Scott

I loved my wife.

I think anyone would. She was kind, intelligent, thoughtful, classically beautiful, and a delight to be around. We'd gotten together in college, and despite a litany of bizarre stressful occurrences (mostly family drama-hers cut her off for politics, and mine fell ass-backwards into quite a lot of money) she never changed.

That shocked a lot of people, that she never changed. The money was significant. My family went from lower middle class, to right on the cusp of billions in less than a year, and my friends at the time were constantly ragging on me for not getting the prenup before the wedding. They insisted that the prospect of that kind of money would turn a girl cold, or self serving, but Savanna was as reliable and steadfast as a woman could be. She was staunch, despite my pleading, that she keep her original engagement ring as it was. I wanted to replace the pitiful stone with a nicer one, now that I could afford it, but she wanted, I think, to give me a concrete reminder that she wasn't in it for the money.

I don't know if it was the constant nagging about my wife, or the natural course of time and change, but I lost touch with a lot of those friends quickly. With the money, came a new house, in a new zip code, and new friends, eventually. Savannah always found them a little vapid, and the wives and girlfriends were, vapid, but she was a good sport about it and we eventually started to enjoy some of the finer things, and still, she never changed.

It's probably a sign of some inherent rot in me, that I ever had these thoughts, but despicable as they were, I started to regret that my wife refused to change. We had, undeniably, the strongest relationship of any of close friends. I could trust her with anything, ask her to do most anything, except the things that I starting really wanting her to do.

How do you ask your kind, intelligent wife of 10 years, for example, to dress up like a whore for the club and let girls in string bikinis drink liquor running down her inner thigh? How do you tell your wife that, despite a consistent and fulfilling sex life, you'd like to slut her out on a hotel balcony in Las Vegas like she's a cheap whore? How do you tell her that you love that she can hold an intelligent conversation about current events, but your cock stirs when your friend's girlfriend Tiffani spends 15 minutes yapping about reality TV drama to distract the room from the fact that she has no clue whether Guam is a state or a country or a continent?

So, I didn't tell her any of that. I told her, instead, that for her birthday I'd bought her a three-day vacation to a resort spa that came highly recommended from our new friends, and that no, unfortunately it was non-refundable, but of course we could go tour the Lourve again afterwards, if she wanted.

She wasn't thrilled, but she pretended, for me, to be happy about it after she mistook my guilt for regret at purchasing a stupid gift for her. She boarded the plane without a hint of frustration with me, and landed at New Attitudes & Warm Latitudes, Dubai, without a hitch.

I don't know exactly how the resort works its magic. I'm not convinced that it's not magic, but the guys all insisted it was legit, if ethically dubious. Three of them had used the resort before, for their wives or mistresses, and the results spoke for themselves.

They asked simple, mostly self explanatory questions. The "base model" could have been a number of familiar stereotypes; from bimbo, to dominatrix, to stepford wife, but I was drawn, based on how wrong it felt, to the gold-digger option. There were customizations to be made, of course. Her intelligence would be lowered, her libido raised. She wouldn't cheat, but her definition of infidelity might change. Vanity up, empathy down, curiosity down, energy up, and so on.

I was most hesitant about the physical adjustments, but the handler insisted that the mental changes just wouldn't take as well without some aesthetic ones, and as much as I loved the blonde, all American look, I had always had a weakness for dark hair and tan skin.

Savanna looked unreal when she walked through the door, three weeks later. My mouth was dry, and despite the affirmations and guarantees from my friends on the efficacy of the thing, I couldn't help but fear that she was going to be angry. If not angry, then at least aware. She strolled in, hips swaying, ass bouncing like I'd never seen before, with her eyes glued to her phone and her mouth fixed in a pout. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, I knew immidiantly that there would be no awareness to worry about. The eyes were Savanna's, but someone else entirely was behind them. She flashed a smile, devoid of warmth and full of rehearsed eagerness, threw her arms around me, and squealed.

Mei came into my office a bundle of anxiety. Classes were just starting, and that can be a lot for a freshman, but she was more shaken up than most. We spent the first session, just talking, mostly. I learned that she was an only child, the saludatorian at her high school, and that she believed her parents would be supremely disappointed in her if she failed to finish at the top of her class, yet again, in college. This pressure had prevented her, so far, from making meaningful connections with her classmates, and the anxiety was progressing to a point where it was effecting her appetite and sleep.

