The Lighthouse

Ellie’s on my couch, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue just visible. Her breathing is quick, shallow, her chest rising and falling like she’s holding back a tidal wave. Soft whimpers escape her, laced with something raw, something hungry. Her eyes are half-lidded, rolled back so only the whites show, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her arms dangle lifelessly at her sides, but her feet—her toes curl and flex, as if wrestling with the intensity coursing through her. She’s caught in some kind of storm, and soon, I’ll be caught in it too. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.

Ellie stood at my door, and I let her in. She’s not a knockout, just so you know—not the kind of girl who turns heads, but not unattractive either. She’s a little soft around the edges, not heavy, just… plush. Her figure’s flat where you’d expect curves, and her face is unremarkable, hard to pin down why. Maybe it’s the way her features don’t quite come together, like a sketch left unfinished. Still, she’s always put-together—clean, polished, like she cares. I get the feeling she looks forward to these hangouts as much as I do. She’s wearing makeup, subtle but deliberate, and her clothes are chosen with care, almost like she’s dressed up for me. I’m just a guy, but even I can tell she’s made an effort.

“Hey, what’s up? God, it smells amazing in here,” she said, flashing a warm smile as she stepped inside. “Nice work.”

I ushered her in, and as I set out the food, something felt… different. Not just her, but everything—the way the light hit her face, the colors of my cramped apartment, the air itself. It was sharper, more vivid, like I was suddenly more present in my own life. I couldn’t place it, but it stirred something in me.

We ate on the couch—my place is too small for a proper table. “So, how’d it go with Beth95 or whatever her name is?” Ellie asked, her grin teasing, mischievous. She loves ribbing me about my hopeless dating life.

“That’s tomorrow,” I said, staring at my plate. “Please, don’t start. It’s gonna be a disaster, like always.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up,” she said, her hand brushing my arm. Her touch lingered, warm and deliberate. “There’s a ton of girls out there who’d be into you. You just have to see them.” Her eyes held mine, expectant, searching, but I looked away, lost in my own head. At least she was trying to lift my spirits.

The movie we watched was… unhinged, to put it mildly. Thisarthouse film that seemed designed specifically to punish anyone foolish enough to suggest a movie night. It began with seventeen uninterrupted minutes of a man painting a lighthouse. Not painting a picture of a lighthouse, mind you, but literally applying white paint to an actual lighthouse while Wagner played backwards.

Ellie leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, tossing my homemade popcorn into my mouth and tossing out quips about the film. When it ended, we lingered, chatting about nothing and everything as we cleared the dishes. That’s when she spotted it—the book on my kitchen counter. Damn. I hadn’t meant for her to see that.

“Hypnosis? That’s new!” she said, picking it up with a spark of curiosity. “What’s this about?”

“Just something to shake things up,” I mumbled, trying to play it off. “I needed a new hobby.”

“Have you tried it yet?”

“Nope.”

She handed me the book, her eyes glinting. “Wanna try it on me? I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like.”

A minute later she settled back onto the couch, and I fumbled through the book, completely unprepared. I skimmed the pages, feeling like an amateur. “Okay, close your eyes,” I said.

She covered her face with both hands, grinning like a kid. “Like this?”

“No, Ellie, come on. Close them normally or we’re not doing this.”

“Fine, fine,” she laughed, relaxing. “I’m ready.”

“Breathe in deep, then out. Good. Again. Now picture yourself at an ice cream shop on a perfect summer day. You’re ordering. What flavor?”

“Strawberry,” she said, her voice soft, almost dreamy.

“Great. The vendor hands you the cone. Lift your hand like you’re taking it.” Her fingers rose, curling as if she held something real. The book said this kind of visualization was already a step into hypnosis. I hadn’t even done anything, but she was following along.

“Now, slowly lick the ice cream. Feel the chill against your tongue?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, “I can picture it.”

“Good. As you taste it, a warm wave of pleasure flows through you, from your head to your toes.” Her breath hitched, a slow exhale. “With every lick, that pleasure grows stronger, spreading from your head to your feet.” I watched, stunned, as she mimed licking the imaginary cone, her breathing growing heavier, more deliberate with each motion.

“You’re doing great, Ellie. The cone’s almost gone, but the emptier it gets, the deeper you go for me, and the stronger that pleasure becomes. When I snap my fingers, the ice cream’s finished, and you’ll be as deep as you can go, with that pleasure flowing endlessly, like it’s part of you now.” I snapped my fingers.

And then… she changed. Her body seemed to pulse with something electric. Her breath came fast, her chest heaving like she was holding back a flood. Her eyes fluttered, rolling back until only the whites gleamed. Her lips parted, a soft moan slipping out, uneven and raw. Her arms hung slack, but her feet twitched, toes curling as if grappling with the intensity inside her. She was lost in it, consumed by a pleasure I hadn’t expected to summon.

I stood there, heart pounding, completely unprepared. It had worked—too well.