She leans close and whispers into you ear, a phrase that sends chills through your body.
“Look into my eyes.”
When she looks back she stares at you with wide eyes, and you stare back, eyes widening to match hers.
You stare into her red eyes, blazing red like a fire, eyes burning with passion and desire. Her pupils are bright as red suns, searing through your thoughts. Burning into the core of your mind.
Her eyes are so vivid, bright, swirling sloshing red, red as, red as…
Her eyes are red as blood.
Your blood.
You see blood in her eyes, drawing you in, pulling you closer. Pulling your blood closer.
Red blood… your eyes mirroring hers… her red eyes… red blood like yours… your blood in her eyes…
No, not your blood…
Her blood. In you.
The blood belongs to her. You’re merely a receptacle. Her fiery red eyes burn away your thoughts. Your mind is empty, your body is full–of blood–for her. You belong to her. You are her blood receptacle.
She sweeps you closer. You follow, a good receptacle. She takes her fill.
You look at the empty space in the tree. You hadn’t… meant to… push her that hard.
You were traveling in the jungle when night fell and you climbed a tree for safety. It was there…
It was in that tree she approached you.
A lamia, her tail with a striking pattern of red and blue bands. At first her face was obscured in a dark hood, but then she lowered it to reveal her hair, wavy and green like a field of grass. She looked over you with bright yellow eyes.
She introduced herself as Mira, all alone that night and looking for someone to spend it with. You knew lamias were dangerous and spurned her advances, even as she slipped her scaly tail around your bare skin.
You tried to push her off, but she could have held you down easily…
You wanted to show her you were serious about not wanting her there, so you pushed her…
She fell right out of the tree.
You look down to the jungle floor. It’s too dark to see where she landed, but you didn’t hear a thud, either. You try to peer closer through the darkness, leaning down.
“I ought to push you out of the tree!” Mira’s shout hurtles you forward, but her tail holds you from falling.
Mira spins you around with her tail to face her, a scowl over her face. You try to lean back but her tail slides around you tighter.
“That wasn’t just the rudest thing you could possibly do,” Mira says, leaning closer into your face, “it was a very… stupid… mistake.”
Your eyes widen–Mira’s are beginning to change colors, rings pulsing in her eyes. You’ve heard about this trick–hypnosis! Mind control! Before she catches you in her gaze you clench your eyes shut and look away, still trying to lean out of her increasingly-encompassing grasp.
“Look”–your eyes twitch–“me in the eye when I’m speaking to you,” Mira says. At the very first word, “look,” your left eye peeks before popping wide-open at the blooming colors in her eyes, a fiery red, a deep blue, and a dark rooting green.
Why did you look? Something in her voice, something dominating. You just had to do what she said. But you lean away as your eye is caught in her glare, as unable to look away from her as if she held your eye in the palm of her hand.
Your mind screamed that you had to stop this.
Maybe you can reason with her.
“Please, Mira,” you mutter in an attempt to suggest you talk it out, but Mira isn’t having it.
“Both”–your other eye opens–“eyes, if you please.”
At the very suggestion of the command your other eye opens in anticipation.
You so wanted to open it.
Her eyes are beautiful, enrapturing, and what’s more, she asked you to. You should do what she asks. If you really wanted to placate her you would do everything she asks. You should listen to her, do as she says, follow every word. Be polite.
A grin forms on your mouth at the thought of following her words, the truth of her words, that you should look into her eyes, do as she says.
Your wide-open grin leaves your speech a little slurred, but you mutter to her, “Yyyes, Mira.” You want her to know you will follow her.
Mira’s scowl softens to just a sullen frown. She leans closer before rising, forcing you to lift your eyes, tumbling your thoughts out the back of your head.
“Call me by my proper title, my little slave.”
Of course, you must, you must use her proper title.
“Yyyes, master.”
Her colors shatter your mind.
You stare at your wonderful, beautiful, perfect master, awaiting her command to faithfully follow.
Mira, your master.
You obey.
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Duth Olec's Cuckoo Cosmos 