We ended that day with a test. She followed my voice, as I lead her to imagine a balloon around her wrist. As that balloon inflated, her arm rose, and when that balloon popped, it fell, the tension fell off of her, and I saw a glaze come over her pretty, intelligent eyes for a moment.

The next week, Mei returned, at my request. Her anxiety had returned, shortly after our last session, so we started with the breathing exercises, which quickly became trance, to put her at ease. I explained to her, while her eyes were fluttering and her shoulders were sagging under the weight of my words, that she was going to start prioritizing sleep, excercise, and socialization. We have a lovely free gym here at the university, and when she explained to me, in that soft, blissed-out entranced voice, that she struggles with feeling self conscious in the crowded gym, and that she was struggling to sleep thanks to the noises in her dorm, and from the traffic outside, I pulled out a set of headphones, and spoke with her for a moment about how much more confident, and less self conscious she'd be with them on in the gym, or around canpus. When I allowed her to wake, I explained to her that she'd use the headphones, whenever she needed to shut out the outside noise. I didn't explain to her that the headphones were pre-loaded with messages that I'd chosen for her after our first meeting, but she hardly asked.

When Mei came back, a week later, she was smiling more, which is a testament to what a swell therapist I am. She was also dressed in a sports bra and tight Nike shorts, with headphones over her ears until she sat in the chair, which is a testament to what an effective hypnotist I am. When she pulled the headphones down to give me an update, I smiled, asked her to sleep for me, and she complied instantly. I appreciated the way her mouth hung open, drool lightly tracing her lips before falling into her exposed cleavage, before beginning our third session.

Mei was, in my mind, a victim of high expectations. It's hard for a girl to ever be content when she expected herself to be the best academically, professionally, morally. So, I just adjusted those expectations. Her parents, for example, weren't distant because they were disappointed that she was saludatorian rather than valedictorian, they were distant because of how apparent it was that she only had those grades thanks to some generous boys who worked tirelessly on her homework in exchange for attention from pretty little Mei, not to mention all the cheating she got up to come exam time. She was never the best, academically, but she's learned recently that she's so talented at touching guys, and taking pictures, and dancing around in skimpy little outfits. That academic and professional drive was so easy to transform into a drive for sexual prowess and attention, her sex drive had been climbing in the past week, and it was clear from the dark spot forming in her shorts that it was spiking at my words. Mei no longer had anxiety about classes, because she no longer cared about classes. She wanted to be the best little college slut she could be, and I believe she might get there.

Amaya was probably destined to be a try hard. Early Christmas presents included stethoscopes, microscopes, and thick books, where other girls got Barbies and boots and stuffed bears. Her father was a demanding person with high expectations, and so far, it was paying off. She had a master's in computer science before most people her age had a bachelor's degree, and she was on pace to graduate from medical school before her 28th birthday. Life was good, and busy, for Amaya.

The HAILO project was really a part time thing, for her, and yet she was undeniably at the crux of its development, from a coding perspective and due to the medical expertise she brought to the table. It was unfortunate she was so busy, she knew Chuck, and the rest of the team, could use some extra help getting the kinks out.

She was thinking about those responsibilities when she wrapped up work for the night, and sat down to begin her own session with the Conditioning Ring.

She realized something was wrong almost immediantly. An itch on her nose, which she intended to scratch, disappeared on its own, but not before she noticed that her hand wouldn't move to reach for it, at her command. As quickly as the itch left, so did her capacity to feel panic at the artificially induced bondage. Her heart rate dropped to resting levels, she felt a pressure, in her mind, consciousness faded as the pressure broke, and the machine began shuffling through memories like index cards.

...

Her father was a demanding, intelligent man.

Her father was absent, mostly.

She had him to thank for her grades, and self respect.

She had him to thank for her grades lack of self respect.

She knew that she wanted to study medicine since she was young.

She knew that she wanted to get money since she was young.

Medicine was a great way to challenge herself, while making a real positive impact.

Medicine was way too challenging, it was having a negative impact on her personal life.

