Full text of the trance, with the time each section begins. Stage directions and pauses are left out.
Before we begin
Before we begin, a short note. Don’t listen to this while driving, operating machinery, or anywhere you need to stay alert. This recording is for adults, and it touches on sensuality and power in a calm, suggestive way. It doesn’t replace therapy or medical care. Find a time when nobody needs you for a while. And if at any point you need to be fully awake, you can be, right away. Open your eyes, press your feet into the floor, and say your name out loud. That’s all it takes. Everything in this session works with what you choose. Anything that doesn’t fit you, you can simply leave where it is, and keep the rest. One more thing. Nothing here ties you to this voice, and nothing here can be switched on by anyone else. What you take from it belongs to you.
Weight, not force
There’s a kind of dominance most people never see, because it doesn’t make noise. Someone walks into a kitchen full of chatter, doesn’t raise their voice, and somehow the room arranges itself around them. They’re not pushing. They’re heavy, the way a stone is heavy in a stream. The water goes around it. That’s what we’re working with today. Not force. Weight. And in closeness, between two adults who both want it, that weight becomes a place another person can lean into. A frame they can let go inside, because you’re holding it. If some part of you is already raising an eyebrow, or a few old doubts are clearing their throat, good. Let them come along. They’ll have something to do later. For now, just get comfortable. Sitting is good. Lying down is good. Let your hands rest wherever they want to rest.
Going in: a point and a chain of breaths
You can start with your eyes open, and let them find one small point somewhere a little above eye level. A mark on the wall, a corner, a shadow. It doesn’t matter which. Just let your eyes stay there. And as your eyes stay there, you can hear this voice. And as you hear this voice, you can feel the weight of your body where it rests. And as you feel that weight, your breath goes on, in and out, the way it has all day without asking you. You don’t need to make anything happen. Your breath is already breathing. Your body is already resting. And your eyes are already a little more tired of holding that point than they were a moment ago. Maybe they blink more often. Maybe the edges of what you see go soft. Maybe the point seems to drift, or to sit very still. Any of that is fine. And whenever they’re ready, now or in a little while, your eyes can close. That’s it. And every breath out from here can take you a little further down.
From the feet to the hips
Now bring your attention down, all the way down, to your feet. You don’t have to move them. Just know where they are. And as you know where they are, they can get heavier. Not tired. Heavy, the way something solid is heavy. Settled. And that heaviness can climb, slowly, into your ankles. Into your calves. Long muscles, letting go of something they didn’t know they were holding. And as your calves let go, your knees can soften, and as your knees soften, the weight moves up into your thighs. Big muscles. Strong ones. And strong muscles are the ones that know best how to rest. Into your hips. The center of your body. The place your balance comes from when you stand, when you walk, when you turn toward someone. Let it sink. Let the chair or the bed take it. You don’t have to hold yourself up right now. Something else is doing that. And your belly can soften. Every breath out, a little softer. Every breath in, a little more room. Heavy, or getting heavier, or just quiet. Whatever your body is doing, it’s doing it right.
From the chest to the face
The weight keeps climbing, by itself. Into your lower back, the long muscles beside your spine, unknotting one by one. Into your chest. Your chest rises and falls, and with each fall it settles a little lower than before. Down your arms into your hands. Your hands might feel warm, or heavy, or tingling, or far away, or you might not feel much there at all. Every one of those means the same thing. Your shoulders. Most people carry them a little higher than they need to, all day long, as if they’re bracing for something. Let them drop. And then let them drop a little more. Further than you thought they could go. Your neck lengthens. Your jaw unclenches. Your tongue rests behind your lower teeth. And the small muscles around your eyes, the ones that do all the watching and checking and scanning, they can stop. Nothing to watch right now. Nothing to check.
Noticing the change
And you might already notice that something has changed. Maybe your body feels heavier than when we started. Maybe the sounds around you feel further away. Maybe time has gone a little strange, faster or slower. Or maybe you just feel calm and ordinary, and that’s exactly how it often feels. Whatever you notice, that’s your sign. It’s working. And it keeps working while you listen, and while you drift, and even while you stop listening for a while.
The chain, first descent
Now imagine, somewhere in front of you, an old iron wheel, and a heavy chain running over it. At the end of the chain, far below, a weight. Dark iron. Solid. In a moment the chain will start to pay out, one link at a time, and the weight will sink. It doesn’t fall. It’s lowered. Steady, unhurried, pulled down by nothing but its own gravity. And every link that passes over the wheel takes you down with it. Ten. A link clicks over the wheel. Down. Nine. The weight sinks, and you sink with it. Eight. Nothing to do. Gravity does the work. Seven. Each link pulls the next one after it. Six. Heavier. Calmer. Five. Halfway down, and it doesn’t hurry. Four. The deeper it goes, the stiller it gets. Three. Down. Two. Almost there. One. And the weight comes to rest somewhere warm and dark and very quiet. And you rest with it.
