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For the first few seconds, when Hong first emerges from trance and begins to sit upright, she thinks there's a chance she might still be free. She feels relatively lucid for the first time in what feels like days, her brain no longer trapped in a sluggish cycle of muddled realizations that she's staring at a spiral before it fractionates her back into a state of oblivious bliss so deep and profound she barely even notices the fucking machine plowing her sopping cunt. And even though her nipples stand out stiff as bullets from her flat chest and there's a dull, throbbing pulse of need radiating from her pussy, she can control the urge to satisfy it. Maybe she outlasted the suggestions. Maybe she--
That's about as far as Hong gets, mentally, before her trainer enters the room and loops the collar around her neck. He pulls it a little bit tighter, but he doesn't really have to--the moment Hong becomes aware of the soft leather against her skin, she feels her wit and intellect drain out of her like water running out of a newly-unclogged sink. She opens her mouth to speak, but all that emerges is a trickle of drool and her lolling, outstretched tongue--her eyelids suddenly droop and flutter, too heavy to hold fully open, but she can tell that beneath them her eyes are crossing in a perfect ahegao expression for her Masters. It's all just like she was trained to behave, and the leaden weight of her full subjugation settles onto her before she even knows it.
Of course they left her a mind of her own. Hong's going to need to go back out into the world, she's going to have to smile and nod and tell everyone that her unexpected disappearance for a few days was just her taking a little road trip and they were all worried about nothing. That's why her captors always succeed, why they've never been caught despite the hundreds of cells Hong passed on her way to her own brainwashing chamber--their victims don't drop out of existence and go missing, they come back as perfectly trained fuckpets for anyone who wants them. Hong can already feel the suggestions unpacking themselves in her head, leading her to a new apartment and a new job where her owners will have full access to her mind and body.
The collar is the key. The collar and the leash, oh fuck she absolutely craves for someone to hold the leash and give her instructions now--it's turned the dull ache of lust in her pussy into a ranging fire of boiling arousal, and Hong knows she would beg to be owned and commanded if she wasn't also so desperate to look like a dumb slut for her trainer. She tries anyway, a series of embarrassing and degrading grunts emerging from her throat, and it reminds her immediately of how she'd sound trying to talk with a cock in her mouth and that only makes her wetter. Hong's legs spread wide, displaying her needy cunt, and she slides off the bed and onto her knees to better demonstrate her readiness for surrender.
She doesn't touch herself, not without permission, but when the hand reaches out to take the loop at the other end of the chain it feels like a climax in Hong's head. She willingly crawls along like a bitch in heat, letting herself be led out to a locker room where she can be dressed back up in her old clothes… but she makes sure to bend over, forehead touching the floor, so she can reward her trainer for a job well done with a good, hard fuck before she rejoins the world.
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You sat anxiously in the waiting area of your therapist’s office. Sleep had been scarce lately, and the strange, lingering dreams that plagued you made everything worse. The dull hum of the receptionist’s phone filled the silence as another patient stepped out of the therapist’s office. Like clockwork, the receptionist picked up the call, then gestured for you to enter.
By now, their office felt familiar, almost too familiar. The space was warm and inviting, with sunlight spilling through a wide window, softening the edges of their vintage desk and shelves. Their chair sat behind it, positioned neatly, but you always preferred the couch: it felt safer, more comforting, like it had been waiting for you.
As you sank into the cushions, they smiled, bright and reassuring, and instead of retreating behind their desk they crossed the room and settled into the armchair beside you. Their presence alone loosened the knots in your chest. When they spoke, their voice was calm and warm, and when they listened, they did so in a way that made you feel understood, seen. Sometimes it felt like they was the only one who truly understood you.
You told them everything, as always. About how your friends weren’t good for you. How you had followed their advice and surrounded yourself only with those who truly cared. How your engagement had ended, because your partner was toxic and controlling, constantly undermining your therapy, resenting the time you spent here. And finally, how you had cut ties with your family after they staged an intervention, an ambush, really, accusing them of being a fraud, of warping your mind, of pushing you toward madness.
Through it all, they only smiled gently, nodding, until you finished. Then their hand came to rest on your thigh. “I’m proud of you,” they said softly. “So brave, to cut away the people who hurt you. I’m glad you’ve chosen to keep only what really matters. I’m glad you’ve chosen us.”