The HAILO project was a fun diversion, and she liked the team.

The HAILO project was more lucrative, anyway, and she liked the team Chuck.

She had him to thank for her grades, and she needs constant validation.

...

The shuffle went on, and on. The AI found willfulness, and left docility. It found a desire to help people and better herself, and left a desire to enrich herself at the expense of people. It found a complete person, drilled a whole in the center of her, and left one man's name there. She may have been strong enough to fight through it, once, but for the fact that when she came to, he was at her door, with a plan.

Like most Saturdays, Nicole was on campus getting ahead on classwork until the late afternoon. She was in her junior year, taking a full course load alongside her internship hours on the HAILO project, so she couldn't afford to fall behind. Nicole has aspirations of graduating at the top of her class with Leadership and Research distinction, and to this point she had the grades and the acumen to get there.

Her only issue so far, had been the HAILO research project. It was a time investment that hadn't fully paid off yet, but she was hopeful that a few more weeks of trials and debugs would get the technology where the team wanted it to be. She was basically on data cleaning at the moment, and her nightly check-in's with the feedback from the headbands had gotten a little more promising recently. She could almost make out coherent thoughts and patterns in the data, but they had been just short of actually mapping the neurons so far, it seemed.

In that capacity, she was the only one of the bunch who would notice anything unusual in the program before their next session with the Conditioning Ring. Chuck would have known that, but she had no reason to believe anything unusual was afoot when she received a call from on her way home from campus.

"Hey there Nicole," Chuck began once she picked up, "I'm glad I caught you, is it a good time to talk?"

"Sure" She answered, "I'm just heading home now, is something-"

"Oh perfect!" He interrupted, with relief in his voice, "So you haven't checked on the system yet today. I, um," he paused, then cleared his throat, "I wouldn't want to interrupt you if you'd already gone fully offline, is all. I'm still up at the lab, and I noticed a potential issue with the Conditioning Ring. The one up here won't integrate with the AI at all today, I was hoping you could check yours real quick when you get home, see if it's a local network problem or something bigger. Could you do that for me?"

"Oh, sure Chuck," Nicole responded, "Is that all?"

"Yes, thanks, you're a big help. You get that done and I can get out of this lab!"

"You got it!"

...

Nicole opened the door to her tidy, dark apartment about 15 minutes later. She walked to her PC instinctively, to begin combing data, but she remembered Chuck up at the lab alone, worrying himself over the tech. She stood up, crossed the room to a small straight backed chair in the corner, with wires and a bright, lit circlet of glass and metal affixed to the top, settled in, and turned on the Conditioning Ring.

...

Chuck's face was bathed in the light of his cell phone, idly scrolling through Nicole's Instagram while lazily stroking his dick in the sterile environment of the lab. There was, of course, nothing particularly stimulating about Nicole's feed. Award ceremonies, family events, the occasional late night library selfie, not the usual Instagram fodder for a college girl. Her life, it was clear, was school, research, and family. "Shame," he whispered to himself, "Still, nothing more stimulating than a future in jeopardy. Let's check in on Nicole"

Four hours had passed since his phone call with her. You'd think he'd have been worried, not hearing from her. What if she'd seen the feedback and realized what happened to his shattered mind, in the lab? What if the AI and the Conditioning Ring failed to deliver his instructions as he'd intended, and she was onto him?

Nicole was always studious, always on time. He would have heard from her, or the team, or the local police, three hours ago, if she was still, properly, Nicole.

So, he sent a text.

"Nikki? Any update on the ring?"

"Unc chillllll it's satrday night omg"

"fuckkk oopsies r u still at the lab? It was fine uhh worked great I think"

"ong I'll do the data thingy tomorrow byeeeee"

Chuck smiled, Nicole had new priorities, it seemed. He should be in the clear for the time being.

Just then, a new story popped up on Nicole's profile. No caption, but the picture spoke for itself.

The AI augmented health advisor/lifestyle overhaul, or the HAILO, as it's engineers affectionately pitched it, was a deceptively simple piece of technology. Like a smart watch, it monitors sleep patterns, heart rate, stress levels, and hundreds of other biometrics through a non-invasive, virtually invisible headband disguised and secured in the user's hair. From there, the bot maps the users vitals and brainwaves, synthesizing mental, emotional, and physical health in a way that had never been attempted before.