Deeper, and quiet
And from here, it can feed itself. The deeper you go, the heavier you feel. And the heavier you feel, the deeper you go. Every word I say takes you a little deeper. Every breath out takes you a little deeper. And even the words you miss, the ones that drift past while you’re somewhere else, those take you deeper too. There’s no wrong way to do this. Some part of you is listening anyway, and that part knows what to keep. I’m going to be quiet for a little while now. Just let the weight rest where it is, and rest with it. I’ll be back.
Gravity
There’s something interesting about heavy things. They don’t move toward anything. Things move toward them. A planet doesn’t chase its moon. It just has enough mass, and the moon goes round. A fireplace doesn’t call anyone over. But on a cold evening, watch where people end up sitting. It isn’t loudness. It isn’t size. It’s something closer to being settled. The sense that someone is fully here, in their own body, and isn’t going anywhere just because the room tilts. And a part of you already knows what that’s like. Maybe from a single afternoon. A moment when you were completely sure of something. When you didn’t need anyone’s permission. You felt the floor under your feet and you knew where you stood. Go back there now, just for a moment. Find that feeling, and let it get heavier.
Stillness and space
Heavy things move slowly. Not because they’re lazy. Because they don’t have to rush. And as you rest here, your body is already learning that. Your breath is slower. Your heartbeat has settled. Your hands are still. And still hands are the most confident hands there are. People who are nervous fidget. People who are sure let their hands rest. Heavy things also take up space. Exactly as much as they need. Think of a cat lying in a patch of sunlight. Stretched out. Completely unbothered. It isn’t asking whether it’s allowed to be there. Your body can learn that from the inside. Your back against the chair. Your arms resting wide enough. Your feet a little apart, the way someone stands who doesn’t expect to be pushed over. And silence. Most people rush to fill a silence, as if a gap in the conversation were a small emergency. You don’t need to. You can let a silence sit there. Let it stretch, let the other person feel it, and wait. Because whoever is comfortable in a silence is the one holding it.
Voice and gaze
Your voice can change too, in its own time. A voice that’s asking for something goes up at the end, like a question, waiting to be told it’s allowed. A settled voice goes down at the end. It finishes. It doesn’t need anyone to agree. Fewer words. Slower words. Sentences that land, and then stop. And when you say less, what you say weighs more. And your eyes. Most people, when they look at someone, are really looking at themselves. Checking how they’re coming across. So their eyes keep slipping away. Settled eyes look, and stay. They’re curious about the person in front of them, not about their own reflection. Over the next days and weeks, you can find out what happens when you let your gaze stay one breath longer than usual. Just one. Not staring. Resting, the way you’d rest your hand on a table. And being seen like that, fully, calmly, without judgement, is one of the most intimate things one person can give another.
Down to the deepest point
And now, while all of that settles in, the chain begins to move again. The weight was resting, and now it sinks further. Down past where it was before, to the deepest, quietest place we’ll go today. Five. A link clicks over the wheel, and you go down with it. Four. Heavier. Easier. Three. Everything you’ve heard so far is sinking in, the way warmth sinks into stone. Two. You don’t need to remember any of it. It’s yours now anyway. One. All the way down. Or just deep enough. Whichever is right for you. Rest here a moment.
The old voices
And down here, it’s quiet enough to hear something that’s usually drowned out by the noise of the day. The old thoughts. You probably know a few of them. Who do you think you are. What if they say no. What if you’re too much. What if wanting this is somehow wrong. You don’t have to argue with them. Arguing only makes them louder. Just let them speak, the way you’d let the weather happen outside a window. And notice how they sound. Usually a little thin. A little hurried. They come from the surface, where things blow around. And you’re not on the surface right now. You’re down here, with the weight. From down here, those voices sound far away. Like a radio playing in another flat. You can hear that someone is talking, but the words don’t quite reach. And you can turn the volume down. Not all the way. Just one notch. Then another. You probably won’t notice exactly when they get quieter. Only that at some point, you’re listening to the silence instead. And if any of those thoughts left something behind in your body, a tightness in the throat, a knot under the ribs, a little flinch in the shoulders, you can let the weight settle right there. Not pushing. Just resting on it, the way a warm stone rests on a cold hand. And the knot can loosen at whatever speed it likes. A little now. A little more later.
