Voyer’s Hypnostuff: WHINE


General Disclaimers: While it features no ‘on-screen’ sexual activity or explicit adult situations, this hypnofetish scene does contain examples of fictional characters doing illegal, immoral and/or impossible things to other fictional characters. If you are under the age of consent in your community, are disturbed by such concepts, or want graphic sex in your online pornography, then for goshsakes stop reading now!

Permission is granted to re-post for free to any electronic medium, as long as no fee whatsoever is charged to view it, and this disclaimer and e-mail address (hypnovoyer@hotmail.com) are not removed. It would also be nice if you told me you were posting it.

Copyright Voyer, 2010.

Specific Disclaimers: Decide for yourself what is happening here.

Dedicated to Neil Gaimon.

The noise again.


Same as all the other times, a tiny but relentless whine hovering right at the edge of hearing.

Her fingers flexed in irritation. What the hell was it? A mosquito buzzing around somewhere in the room? That would be nice. Or at least simple. A sharp and vivid image swirled up. The bug crawling across her dresser-top. Yes. Slamming her palm down, hard. Wham. Splat. And then, finally, in an instant, blessed silence.

Well, maybe not literal silence.

Her fingers flexed again, pushing against the fabric of her bedspread.

She let them relax, took a long slow deep breath.

She had to do something productive. Track the Whine, pin down its location.

It was somewhere close.

It almost seemed somehow to be coming from behind her head. Just behind it, an inch or so beyond the back of her skull.


Something inside her pillow? Maybe something hidden inside her pillow, pumping that godawful teeth-clenching whine straight into her brain?

Why would anyone hide a Whine-pumper inside her pillow?

Long, slow, deep breaths.

In. Out. In. Out.

She would check the pillow when she got up. Dissect it down to the last feather. No. Even better. Don’t take any chances. Throw the whole pillow out. And not just in the garbage can. Don’t take any chances. Throw it off the Eastside Bridge tomorrow, on her way to work.

Finally. She had a plan. Death to the evil Whining pillow.


There was something wrong. A small lump of ice, rotating in her stomach. The plan wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t the pillow. Some other vital detail she was overlooking.

She stared the textures on the ceiling. A stray red-brown hair curled at the corner of her vision.. She wiggled her toes, and the hair jiggled a little.. They were cold. (Her toes.) She had taken off her shoes before laying down on the bed.

She had come straight home from work, over the bridge. Straight home. Shoes off. Straight to bed. Onto the bed.

She was hungry.

She was laying on her bed, still wearing her jacket and blouse and skirt.

Straight to bed.

Except for her shoes.



There wasn’t actually a click, but at the same time there was. It came from the clock on the nightstand.

It was 6:42 PM.

Her eyes smoothly rolled up inside their sockets, and she was staring at the Colors.

The wonderful flowing Colors.


Spilling down and around and down..


Pulling her with them.


Pulling her deeper and deeper anddeeperand

Completely limp. No more twitching or wiggling.

No more moving at all.


The Whine was still there.

Long, deep breaths.

Watch the Colors. Around and down, around and down, forever and ever.

Whine. Whine. Whinnne.

The Colors. They made things clearer. Ever so much clearer.

Use the Colors.

Was that her idea? Or had the Colors come up with it? The Colors were good. The Colors were wise. The Colors were holy.

Let the Colors use her.

Her fingers and toes dribbled away to numbness.

An endless wooden plain, every swirl and grain distinct. A mosquito, crawling, scratching across it. Black and bristly and evil, with nasty blue eyes.

Only it wasn’t really a mosquito at all. It was wearing a mosquito suit, hiding its true ugliness. It was the Whine. The stupid, useless Whine.

Long slow deep breaths. In. And. Out.

She was floating up off the bedspread. Up towards the ceiling.

Up into the Colors.

Only she wasn’t. Or yes. She was, but the bedsp.. the softness was coming up with her. Enveloping her. She was almost completely numb now, but she still felt the warmth. Devouring her. Leaving only her nose exposed, so she could breath.

Long slow empty breaths.

Up. Deeper and deeper up. Into the Colors.

The very tip of her nose was just brushing against the ceiling.

Her thoughts..

She watched her thoughts drain away.

Fly away.


Into the Colors.

Scary and wondrous.

One or two of them lingered.

Fluttering around the Whine as it scratched and scritched its way across the plain.

A pair of lines, crossing.


She centered them on the Whine.

She knew now why that ancient long-ago plan would never have worked.

Some woman driving across some bridge wouldn’t have remembered any of this. Just like all the other times.


It wasn’t like all the other times.

Up here at the ceiling, wrapped in the Colors, marinating in the Colors, She thought nothing. Remembered everything.

Before, the Whine hadn’t been some bug-thing. It had been larger. And larger, and larger.

Smaller and smaller. Each time. A week now, at least. Home. Bed. Ceiling.


Somewhere there were lungs. Long. Slow. Empty. Full.

And somewhere beyond the lungs and beyond the Colors.. in the apartment above...

Beaming down..

She zoomed closer to the Whine. Crosshairs. Scalpel. Clensing fire.

The suit crumbled to dust, the last of her thoughts swirled away, and she saw.

Some woman with red-brown hair, screaming.

Trying to resist the Colors.

Trying to resist the owner of the Colors.

Her name was FREE WILL.

Wham. Splat.

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