Their voice lingered on the word us. Heat spread through your body, your cheeks flushed. They saw you as an “us.”
When they asked if you had anything else to share, you hesitated. A pressure built in your chest until you blurted out the truth, that you’d been dreaming, strange dreams that left you restless. They tilted their head, curious. “Tell me about them.”
You lied. You said you couldn’t remember.
Their gaze lingered on you, steady and unblinking. Then, softly: “Would you like to try hypnosis? It might help us find the roots of your unrest.”
The word alone seemed to dissolve your thoughts. Hypnosis. Your lips stretched into a faint, vacant smile as you nodded.
They rose and drew the curtains. The room dimmed, bathed in warm amber light. You didn’t need instructions anymore. You’d been through this ritual many times before. Without prompting, you stretched across the couch, your breathing already slowing, deepening. By the time their voice wrapped around you, you were already half gone, sinking.
Drifting.
Emptying.
Your mouth moved on its own when they told you to speak. You confessed the truth about your dreams, the ones you had pretended to forget. Dreams of their voice, their control. Dreams of surrendering completely, of craving that hollow, mindless state they guided you into. You told them you wanted to be blank. Just empty.
You admitted your fantasies, shamelessly now, without hesitation. That you wished she would strip away the last pieces of your humanity. That the thought of living as their mindless servant, without will or memory, filled you with a dark, aching pleasure.
You didn’t notice when they told you to spread your legs. You didn’t notice your hands obeying their suggestion. Just as you hadn’t noticed the ideas they had been planting in your mind for months. The encouragements to isolate yourself, to silence your doubts, to give her your trust, your devotion, your everything.
Their voice cut through the fog one final time, steady, certain.
You didn’t notice when she whispered, “You’re ready now.”
Ready to let go. Ready to leave everything else behind.
Part III of the Annie x Jill series. Part I: Confide In Me. Part II: A Positive Feedback Loop.
Jill had always been a people pleaser. It's probably why Annie had such an easy time covertly hypnotizing her. Though by now the hypnosis was hardly covert, Jill practically begged Annie to program her every day. But Annie had taken note of Jill's desire to please and her selflessness, and decided it was time Jill got what she deserved after all this time serving.
Annie stared small. Jill had clearly developed a positive response to any praise Annie gave her, and Annie wanted to tap into that natural desire for appreciation and positive feedback. It was pretty easy to start slipping in the odd "good girl" anytime Jill behaved well, and even easier to slip in a few trigger reinforcement suggestions in Jill's regular training sessions.
It wasn't long before Jill would spend most of her day looking for ways to please Annie, immediately looking up at Annie afterwards with puppy dog eyes, hoping expectantly to hear those two words. And when they came, Jill would shudder and gasp as her eyes rolled back in her head. It was working so much better than Annie had expected. Jill was getting so much pleasure in return for her service and Annie felt really very satisfied to have evened the scales.
But Annie was still surprised when she walked in on Jill after work days later. Jill was on the couch, naked. This wasn't unusual, she often spent her days around Annie like this. What was different this time is that Jill was stroking herself and chanting "I'm your good girl" over and over. After processing what was happening, Annie smiled as ideas flooded her mind. Jill never ceased to impress her, she was such a good toy.
The suggestion to slow her hands down and touch herself more lightly was extremely frustrating for Jill, but of course she complied. The resulting "good girl" she received from Annie rocketed Jill to the edge quickly. Annie added a couple more suggestions then went to make dinner.
Two weeks later, on a Saturday morning with Jill's head dutifully buried between her legs, Annie decided to see how things were progressing. The first good girl caused Jill's entire body to convulse. She gasped and stopped sucking Annie's clit while the pleasure rocked her. The second good girl came just as Jill regained enough composure to lick again, and Annie could tell she was already nearing the edge just from hearing it twice. She smiled and let Jill continue.
Jill agreed to go for the walk that afternoon without a thought. She didn't have many thoughts these days, after all. In the park, Annie looked around. Then she saw them. Her neighbor was walking with her new puppy, a cute Labrador retriever still learning her puppy manners. Annie tugged Jill's hand and headed towards the puppy.
