CNC EROTIC HYPNOSIS | VIDEO | SCENE WORK HOW-TOs

You know, Kali, it seems I always come here for a break every year,” she mused, her voice a soft purr as she leaned against my kitchen counter, swirling the last of her wine.

“I love San Francisco. And I love… you.”

Her blouse was white, sheer in the warm apartment light, and she wore nothing beneath it. Her nipples pressed against the fabric, teasing, inviting.

She stretched, languid and unbothered, the way a cat does when it knows it’s being watched. She knew. She always knew.

Yet she took the couch as she always did, curling beneath the throw blanket, sinking into the city’s lull.

I watched her from my bedroom doorway, my lips curving into a slow smile. She always came here. She always found her way back to me. And in the dead of night, she would remember why.

Soft fingertips traced the edge of my sheets. A whisper of touch, the kind that slips between waking and dreaming, pressing just enough to pull me into awareness. I didn’t move. I just let it happen. Her breath, slow and deep, ghosted over my skin.

Then, the weight of her — sliding under my covers, lips parting, sighing against my thigh. A sleepy moan. A flick of her tongue, hesitant, then surer. She was still dreaming, lost in that hypnotic haze where thought and instinct tangled. But her body remembered.

Her lips knew. Another sigh. Another helpless, shuddering breath. “Good girl,” I murmured, running my fingers through her hair, pressing her deeper. She moaned, half-dreaming, lost in it.

Her fingers found me, teasing, stroking. Her mouth opened, her tongue slow and searching. “Mmm…” Her voice was breathy, wet, melting into the rhythm of my hips. Then — something shifted. She froze.

Her body stiffened, breath hitching as awareness seeped in. A small, startled noise left her throat, her mouth still buried between my legs, her hands trembling. “Kali…?” she whispered, voice thick with sleep, confusion flickering through the trance.

I smiled, curling my fingers tighter in her hair. “Shhh,” I cooed, stroking her scalp, letting my voice seep into her, soft and warm. “You remember now, don’t you?” Her lips parted. A shudder rippled through her body. “I… I was just… I — “ “Yes, just like always,” I whispered. “Just like every year.” Her brows furrowed, but the words slipped inside, curling through the spaces between thought and memory, wrapping around something deeper. “Every year,” I repeated, my voice low, rhythmic.

“You come here, from Paris. You always do.” A moan. A soft, needy sound that vibrated against my skin.

“You come here for this,” I continued, guiding her, feeding her the story as my hips arched into her mouth.

“It’s always your idea.” She trembled. Her fingers curled against my thighs, her breath hitching. “It’s… my idea,” she echoed, dazed, lost. “Mmm, yes. You crave this. You need this.”

Her body shuddered. The hesitation melted. And then — just like that — she gave in. She moaned as she licked, as she sucked, as her fingers slid between her own thighs, slick and wanting.

The memories sank deeper, twining through her like roots. She had always come here for this. She always would.

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