You figure you should tell Bagheera you weren’t talking to him. He looks to be falling asleep, but you’ll just mention it real quick.
“I wasn’t—” You stop as the lamia moves back in front of you. Your first thought groans that she’s bothering you again, but your second thought gasps as a sudden force pulls your eyes open and yanks you forward. What’s going on? Everything is becoming blurry.
“Yes, human,” the lamia says. Rings of color emerge from her eyes, a beautiful shine that feels good to look at. Just as you notice them the light fades and the force that grasped your sight leaves, though you find a yearning to look at the lamia tickles your mind. The world begins to come into focus again, but before it does the colors flow back through the lamia’s eyes and everything blurs further.
“Please . . .” The lamia speaks, and you listen. Please. Please the lamia, the source of these stunning colors arresting your vision. You sit up to lean closer to the lamia, desire nudging your head to look deeper. Your eyes open wider to stare; the colors ripple out into the world for a moment but then stop, leaving a hazy hue in your sight as the rings stop once more.
You have no idea what’s happening, only this softly sinking feeling of bliss that the lamia seems to be the source of. Conflicting feelings of wrong and right battle in you, with the rings shushing your worries. As the color recedes your concern comes back, though mollified somewhat. Things are fine now that the colors have stopped. As the rings flow once more your concerns are overwhelmed and vanquished.
“Go to sleep . . .” she says, the colors flowing in full and pulsating at the edge of your sight as if encroaching on reality—or perhaps the colors are reality encroaching on a fading illusion. Your mind is muddled, drowsiness rolling over you like a wave, and you only feel dizzier as the lamia sways before you, dragging your head as your eyes lock onto her hypnotic gaze.
“Please, go to sleep,” she sings. You feel sleepier than you’ve ever felt, so dozy that if you shut your heavy eyes you could slip into a slumber immediately. Your mind fights the desire of sleep as it latches onto the desire to stare at the colors and gaze at the beautiful lamia.
Your concern snaps out of its dozing as you realize these competing desires both stem from the same source. Something seems wrong about that. You remember you were going to say something to Bagheera. What was it? Maybe he remembers. You yawn, your eyelids wavering, before you manage to speak.
“Ba . . .” It’s hard to speak; your mouth mumbles with slurred words, but you rally and try again, “Bagheerrrr . . .”
You fail to get the last syllable out as the lamia’s head suddenly rotates and you follow. The dizzying swaying drops you weaker and scatters your thoughts as the rippling colors brighten, clearer. Your head drunkenly sways with the lamia, unable to keep up with her graceful movements but the desire to do so increasing.
“Sleep little human,” the lamia says, brushing her hands alongside your head and through your hair, “do not speak . . .” Your head buzzes as if her hands charge static around you, her eyes spinning electrically. Your mouth slackens; even if you wanted to speak you’d slur your words.
A soft weight wraps around and squeezes your hips, sinking over your legs. A weak part of your mind calls out danger, ancient memories of long scaly tails wrapping and crushing, but your head is too soaked in hypnosis to understand and it’s drowned out by the feeling of the flowing tail as a gentle, loving hug, once around your hips, twice around your belly, a third around your abdomen, and a fourth squeezing your chest.
As the massaging scales grasp your body they pull you further into the grip of hypnotic bliss. Your head feels spotty and full of stuffing, and for a moment your eyes drop shut. The spell begins to grip your mind, but you snap awake with a jerk open of your eyes. A feeling of wrongness returns and you remember wanting to speak to someone—who—?
Your eyes droop but you remember. “Bagh—Bagheer—”
The lamia shushes you and croons, “Sleep . . . Sleep . . .”
You yawn again, twice again, her suggestions of sleep weighing heavily on your softened mind. Still you try to rally and, holding back another yawn, mutter your friend’s name again.
“B—Bagheeeeehh . . .” The lamia jerks her swaying head, yanking yours in a quick rotation that disorders your mind. You can’t remember what you were saying. The colors fill your head more and more, the rings fill the world more and more, rippling through over half and leaving only a blurry center that’s hard to make out. Still, there’s something on your mind you wanted to say. You try again.
“Ba–Ba–Bah . . . Bagheereereerrrr . . .” The lamia jerks your head again with her swaying, scrambling your words and leaving the colors to tighten over your mind and the world. You can’t remember what you were doing. Were you saying something? There was a word you wanted to say. You can’t remember what it means, but the soft, friendly tail around your chest is rising, caressing your upper arms. For some reason you feel you should speak soon. You sigh, you yawn, you sigh, you yawn, it’s so hard to think about anything but the lamia. Why would you want to think about anything but the lamia? There was something you wanted to do, though. Speak.
“Bah—Bagh—Baghahaha . . .” You giggle as the pretty lamia yanks your head in a circle again. It feels so good when she does that, like stirring your mind as your distressing thoughts lift like steam and leave you with blank bliss to enjoy. The jungle is a dark island in the center of your rippling rainbow sight, and you want that island to sink so you only see the colors and the lovely, beautiful, engaging, enchanting lamia. Your mouth wobbles into a lax, lopsided grin. You’re still dizzy, but it’s a relaxing dizziness, and as your shoulders disappear under scales you sink in the weight of her luxurious coils, your waist encircled by coils as thick as it.
One last fleeting thought tries to speak something you no longer care about.
“B—Bagh—” You gulp, the coils squeezing around your neck and cutting you off. This is good. You want this. Speaking is too much work, too much thinking that should go towards enjoying sunken slumber in the soporific spell of the colors.
You have no need to speak. You have no need for words. You only wish to sleep, cuddled by the lamia as you sink soft as mush.
I wonder if Bagheera ever even heard you. Maybe the first time, but as it went on maybe you just became quieter and could only murmur, and the lamia never caught his attention. Perhaps calling for help early isn’t such a good idea. Who knew? Well, once you’re done letting your mind and body be a hypno-puddle, check out other timelines, why don’t you!
Duth Olec's Cuckoo Cosmos 