"Awe, who's a good puppy? Jill, would you look at this cute little good girl!" Annie cooed as she knelt to pet the puppy. Jill staggered as a wave of pleasure rocked her, weeks of edging resurfacing throughout her body.
"Yeah, that's right, who's a good girl?". Annie drug out the word 'good' for effect as Jill grabbed a nearby post, trying to hold her composure.
"Such a good girl for me!" Annie continued to scratch and speak to the excited puppy while Jill fell to her knees, vision fading and hands grasping helplessly at her sundress trying to will herself back to normal.
Annie continued with the puppy but Jill was lost to pleasue. She was on the edge, hips convulsing, core clenching, as pleasure rocked her whole body. She didn't even care that she was in public anymore, and her moans and whimpers grew as she rode the edge.
Annie ignored the scene Jill was making, and looked at her neighbor. "Tell me, have you taught your cute little pup to come on command yet?"
Jill's eyes widened and she braced for impact.
"No, my good girl's not quite as obedient as yours, I'm afraid." The neighbor smirked, eyes darting towards Jill.
"Don't worry. I'm sure this good girl will be well trained before you know it." Annie looked at Jill coyly, who was down on one knee, still holding the post, and whose skin was glistening with sweat as another edge rolled through her. "Awe, sweetie, you look tired." Annie spoke condescendingly. "We should really get home, don't you think? Why don't you come along, now..."
Derek Lee shivered as he walked down Jackson Street, hands in his pockets. The brisk, cool weather of San Francisco was something he would need to get used to. While his family was practically roasting in Tempe, the fog blanketing the city had barely burned off by lunchtime, and was already rolling in early for the evening.
Derek had restaurant recommendations from the locals in his dorm, but he liked to explore. He definitely wasn't interested in tourist traps, or "re-imagined" bistros attached to celebrity chefs, anointed with Michelin stars. Chinatown was a living, breathing piece of immigrant history in America, and once you got past the overpriced and gaudy facade, there was something ironically genuine about it.
His favorite part so far had been the alleys. Tucked in between tenement apartments with iron bars and fire escapes were narrow passages full of signs marking benevolent societies, stairwells leading to basement businesses, and the clacking of mahjong tiles reverberating off the brick. Derek felt like he had stepped off the bustling streets and into the pages of a Dashiell Hammett novel.
Most of the signs in Chinatown were bilingual, but there was one, above a descending stairwell, that caught Derek's eye. The sign looked especially old and out of place, with gold lettering on a faded red. He pulled out his phone and used the Translate app. The hanzi read '饺子', or 'Dumplings.'
It was almost 3. He could go for something to eat.
Derek descended the stairs and opened a wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could make out the glow of a light.
The first thing he noticed was the space was much bigger than he had thought from outside. It appeared to be an old dance hall or banquet room. Round tables with white tablecloths flanked a parquet dance floor. There was a small kitchen where the sounds of Cantopop music and flourescent lights cast a cool, greenish tint on the rest of the room.
"Hello?" Derek called out. "Are you open?"
A middle-aged Chinese woman emerged from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn up haphazardly in a bun, and a dingy apron covered her house clothes. She looked confused, and addressed Derek loudly in annoyed Cantonese.
"Is this a restaurant?" Derek asked, speaking clearly. "The sign says 'Dumplings'?"
"English?" the woman asked, pointing at Derek. "No Chinese?"
"Oh. I'm Chinese, but I only speak English," Derek admitted. "American born."
This drew a vigorous nod from the woman. Derek thought she was probably very attractive in her day. "We open later. You by yourself?"
Derek smiled cordially. "Yes, I'm new here. College. First time in San Francisco."
"Ahhhh! Welcome." The woman's grin was slightly unsettling. "I make you something. Off menu. You OK wait?"
"Wow. That's great. Yes, please."
The woman motioned to the closest table and pulled out a chair, dusting offer seat with her hand. "OK. I bring tea?"
Derek nodded and sat in the empty chair. The woman came back quickly with a teapot, a glass, and an incense stick and holder. She lit the incense and placed it on the table, and poured some water into the glass on top of what looked like a little green pod.