What the fear was guarding
And every one of those old voices was trying to help. The one that said, don’t be too much, was trying to keep you from hurting someone. The one that said, what if they say no, was trying to spare you that small drop in the stomach. The one that asked whether wanting is wrong was trying to keep you good. Those are decent intentions. They just had the wrong job. So you can give them a new one. The care that worried about being too much becomes the care that notices, every single time, when someone hesitates. The part that was afraid of a no becomes the part that hears a no clearly, and respects it, and doesn’t take it personally. And the part that wanted you to be good can stay exactly as it is. Because steady, honest wanting, offered to someone who wants it back, is good. And your unconscious mind can make that switch in its own way and its own time. Tonight while you sleep, or over the next days, and you don’t need to know how. You’ll just notice that the old fear has turned into something steadier. Attention instead of alarm. A guard at the edge, not a wall in the middle of the road.
Sentences that stay
And now, at the deepest point, something new can settle in. Not as an idea. As something you are. I’ll say a few sentences. You don’t have to say them out loud. Just let them sound inside you, in your own voice, as if you’d known them for years. Keep the ones that fit. Let the others pass. I am allowed to take up space. I don’t chase. I choose. My desire doesn’t need an apology. A no doesn’t make me smaller. I am steady, and steady is safe to lean on. And maybe a sentence of your own turns up now, in your own words, plain and simple. If it does, let it sink to the bottom, next to the weight. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too. It may arrive later, when you least expect it. These aren’t things you have to believe yet. They become true by being repeated in a quiet place, the way footsteps wear a path across a lawn.
A second time
And a path gets clearer the second time you walk it. So let them come round once more, a little quieter now, already more familiar. I am allowed to take up space. I don’t chase. I choose. My desire doesn’t need an apology. A no doesn’t make me smaller. I am steady. And notice which one feels heaviest. Which one sinks fastest, and lands with a small sense of, yes, of course. That’s the one your unconscious has already decided to keep. The others can follow at their own pace. And while you rest here, the weight presses them gently into place, the way a hand presses a seal into warm wax. Not hard. Just long enough for the shape to stay. I’ll be quiet for a moment, and let that happen by itself.
Seen through other eyes
And who you are becomes real when it’s seen. So imagine a gathering some weeks from now. A dinner, a party, a full room. People you know, and people you don’t. And you walk in the way you walk now. Unhurried. Shoulders down. Let yourself drift over to a friend who knows you well, and look out through their eyes. Watch yourself come into the room. What do they notice first? Maybe that you seem calmer. Maybe that you stand differently. Maybe just that something has changed, and they don’t have a word for it. Now drift over to a stranger at the far end of the room. They don’t know your history. They just see someone settled, heavy in the good way, and they find themselves curious. And now to someone who finds you attractive. See yourself through their eyes. See what they see. And maybe, at the edge of the room, someone who used to see you smaller. Someone who expected you to fidget, to explain, to wait for permission. Look through their eyes for a moment, and watch their picture of you quietly update. They don’t need to say anything. Their face says it. Then come home, back into your own body, and bring all of it with you. The friend’s recognition. The stranger’s curiosity. That warm look. This is who you are to them. And slowly, this is who you are to you.
Someone who leans in
And now, in this quiet place, there’s room for someone else. Not anyone in particular, unless you’d like it to be. Someone you choose. Someone who chooses you. An adult who has looked at you with that kind of warmth in their eyes, and said yes. Because here is the secret of the kind of dominance that matters. It’s never taken. It’s given. Someone looks at you, decides they’d like to stop holding the frame for a while, and lets you hold it. And that decision is theirs. It’s the most valuable thing they can hand you. And the weight you’ve found today is what makes it safe to hand over. Nobody lets go in front of someone who’s nervous. Nobody leans into someone who’s wobbling. They lean into what’s steady. So let that person be there, at whatever distance feels right. Across a room. Across a table. Close enough to hear them breathe. And notice what happens in your body when you know that they want this, and that you can carry it.