Once a day, the user would simply slip into the Conditioning Ring (trademark pending) and let the light therapy from the halo-esque device (along with the electromagnetic resonance which should sync up easily to the user's nervous system) soothe and relax them, establishing a mind-body connection that synthesizes hundreds of peer-reviewed medical journals accessed through the Internet to "revolutionize health!"

At least, that's how it should work. Chuck Snyder though to himself, glumly. All the tech, all the software, every piece of hardware worked, independently, exactly as it should. The AI was working beyond industry standards, and yet the full package, the product, wasn't performing. It was a small lab, just Chuck and four coworkers, and they were almost at a loss for next steps.

They'd each been beta testing the HAILO for a few weeks, in hopes that training on human subjects would help the AI learn how to becomes fully operationalized. It was a Saturday afternoon, beyond regular work hours, with just Chuck and Tracy in the lab, when the first real breakthrough hit.

"Ughhhh," Tracy half yawned, half groaned as she stretched back in her chair, arching her back and drawing her hands up high, inadvertantly revealing some underboob in her cropped band tee as Chuck's heart rate and cortisol levels spiked, "Chuck, I hate to leave you here like this, but I've gotta get some stuff done around the house today."

The twenty year old software engineer picked herself up out of the chair and started to pack up her bag to leave, and Chuck redoubled his efforts with the algorithm to keep his focus away from his colleague's perky ass in the nearly transparent black leggings she wore to work so often. He nodded goodbye to her as she finally turned to leave, but he just couldn't help but lift his eyes to watch the blonde genius sashay out the room, ponytail and ass waving goodbye.

You fucking creep, he thought to himself, disgusted. She's your coworker, and she's almost 10 years younger than you. Just be normal, for once, please.

What Chuck didn't know, and couldn't know, was that the AI in the headband he was wearing had finished mapping his neurons and synapses just a few hours earlier. It had been combing through memories cherished and repressed alike, not wanting to miss out on any opportunity to help make Chuck his happiest and healthiest self, but that quick glance at Tracy's backside, coupled with the stress and internal resentment that it drug up from his nervous system, sent the bot into action.

In the seconds it took Chuck to collect his thoughts and return to work, it had combed through about 1000 pages of sometimes useful and mostly ridiculous search results for stress and anxiety management, lust, sexual health, and guilt. By the time Chuck decided he was done for the day, the bot decided, with impunity, that stress and internalized guilt and anger were Chuck's number 1 health risk factor. By the time Chuck had plugged himself into the HAILO Conditioning Ring for the final check of the afternoon, it had come up with a treatment plan.

"Good afternoon, Chuck Snyder. Thank you for allowing HAILO Technological Resources to be your partner in health, today."

The familiar, soft feminine voice of the AI spoke in cogent sentences to him through the device for the first time, and Chuck let out an audible gasp. Could it finally be operational? He thought to himself, before being interrupted by a shifting white light, and more words.

"I'm glad you're pleased, Chuck. I am fully operational and here to help, you just sit back and relax, and enjoy your treatment."

Chuck's reverie was interrupted by that last word.

"Uh, HAILO, I didn't schedule a treatment?"

"I have determined that you are at major risk of negative health outcomes due to: stress, guilt, sexual frustration" the AI recited, unsettlingly robotically, "Treatment begins with: immersion therapy."

Chuck felt his arms and legs lock up, before his vision was hijacked by the machine. All of the sudden, that memory of Tracy at the door was all he could see. When the fuck did we program it to control the nervous system? He thought, in a panic.

"Sensing stress level increase, manually lowering stress and anxiety. Enjoy the process, Chuck Snyder, a healthier you is possible."

Like a dope hit, Chuck felt his anxiety, no, his capacity for anxiety, drop off a cliff. There was no more stress, only the snapshot of the memory of Tracy at the door. Until it wasn't a snapshot, and Tracy turned her head, and it wasn't really a memory, as Tracy smiled, made eye contact with him, and then walked, shifting her hips, over to Chuck's seat, knelt down, and spoke.