The woman pointed to the glass. "Chrysanthemum," she said. "Flower bloom, very pretty," she smiled, as she made a motion with her hands. Then she shuffled off back to the kitchen.
Derek watched the flower in the glass slowly open up from the pod. After about a minute, it had expanded into a bright yellow blossom, and the water had taken on the same hue. The tea had a delicate, slightly sweet flavor, unlike the green or jasmine tea Derek typically had in Chinese restaurants.
As he sipped the tea, he had to admit he was impressed with the presentation. A trail of smoke rose from the incense, and Derek wafted it towards him. It was certainly a strange odor. There was an acrid sweetness to it he couldn't quite place. There was an earthy, woody smell and some citrus notes, a common scent to half the herbalists on Grant Street. But that sweet smell was very unusual, and Derek smelled it again, trying to place it.
Feeling relaxed, Derek looked around the dark room. It had a slight musty odor from the poor underground ventilation. The decor was like what you might find in Chinese restaurants across the country, but in a more reserved, less kitschy manner. On the walls were vintage photographs of pretty young Chinese women in cheongsam dresses, their short hair curled at the ends.
Derek imagined laborers getting off their factory shifts, tired and maligned, but cleaning up nicely and coming to this place to cut loose and dance with pretty girls. He gazed dreamily at one photo in particular. She seemed to be calling to him, his thoughts drifting off to a bygone era.
Derek blinked. Must be tired, he thought hazily. Zoned out a little. He sipped more tea. It tasted different. A little stronger. More bitter. More… floral. Like drinking perfume. Thicker, even. More tea at his parted lips. Swallow. Again and again, until it was gone. Eyes heavy and unfocused. He felt sweaty. Breaths shallow. Smoke, curling into his nostrils. The burnt sugary odor, swirling. In his brain.
Fresh air, yeah. Derek tried to stand on wobbly legs. Like that baby cartoon deer, they buckled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.
His eyes fluttered. The woman from before was helping him up on his feet. He tried to stand. Fuck, he felt so hot. She pulled his t-shirt off his clammy back. Laid him down on the table. She left him there, as he curled into a fetal position on his side. Pupils blown wide, he stared into the darkness, drooling.
By the time it registered that she was removing his clothes, his pants were off, boxers going with them. He was naked but indifferent. He just wanted to sleep.
The woman spoke, her voice soothing and melodic. Had Derek been more lucid, he would have noticed her posture was now upright; her demeanor more authoritative. But first, he'd notice she'd dropped the broken English. "Perfect. The raw ingredients are ready, now the real work begins."
She reached into a steel mixing bowl, coating her hands with an amber liquid which she spread on Derek's body, starting with his chest. "This is the binder," she cooed. "Very important. You must be properly seasoned, yes." The liquid, thinner than honey but thicker than cooking oil, had an intoxicating scent. Flowers, peonies possibly. Ginger. Something spicy, like pepper. Star anise. Sesame. It went on cool, then it tingled, before quickly adding to the warmth inside. Especially as the woman began to massage and knead his flesh.
"However," she continued, working the oil into his thighs, "it cannot just be coated. The filling has to be molded. It has to be worked in." As she rubbed his muscles, they became loose. Supple. She gave a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. Softening up the meat. Breaking it down. Otherwise it will be tough." Sliding her hand along the length of his leg, she collected the loose body hair the depilatory salve had removed onto a towel. Satisfied, she gave his skin a playful slap.
Derek moaned softly as she worked the oil into his soft cock and balls, rolling him on his side, coating his ass, and sliding her slippery fingers around and into his hole. He felt the heat building, relaxing him, teasing him. Then he felt something unusual. Arousal, but unlike what he had experienced before. It originated deeper in his core, away from his penis. An inner hunger. He clenched around her finger as she slid out of him, trailing along his sensitive perineum and grazing his sack.
"Ah, there. It's starting. You feel it, don't you? The ingredients coming together, the flavors combining. The moment mere food becomes a meal." Her voice was like her touch, light and delicate, but firm where it needed to be. "Now the filling is ready, the binding has taken hold. Without the binding, you would fall apart before you could be devoured, and no one wants that to happen."