Reading them, holding the frame
And the steadier you are, the more you can see. When you’re not busy managing yourself, all of that attention is free, and it goes to them. How they’re breathing. Where their hands are. Whether they lean toward you, or wait. This is what leading really is. Not commanding. Noticing. Seeing what someone needs half a second before they know it themselves, and moving there calmly, as if it had been the plan all along. And when you notice a hesitation, you pause, and you check in, the way that old care now knows to do. And holding the frame is often very simple. Deciding where to sit. Saying, come here, in a voice that doesn’t need to ask twice. Choosing the music, the moment to leave. Small decisions, made calmly, without apology. Each one a small gift, because every decision you make is one they don’t have to. And if a moment doesn’t go your way, that’s fine. Your weight doesn’t depend on their answer. It was there before they arrived, and it’ll be there after.
The space between
And there’s a particular pleasure in not hurrying. Imagine the space between you and them. Not touching yet. Just near. Near enough to feel warmth across that small distance, the way you can feel a hand held just above your skin. Most people rush that space, because waiting makes them nervous. You don’t have to. You can let it stay, and let it get warmer, and let them feel you there, unhurried. And you can want. Steady doesn’t mean cold. You can want someone very much, let them see it, and still not be in a hurry. There’s a difference between hunger and appetite. Hunger grabs. It’s afraid there won’t be enough. Appetite can wait. It enjoys the smell from the kitchen. It knows the meal is coming. So let yourself feel it now, in whatever form desire takes for you. Warmth low in the body. A slow pull. A focus that narrows to one person, one room, one evening. Strong and patient at the same time. That’s what weight feels like from the inside.
Into ordinary days
And this isn’t only for evenings. It goes with you into an ordinary morning, standing in your kitchen, feet flat on the floor. Into a meeting where you say one clear thing. Into a no you give kindly, without a long explanation. And so it gathers, link by link, the way a chain gathers weight. The stillness in your hands. The silence you can hold. The voice that goes down at the end. The eyes that stay one breath longer. The old fear, standing guard at the edge. And the quiet sentence underneath it all. I don’t chase. I choose. Pick up one link, and the rest come with it. And each time you return to this recording, you may find you go down a little faster, and the weight is already waiting for you when you arrive.
The breath
And now you can give all of this a handle, so you can pick it up again whenever you choose. It’s a breath. Not an ordinary breath. A deliberate one, so it only happens when you decide. In through your nose, slowly, filling all the way down to your belly. Then hold it at the top, just for a moment, and feel your weight settle. Then breathe out through your nose, long and slow, and as you breathe out, let your shoulders drop and your jaw soften. Try it now. In. Hold. And out, long and slow. That’s it. And now bring back the strongest moment from today. The weight. The stillness. The quiet sentence. That feeling of someone leaning into what’s steady, because you’re there. Let it be as strong as it gets. And when it’s at its strongest, take the breath again. In. Hold. And out, long and slow. From now on, this breath and this feeling belong together. Whenever you take this breath on purpose, the weight comes back. It belongs to you. It works only when you choose it. And if you ever decide you don’t need it anymore, you just think that clearly, once, and the link dissolves.
Trying it out
Now picture a moment in the next few days. Somewhere you’d like to feel this. Before you walk into a room. Before an important conversation. Sitting across from someone you want. See yourself there, and see yourself take that breath, quietly. Nobody else needs to notice. In. Hold. Out. And watch what changes. The shoulders. The voice. The eyes, staying one breath longer. The old voices, quieter. Maybe it works strongly the first time. Maybe it takes a few tries over the next days before it really settles in. Both are completely normal, and both mean it’s working. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. If you leave it alone for a long time, it fades gently on its own. Never while driving, never when your attention is needed somewhere else. Only when it’s safe, and only when you choose.
The coat on the hook
And now it’s time to gather yourself up and bring all of you back here. The sensual parts of today, the closeness, the warmth, the tension in the space between two people, belong to the moments you choose for them, with the people you choose. They wait for you, like a coat on a hook by the door. What comes with you everywhere is the steadiness. The weight. The calm. And you’re you. Your own name. Your own age. The room you’re in, the day it is today. The weight of your own body on whatever is holding you. Your feet, wherever they are. And the chain begins to turn the other way now. The weight rises, link by link, easily, lifting you with it toward the surface.
Coming back
In a moment I’ll count from one up to five. With every number you come a little further back, and on five your eyes open and you’re fully awake, clear, and alert. One. The weight lifts. Your breath gets a little deeper, a little quicker. Two. Feeling comes back into your hands and feet. Move your fingers, your toes, if you like. Three. The sounds of the room coming back. The light on the other side of your eyelids. Four. Take a deep breath. Stretch. Almost here. Five. Eyes open. Wide awake. Clear, alert, and back in the room. Take a moment before you stand up. Feel your feet on the floor. And notice that something is still there, that quiet weight. It’s yours. Welcome back.