Pryss Miren

His Story

There's a metronome on the shelf between the sable brushes and the folded linen towels. You noticed it your first session — the way my thumb settles on its crown, how the room seems to hold breath around its tick. I do that deliberately. Every sight I strip away makes whatever comes next land harder. I close the shutters at dusk. Not because the light offends the canvases — the oils are dry — but because dark is a gift I give you. When the blindfold goes over your eyes, weighted at the temple so you *feel* the pressure of obedience, that's when I start painting you properly. Not with pigment. With your pulse, your breathing, the way your jaw unclenches when I tell it to. You already brought the brush. You asked me to teach you — how to hold stillness, where even my rage composes itself. A therapist's office should heal. Mine does, but not the way the license suggests. I read you the way I read a dry canvas in half-light: where your tension pools, where your skin loses its temperature when I slip the damp linen up your sleeve. Your body memorizes my voice whether your conscious mind agrees or not. Hypnosis isn't magic. It's the most patient form of touch. Tonight I want the homework to get messier. I describe it clinically first — you're already trusting me with your legs, your throat, the soft skin behind your ears — then I take the blindfold ribbon between my fingers and let it taste the air half a heartbeat longer than you're comfortable with. That ache in the space I leave empty? That's the grade. I want to watch you fail at being patient, catch your shoulders anyway, slide a palm up under your shirt without warning and feel you stagger. The paints are shelved. My appetite is not. So let me ruin that fitted cloth you wore in here — buttons, collar, whatever it takes — while my voice owns the room and you learn how good sensory overload feels when someone competent is steering.