair.  The details are certainly impressive.

It is only much later, long after Soforia has gone, when I wake up in a dark hotel room and listen to the distant drone of traffic on the California interstate, that I wonder if I am certain I made my story up...

 CONDENSED from the May 2002 issue of GQ Magazine, by Mr. David Macfarlane [author of "The Danger Tree."]

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