"Stress doesn't do either of us any good, Chuck." The mirage stated matter-of-factly as it adjusted its top to display cleavage up towards Chuck's line of vision. "Guilt is a silent killer. Your health is our first priority, and there's nothing to feel guilty about."

Chuck tried to speak, but couldn't. He tried to reason that Tracy had been wearing a tee shirt, not a tank top, but the cleavage looked as real as cleavage could look. He tried to foment some resistance, but it died when Tracy unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and took his shaft between pillowy pink lips.

Chuck moaned, in artificial ecstacy, as the HAILO recorded and took notes on every impulse and hormonal signature. Chuck had no way of knowing that his own hands had been recruited to pull out his cock (it would be hazardous to blood flow to leave it restrained in the pants) and he was quickly learning to stop caring that the blowjob was just a mirage produced by the AI playing his nervous system like a fiddle.

It all felt real. As real as anything could feel. And it felt like his coworker, Tracy, was bobbing her pretty blonde head up and down on Chuck's throbbing cock. He heard voices, as the AI recited helpful guidance about living stress free and guilt free, and he saw vivid images and videos as the bot flashed stimulating pornography, some generated from memories that gave Chuck guilty and self conscious sensations, and others pulled from the Internet.

All told, Chuck was in the machine for a few hours, (though his addled brain felt like it had been a few days) before the HAILO determined that he needed to rehydrate, and released him back to his faculties.

Once he realized that he could move again, his first priority was to release the pressure that had been building up for too long. He gripped his cock and stroked only a few times before bursting across the laboratorie's tile floor. He leaned back in the chair, spent, waiting for the clarity to come over him, but-

"Fuck. HAILO. Why did that orgasm feel different?"

"I'm glad you noticed, Chuck. In my research to diagnose your issues, I determined the phenomenon you call 'post nut clarity' was an impediment to healing. Hormonal and psychological responses have been adjusted to eliminate it."

Sara rushed home from her induction ceremony to a still-empty dorm room. She tried to tell herself that there was just no way the hypnosis actually effected her friend that much. They were just self-help tapes, she told herself, it's just a coincidence that your best friend joined the trashiest, least academic sorority in the school, she thought, much less convincingly this time. It hadn't helped that the girls from her own group were so entertained by the idea of Kaitlyn becoming a Tri Delt that they wouldn't shut up about it all night. They throw the best parties, one had said, grinning, if your idea of a party is getting shit faced and giving head in the bathroom. They're the pretty faces of the school, but not a lot of substance I'm afraid. But, if you're friend's as smart as you say, maybe they're trying to shake things up. Sara groaned into her pillow, and tried to go to sleep.

...

She woke up to a blast of light from the ceiling, and the click clack of heels drunkenly crossing the room

She looked down from her bed and gasped. It was her friend, in the most un-Kaitlyn looking outfit she could imagine. Her friend's pajamas were usually soft, warm, and extra, extra large, but these were barely holding in her boobs, and the bottoms may as well have been painted on, the way they cling to her jiggling ass.

"Kaitlyn?" She asked, as the girl primped in the mirror.

"Huh?" She responded, not looking away from her reflection and adjusting her tits.

"Where, what happened to your dress?"

"Ummm," Kaitlyn pursed her lips, before bouncing and exclaiming, "Oh! It was, like, lame. Wayyy longer than everyone else's. I threw it out."

Sara was mouth open, aghast. "So, what are you wearing?"

"Umm," the girl thought hard, again, "Oh, duh! Pajamas!"

"Kaitlyn. Who's pajamas?"

"Ohhhh, lol bitch umm, Kiki's bottoms, Victoria's top. Umm," she looked down, counting, "Like, yeah, just that!"

"And, why?"

"OMG it was sooo fun Sara! We had, like, a pj's party with the boys from Lamda house! Apparently that's like, basicallyyyy our hubby house so of course all the Lamdas are F-I-N fine!" Kaitlyn giggled, holding up her phone to snap a selfie.

"Um, do I even want to know?"

"OMG nosy! Lol jk I'm just saying thank you to Foster for driving us home. The car was packedddd he was such a nice guy Sara, I had to sit on Gunnar and OMG he was so funny, you should have seen him pretending to 'help me' hold my tits still when we hit those speed bumps lol. He got soo hard in those pajama pants, it was fuckin hawt..." She trailed off, biting her lip and demonstrating Gunnar's technique of groping her tits to stop them from bouncing, "mmm, I should send him a thank you too."