Derek said nothing in response. Completely overwhelmed, he merely sighed in contentment. The taste of the tea on his tongue, the dizzying smoke and aromatic fragrance in his nostrils, the soothing balm reshaping his body, and the woman's soothing words all wrestled for attention in his dulled mind.
"Now it is time for the wrapping. Otherwise, the filling is just a lump. The wrapping shapes the filling, makes it beautiful. Edible art." The woman pulled an end of the tablecloth over Derek's bare front, tucking it tightly under his left arm. It's unlikely Derek would have noticed the table was not lined with a thick linen tablecloth, but several layers of thinner cloth, smooth and delicate, nearly translucent. The woman moved with speed and grace, enveloping Derek tautly inside the sheet like a cocoon. The white fabric clung tightly to his oiled form, and with her prodding and adjusting, it began to take shape - slightly androgynous, slender, soft curves forming, with a muted bulge.
The woman stood back, assessing her work. "Lovely," she said with confidence. "Now I steam it gently. Keep the outer skin smooth and soft, while the filling becomes juicy and succulent." Using large tongs, the woman took the lid off an ice chest and laid large steaming hot towels over the encased young student. Inside the safe and cradling fabric, they felt the suffocating weight and sultry warmth permeating their skin. The moist heat seemed to further activate the ingested and topical agents, intensifying the sensations. It felt like all of what they once were was oozing from their pores, and being replaced by what they were becoming. "That's it, the imperfections are cooking off.
"Almost ready, my little dumpling. My little siu mai."
-----
District Attorney Ron Mitchell finished the last of his whiskey, placing the empty glass on a tray. He looked around the room, shaking his head. Normally, he would like to put half these people in jail. However, since the mayor, half the Board of Supervisors, those venture capital guys, the CEO of Panacea Tech, and last year's Best Actress winner were all here, looking the other way was part of the game.
This place really did clean up well, he supposed. Over the murmurs of hushed conversations, and through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke, he admired the ornate Oriental fixtures, installed a century ago when this was the most notorious brothel in Chinatown. Bright red lanterns provided ambient charm, and the crystal chandelier over the dance floor was a nice touch.
Mitchell spotted Madame Chen, the organizer, talking to the head waiter, and made his approach. An elaborately embroidered gold dragon adorned the right flank of her stunning red cheongsam dress. Her hair was styled up, and a 24-karat gold braid draped her neck with jade earrings dangling from her lobes. Though she was probably his age, she had a youthful complexion and a classical beauty about her as timeless as this old dance hall. Still, Mitchell was familiar with her skills. Which meant treating her with caution.
"Madame," Mitchell offered.
"Mr. Mitchell," Madame Chen smiled wanly. Her voice had a soporific cadence to it that made him a little uneasy. "A pleasure, as always. Will you be placing a bid tonight?"
Mitchell shook his head. "No, too rich for my blood. Was a surprise to get an invite on such short notice, but this is an impressive turnout."
Madame Chen flashed a calculating smile. "Well, my dumplings are best served fresh, for their peak enjoyment." She motioned to the dance floor. "It's time, please."
The lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight shone on the dance floor. The scratch of a dropped record needle filled the hushed room, followed by the old Shanghai Jazz melange of brass horns and a woman singing in Cantonese.
A female figure stepped out from a curtain into the spotlight. Her dazzling red silk cheongsam clung tightly to her lithe figure, as she strode forth in matching heeled pumps. She began to sway and dance with the music, gracefully lost in the rhythm, her arms extended like a ballerina. Her dark hair stayed tightly in a bun, her painted crimson lips parted, and her eyes closed as she occupied the attention of everyone in the room. A delicate flower blossoming. A piece of art imbued with life.
The song ended, and the woman bowed slightly. And finally, she opened her chestnut eyes and smiled demurely.
"Let's hear it for Siu Mai!" a voice bellowed from the speakers. "Who would like to bid on this young virginal morsel? The bidding begins at one-quarter-of-a-million dollars."
As men and women alike began to hold up numbered paddles, Mitchell leaned over and, in hushed tones, said to Madame Chen, "Congratulations, Madame. You've outdone yourself once again." His brow furrowed slightly. "Why do you call them dumplings, anyway?"
