“If You Were To Rob A Bank Peter?” | Hypno Porn | Hypno Erotics | Erotic Hypnosis

She entered the room, frustration coursing through her at the sight of Peter.

“Did you receive my envelope?” she inquired sharply.

Peter remained seated at his desk, engrossed in his coding, seemingly oblivious to her presence. His gaze never wavered from the lines of code displayed on his screen, leaving the envelope untouched on the table.

“If you’re planning to be difficult,” she retorted, her irritation evident, “I might as well freeze your hands mid-code and cast a hypnotic spell to blind your sight.”

Peter finally swiveled in his chair to face her.

“You dispatched me on a quest for Sudoku, Kali,” he grumbled, frustration evident in his voice. “Sudoku, of all things.”

Kali couldn’t help but smirk. “Well, Peter, it could be worse. Perhaps you’d prefer a career in bank robbery?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “Not a path you’ve explored before, Kali?”

“Take a good look at your career, Peter. It’s dreadfully dull,” she exclaimed, frustration lacing her words. “You possess immense talent, yet you’ve squandered years of it toiling away in the Silicon Valley mines.”

“DuBois, not a word more. Shut it. That was the most challenging cunt I’ve ever encountered, and you’re better off not knowing the details. It nearly ate me alive. And to top it off, the husband turned out to be a large, portly Greek man. You conveniently left that part out.”

“Well, aren’t many Greeks on the plumper side?” she quipped.

“No, DuBois, I know just about every Greek person in LA. How on earth am I going to maintain my cover?” he retorted.

She replied, “Well, you’re rather slim now, so they might not even recognize you.”

“Now, Peter, circling back to this bank robbery idea… if you could actually pull it off, how would you go about it?”

DuBois calmly threw a backpack onto the table and unzipped it with the precision of a surgeon. Inside were two Glock pistols, sleek and menacing. She deftly took them out, her fingers moving with the familiarity of someone who had handled firearms countless times before.

Peter watched as DuBois began the meticulous process of disassembling the Glocks. She locked the slides to the rear and removed the magazines, setting them aside. With a steady hand, she pulled down on the takedown tabs, releasing the slides from the frames. The metallic components separated smoothly.

As she worked, DuBois explained, “Now, Peter, back to this bank robbery…if you could do it, how would you?” Her voice remained calm and composed, as if discussing the weather.

With the slides and frames exposed, DuBois focused on cleaning the barrels. She picked up a cleaning rod, attaching a bore brush soaked in gun solvent. The brush slid smoothly through the barrels several times, removing any residue. She followed up with patches until they emerged spotless.

Peter’s eyes were fixed on DuBois’s hands, moving with precision as she detailed each step. The room was filled with the faint scent of gun solvent and the soft clinks of cleaning tools.

As DuBois meticulously cleaned the Glocks, her movements seemed to fall into a rhythmic pattern, like a hypnotic dance guided by the haunting melody of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” playing softly over the radio. The room filled with a surreal ambiance, as if time itself had slowed down to match the languid tempo of the song.

Peter, seated nearby, found himself inexplicably drawn to DuBois’s every move. He watched in a trance-like state, unable to tear his gaze away from her. The soothing notes of the music intertwined with her every action, creating a surreal synergy that seemed to ensnare his senses.

With each stroke of the bore brush through the barrel, DuBois seemed to sink deeper into her trance, and Peter unwittingly followed suit.

The lyrics of the song echoed in his mind, its dreamlike quality washing over him:

“Come on, baby

Don’t fear the reaper

Baby, take my hand

Don’t fear the reaper

We’ll be able to fly

Don’t fear the reaper.”

As DuBois meticulously cleaned the intricate components of the Glocks, the repetition of the song’s refrain reinforced Peter’s focus and intent. It was as though the music itself whispered suggestions of unwavering concentration and clarity into his subconscious.

In this hypnotic trance, the Glocks were not just firearms; they were extensions of DuBois’s will, polished and prepared to execute her desires. The room seemed to vibrate with a strange energy, an unspoken understanding that something profound was about to unfold.

“Don’t fear the reaper,” the song continued to murmur, and Peter’s gaze remained fixed on DuBois, his own intent growing clear and resolute. The music held them both in its ethereal grasp, guiding them toward an uncertain destiny.

As DuBois peered into Peter’s deep, contemplative eyes, she posed a question that seemed to hang in the air, laden with intrigue. “So, Peter,” she began, her voice a silky whisper, “if you were ever to contemplate the notion of orchestrating a bank heist, how might you go about it?”

Peter’s response was measured, delivered with a hint of caution, “I can’t say I’d actually do it, but I suppose I’d explore alternative methods to achieve my goals.”

There, in that moment, the room crackled with unspoken possibilities. The conversation had shifted from the hypothetical to the realm of calculated strategy. As they gazed at each other, a shared understanding passed between them, unspoken but potent, suggesting that some secrets were meant to be kept while others were destined to be revealed.

“Peter,” she whispered softly, her breath warm against his lips, “will you kiss me?”

A knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth as he replied, “I thought you would never ask.” Leaning in closer, their lips met.

As their kisses deepened, she moved with deliberate sensuality, her fingers gently unzipping her skirt. Her skirt fell to the floor, and she tugged at his sweatpants, yearning for nothing more than to taste his body.

His cock felt rigid and swollen, pulsating with an unspoken anticipation. He sensed that whatever she had in mind, he needed to remove his sweatpants immediately, right there and then, or things might take a less-than-pleasant turn.

She started to knead his cock with her skillful fingers, causing his eyes to roll back in his head as waves of relaxation coursed through him.

He stood above her, their eyes locked in a hypnotic connection. She whispered, “Stare into my eyes. I need you to focus on those strategies.” Her intense massage sent warmth surging through him, the sensation traveling up his spine and down his legs.

He closed his eyes, delving deep into his thoughts about how he could achieve his goals without immediate action. His mind retraced the steps of what he needed to do, steering away from the initial impulse.

Her grip tightened around his cock, and as you sense that pressure now, I want you to explore those alternative strategies, Peter. What ideas are coming to mind?

Peer into my eyes, Peter, and share your thoughts with me.

As the pressure in his cock continued to intensify, it reached an extreme level, and the urge to release it became nearly overwhelming. But he understood that he needed to persevere and not cum, to let it build further, because with each passing moment, his thoughts grew clearer, sharper than ever before. And then, as the pressure peaked, the answer he sought materialized, drawn from the depths of his mind — a secret.