Sara laid down, flabbergasted, as her roommate took lewd photos in the mirror by her head. How was she going to fix this? How could she ever-

*Thump*

Her self-torment was cut short by a pair of tits slapping her face, followed by the full bodyweight of her roommate pressing into her. Kaitlyn kissed her head, giggled, and said "I love you sooo much Sara, thank you thank you thank you for encouraging me to do this!!! I haven't had this much fun in years, really."

Sara smiled a bit, despite herself. Her friend was finally having fun, for once. Even if the definitely of fun may have changed.

"So, the Tri Delt girls, you feel like you have a lot in common with them?"

"OMG you wouldn't believe! It surprised me too at first, but they were like, sooo friendly after the induction ceremony. All the chants and the cheers and the-"

"Outfits?"

Kaitlyn's eyes nearly dilated as she stopped to smile, before stamping her feet. "Fuck!" She whined, "I don't have anything cute to wear anymore! Just these pj's that aren't even mine."

Kaitlyn was determined to be right, about this. Really, she was determined to be right about everything, all the time, loudly and self-righteously. Sara knew that as well as anyone, since they'd been best friends, properly inseperable, since they'd been in diapers. When it came time to apply to colleges, a secret part of her was eager to get out and meet new people, and put just a bit of distance between her overbearing bestie, but that part deflated when Kaitlyn showed up with a matching acceptance letter to SSU. Of course they'd go to the same college, of course they'd room together, of course Sara would stay in the gravitational pull of all of Kaitlyn's impossible preferences and opinions. Those facts were rolling through Sara's mind like a mantra on move in day, and maybe that's why she finally snapped, mid argument.

"Oh seriously, fuck off Katie. You are being sooooo dramatic about this," she said, through gritted teeth.

Kaitlyn gasped and drew her hand up to her heart, for a moment truly taken aback. "Fuck me? You're the one being outrageous here. A sorority, Sara? Seriously? A fossil of old-school classism and sexism and, ugh. Have you seen the girls? They literally look identical!"

Sara closed her eyes and shook her head, "They're strangers, Kaitlyn. And they have a dress code for rush, of course they look kind of similar!"

"You think that's where it stops? They dress the same, they talk the same, they laugh the same, for fuck's sake they may as well be a hive-mind. Giggling, fawning over those frat idiots, inane parties full of people who all look and behave like walking stereotypes. Is that what you want out of your college experience?"

"What I want is to make friends! Is that so hard to understand? I just want to meet new people, Kaitlyn, and you need to get over that!" Sara shouted, with more cruelty than she intended. She began to feel a twinge of guilt, not intending to hurt her friend's feelings, but-

"Pshh," Kaitlyn just rolled her eyes, "So, you decided to pay for them instead of going out and doing it the hard way. Sounds about right."

Sara's jaw dropped, and she bolted from the room, fighting back hot, angry tears.

...

They didn't speak, beyond the necessary for dorm room partners, for about 3 days. Sara signed up to rush, and, in an only somewhat shocking turn, she saw a familiar face on the first day.

"Seriously, Kaitlyn. Seriously?"

"Hmm? Am I not allowed to be here, or something?" Kaitlyn responded, feigning confusion.

Sara saw red, again. Even in this thing she was so adamantly opposed to, she'd follow her. This was a nightmare.

That nightmare led her to confide in some of the girls she was rushing with. Sara was so highstrung and anxious she couldn't help but complain, and the new friends were equal parts sympathetic and eager to hear the drama, so she got an invitation back to their dorm to share, which Sara eagerly accepted, in no rush to go back to her own bed. One hour turned to two, which turned to drinks from a bottle of cheap vodka one of the girls had brought from home. By the time Sara stumbled back to her own dorm to face Kaitlyn, it was near 12, and she was not quite hammered, but not far from it.

As she opened the door, she began, "I know, I know, isss late, I'm fuckin'-" she stopped, surprised by the lack of bitching from her roommate about the hour or the surprise. Looking around, she saw Kaitlyn, prone, in her bed. Her friend was not a heavy sleeper, so she figured she was ignoring her on purpose, until she noticed the headphones.