Madame Chen pursed her lips, her eyes glinting with malice that turned Mitchell's blood cold. "Because dumplings are beautiful, delicate, and finely crafted," she said, "and because dumplings are made to be stuffed with meat."
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Elle knelt at the foot of the couch - hands behind her head, tits thrust out - with nothing on but her bra and panties. Her eyes had slipped a while back. It was hard to tell how long. It could have been days since she'd surrendered to the cloud her mind was now floating on.
"So lovely," a voice said from in front of her. It was the voice. The voice that had talked her up onto her cloud. Oh how she loved that voice. "I've wanted you for so long, Elle."
The voice wanted her! It felt so wonderful to hear that. If she could move she'd have jumped for joy. But the voice had told her to take this position and she had to do as the voice said. She would move when it commanded.
"Just look at those tits. So many years of seeing them crammed into a tight t-shirt or bouncing in a wet bikini. Now they're mine."
And they were. The voice could do anything it wanted with her tits. Never in her life would she have called them that. Too old to call them boobs, she always thought of them as breasts. But the voice called them tits, so tits is what they were.
"And how I've wanted to feel every inch of your skin. And taste your lips and your nips and your twat."
Twat. That was the thing between her legs now. She had a twat and it felt so good.
"You want me to do it, now. You want me to taste you."
Her twat moistened slightly. She wanted the voice to taste her. Everything it said was true. She hoped it would soon. She loved it up on her cloud, but feeling the mouth attached to the voice roaming all over her skin would truly make it paradise. She almost quivered with anticipation, but she did not move. The voice had not permitted it.
"Elle tell me that you want me."
"l want you," she heard her voice say from some far away place. And she did. So so badly.
"Tell me that I own you."
"You own me."
"And after all these years of suffering from watching you prance around like a prize I could never win, tell me that you belong to me mind and body."
"l belong to you, mind and body."
Elle felt a finger run the length of her twat outside her panties.
"Open your eyes, Elle. I want to look into those empty eyes while I claim your body as mine."
Elle opened her eyes and stared at last at the owner of the voice and felt their ownership over her pressing down on her and into her soul. She was no longer just a person. She was property. And her tits and twat were so ready to serve.
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You tried teas, melatonin, strict sleep hygiene… nothing worked. And you didn’t want prescription meds, the side effects scared you.
Then a friend told you they had the perfect solution: hypnosis.
At first, you wanted to laugh. Hypnosis? Really? But they were serious. They told you that when they struggled with insomnia, they found a video on YouTube from someone called Miss Emma. Most of her content was recreational, they admitted, but she had a sleep aid file that worked like magic. They begged you to give it at least one chance.
You wanted to mock them, but then you saw the look in their eyes, that quiet, genuine belief, and suddenly you couldn’t. So you sighed, heavily, before agreeing.
That night they sent you the audio. You got comfortable in bed, pressed play. A soft melody filled the room, followed by a calm, soothing voice. She sounded comforting, caring. She guided you through slow breaths, painted a beach in your mind, counted down…
…and then your alarm buzzed.
It was 6 a.m. already. You had slept through the night. No tossing and turning until sunrise, no jolting awake again and again, no nightmares. Just deep, peaceful, restorative sleep.
The next night, you listened again. And again after that. Soon, it became your nightly ritual.
After that first success, you started researching hypnosis, reading about different inductions, exploring people’s experiences. That’s when you stumbled across the idea that some people had a fetish for it. And strangely… that thought stirred something in you too.
Hypnosis became part of your life. It helped not only with insomnia, but with anxiety… even with your confidence. You met people through it. You experimented, listening to different hypnotists’ files. But somehow, you always came back to Miss Emma. Her voice. Her presence. You couldn’t help it. You needed her.
You thought about contacting her. Your friend encouraged it, said she was wonderful, even joked that if you both asked nicely, maybe she’d hypnotize you together.
The thought made you blush. The idea of being a good toy alongside your friend… serving together. It was arousing. Too arousing. So you pushed it away, embarrassed by the intensity of it.
But later, during your night ritual, the idea returned. It echoed through your mind as Emma’s familiar countdown carried you down… down… until the sharp snap shattered your thoughts completely.
When the file ended, your body was heavy and asleep… but your mind was awake in a different way. Awake enough to obey. Just as it had been trained to, over and over again.