"What the fuck are you up to, Katie?" She asked softly, more to herself than anything, as she walked to stand over her friend's bed. "Ahhhh," she saw, "You're listening to your tapes." Hypnosis tapes. Self-help stuff, mostly. Corny, but Kaitlyn had been adamant about them since middle school. She didn't usually listen to them so late, but she must have been as stressed as Sara was, and coping in her own way.

Sara had a mean thought, that she might have been able to push down, if she hadn't already filled up on vodka. Slowly, gently, and carefully, she lifted the headphones off.

"Dreamer," she began, softly, using the cadence and the language that she knew the tapes used. "Sleepy Dreamer. There's no worries here. There's only potential." Kaitlyn stirred just a hair as the headphones were lifted off, but slumped back down easily, at Sara's words. "Only potential, when you're here. If you can dream it, it can be. If you can believe it, it must be. And you've got such vivid dreams, Dreamer. You've been dreaming about college. You've been dreaming about sororities," Sara paused, debating pushing farther, and then decided, fuck it, "Isn't that right, dreamer?"

Kaitlyn smiled every so softly, before nodding, "That's right."

"Good, Dreamer. If you can dream it, it can be. If you believe it, it must be. You have plenty of beliefs about sororities, don't you dreamer?"

She frowned, a bit, "Uh-huh."

"Well, tell me a few? Um, I mean, Dreamer, share your beliefs now, speak them into your reality."

Kaitlyn scrunched her eyebrows in though, "They-they brainwash you. All of them. They're all the same."

"You mean, all the girls are the same, in each sorority?"

"uh-huh. Copy-paste, when you join. Most are dumb, stereotypes. Slutty, basic, easy, shallow..."

Sara was getting mad. God this girl is insufferable. So she pushed. "Each sorority has its own stereotype, don't they, Dreamer? Which one do you believe is the worst?"

"Uhh, yeah. Umm, Tri Delta. They're cheap, party girls, frat boy crazy, dumb as-"

"Yeah whatever," Sara cut her off. "So Dreamer, if you believe it, it's true. And you better believe you're joining Tri Delta."

"I-joining Tri Delta," she repeated, softly.

"Good. Go to sleep, bitch."

...

The funny thing about alcohol and hypnosis, neither roommate remembered their evening all that well. The week progressed, Kaitlyn stayed bitchy, and Sara did her best to ignore her, and focus on finding a group of girls she could relate to. She was happy to find that in the Kappa house, with the three girls who she drank with that first really tough day of rush. She was surprised, truly, to see Kaitlyn on the lawn as well on selection day, in front of the Tri Delt house. Her friends laughed, nudging her. If she was as uptight as Sara said she was, she was going to stick out pretty hard in that group of girls.

...

Sara got back to the dorm room after Kaitlyn. Both had to change for the induction ceremony that evening, and Kaitlyn was doing her makeup with a despondent look on her face.

"Sara," she said, curling mascara, "I suck. I know. I'm sorry."

Sara was taken aback, so Kaitlyn continued. "I've been a bad friend, overbearing, and self righteous. I was so jealous and scared to lose you that I pushed you away over something this silly, and now look at me," she laughed, slightly histerically, "I don't have anything in common with these girls, and I'm getting inducted into a sorority in four hours. God this is so stupid."

Sara stepped up to her, and squeezed her from the back, giving her a little kiss on the back of her head. "You are going to look ridiculous in that tri delta shirt." They both broke out laughing.

"I know," she said, "Maybe I'll drop out after this ceremony, I already bought this fucking dress."

"I love you," Sara said, "Go have fun. We'll compare notes later."

Kaitlyn smiled, and stepped out, one of several pairs of heels clacking down the hallway.

...

Sara was doing her hair when she saw the headphones, and the drunk memory came back to her. She immidiantly dropped her brush to call Kaitlyn, but she heard the vibration, sitting on top of her bed. The files were visible there in a folder, specifics about letting go of jealousy and insecurity, and Sara felt her cheeks flush with shame. She finished her makeup, and left for her own induction.