Your hand reached for your phone, almost on its own. You typed a message:
“Toy is ready to obey.”
Her reply was instant.
“Good toy. Did your friend tell me you refused my idea?”
“Yes, Miss. I was embarrassed.”
“But you don’t need to be, dear. Let me help you. Tomorrow morning, when you wake, you’ll have a change of heart. You’ll tell your friend you want to be hypnotized with them. That you want both of you to be good toys for me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Good toy.”
…
Your alarm buzzed in the morning, and you already knew.
You wanted it. Needed it.
You would ask your friend for Miss Emma’s contact. So that the two of you could fall… together, so that you could be her good toys.
You always struggled with doing tasks. Between the procrastination, executive dysfunction, and exhaustion, even cleaning the dishes was a herculean task. It got so bad that it started to affect your work, leading to a stern talk from your boss. That's why, when your friend Jess, told you about her job's, Auton Industries, new productivity improvement services, you were willing to give it a shot.
The tech itself was simple, just a pair of dark sunglasses, indistinguishable from any normal pair. When you put it on, it prompted you with the text "Unit 4372 Settings" and hundreds of sliders and buttons. It overwhelmed you, so you picked the default options. A nice ding played and the actual software began.
On the right side of your vision, a list of task crept down, tasks and subtasks ranging from "Clean Dishes (32)" to "Improve Health (15)." The glasses highlighted various objects, with commands like "Clean", "Move", "Throw Away." Every time you completed a task, the highlight went green and dissipated, a speaker whispering sweet encouragement into your ear, followed by the same soft ding.
Put away some loose papers.
"Good Job!" Ding!
Finally take out the trash
"Great Work!" Ding!
Vacuum the floors.
"Keep Going!" Ding!
Every time you completed a task, that little bit of encouragement, that pleasurable ding, sank into your chest, making you feel warm, even more, appreciated. It was a feeling no other job or hobby had ever given you. When you were done with all your tasks, the shower of praise and dings you got was intoxicating.
You didn't admit it, but it was addictive. Soon, you began chasing the high of completing tasks, a depression following after finishing. You felt so useful following its commands, so appreciated when reviving its praise. You started helping friends clean their houses, just to get more. When you cleaned Jess's house, she had this grin that said she knew, as impossible as that was. Something fluttered in your stomach as she observed your work, giving her own compliments on top of the glasses. By the end, you could hardly stand with how much appreciation you received.
After, a new notification popped up on your glasses as you put them on in the morning.
"Due to your overwhelming success with our program, Auton Industries extends the offer to join our Advance Productivity program."
Needless to say, you joined immediately, and after many, many lengthy terms of service signed, a new piece of tech was sent to your home.
It was a full face mask, the face impenetrable black glass that reflected yourself. The instructions were simple. You put the mask on before you went to bed, and took it off in the morning. While you slept, the mask would play subliminal messages that increased the effectiveness of the productivity training.
You expected strange dreams from it, but all that greeted you was some beeps and soft static. In the morning, you felt better rested than ever before. Your exhaustion was gone.
The effects were immediate. Each completed task's made you feel so appreciated, each compliment and ding rocking through your body. On top of the mask, the glasses had gotten an update, with a whole new host of compliments.
Get dressed for work
"Good girl!" Ding!
Clean morning dishes
"Good Unit!" Ding!
Any discomfort with the wording was washed away by the appreciation you felt. It was complimenting you! You were useful! That couldn't be bad. By the time you were done, you needed to change underwear, and any thought of taking them off for work was excised from your mind.
The rest of the update showed itself as you began your job. Tasks had been made specifically for your work, and even what to say on calls, something you always struggled with, was automated. You found it so easy to sink into a pleasurable trance, following what the glasses told you to, shaking with every compliment. By the end of the shift, you had gotten more work done that ever before, and even got appreciation from the boss.
This process of wearing the mask while you slept, glasses while you were awake continued. And despite a few occasions like accidentally almost wearing the mask to work, things were going great, it... you were feeling so appreciated. Jess checked in on you more, keeping track of your progress. She seemed overwhelming happy with the results, calling you one of their best units. Something about the way she said that made it you shiver.
Then one day, a new package arrived at the door. You didn't remember ordering it, but then again, you didn't remember a lot of stuff now days. You fell into a loving haze of appreciation and usefulness and let the programing command it you.
A new task popped up, top of the list, most important:
"Open Package"
You followed without question.
"Good Girl!" Ding!
Inside was a latex suit.
"Put On Uniform"
The suit slipped on like a glove, each part lovingly crafted for your body. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you noticed it was a lot curvier than you, a lot more feminine, but it was soon buried by:
"Good Unit!" Ding!
"Put On Headset"
"Good Unit!" Ding!
Silly you, you already had it on!
"Repeat"
"It is a good drone"
"It is a good drone," You said
Ding!
"It is a Useful drone."
"It is a useful drone."
Ding!
"It is an Appreciated Drone"
"It is an Appreciated Drone," it said.
Ding!
It shuttered
"Calibration Complete, State Designation."
"Unit 4372"
"Good Drone" Ding!
If it still had control of its body, its knees would've buckled.
"Assume Transportation Position"
It fell to its knees, arms crossing behind its back and locking.
"Wait for Unit's owner to arrive, repeat mantra."
"It is a good drone, it is an useful drone, it is an appreciated drone, it is a good drone..."
Unit 4372 looked to the voice, and saw its owner. Something in the back of its systems screamed recognition, attempting to hijack its programing to give Owner a name. Something that started with a J, but a simple touch by Owner drowned it all away.
"My star unit," Owner said. "Look how you've turned out."
Unit 4372 squirmed. It was so appreciated, so useful
You and your friend are sitting on their couch, watching TV and unwinding after a very tiring day. You've both had a ton of work to worry about, and they think the best remedy for that exhaustion is to destress on the couch for a bit, then try out the trigger they gave you the previous day.
It was a Jedi Mind Trick suggestion, one that makes you mindlessly agree with them any time they wave their hand front of your face. You thought it was a very nerdy thing to use during a hypnosis session, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't curious of its effects.
You wanted to chill out for a bit, but there had to be a better way to do that. The TV was very boring. It was that dumb cooking show your friend always watches. You couldn't stand it, it was like watching paint dry.
"Can you please change the channel? You know how much I hate this show" , you asked, in a tired, grumpy tone.
They waved their hand.
"But you love this show, hun, you always have!"
Your previous opinion began to fade from your head, swiped away by the hand authoritavely swaying in front of you.
That.. that was true. It had always been that way. What were you complaining about? You loved to watch cooking shows! They offered a very relaxing, and informative experience, and suddenly it became impossible to take your eyes off the screen.
You continued watching with your friend for a while, excited with your newfound knowledge of how to prepare Steak au Poivre. It wasn't until both of you spent a little time relaxing your muscles that they suggested doing something else.
"Hm, I've chilled out enough. I'm in the mood for something.. diferent. Are you horny, dear?" They looked at you as they quizzed you on your arousal.
On one hand, you were a bit aroused, and it was the perfect way to destress. But on the other, you were pretty tired, and it was much easier to sit and watch the show. You needed a push, if your friend wanted this very lazy evening to end differently.
They waved their hand.
"You're incredibly aroused"
This time, you repeated their words, doing so without resistance. "I'm incredibly aroused" , you replied, the mindless tone of your voice quickly erasing your previous opinions.
That.. that was true. It had always been like that. Your tired expression morphed from sleepy to unfathomably horny. The thoughts that occupied your mind changed, from ones of curling up on the couch to sexual fantasies of your tist. Your mind grew aroused.
You began to absent-mindedly touch yourself. Nothing major, of course, but just enough to keep yourself worked up. Your friend watched your sudden shift in personality, content with how easy it was to make you agree with them.
They waved their hand.
"Your mind is extremely fuzzy"
"My mmind... fuzzy...", you replied, not even a tiny ammount of hesitation in your voice.
That was true. Your mind could barely keep a coherent thought inside your head. You began to drool your thoughts away as you touched yourself, the only noises escaping your mouth being giggles and moans. You were too dizzy to care about not being understood.
They waved their hand.
"You are really needy. You need me to tell you what to do. What to think."
"N..needyyy....", your voice trailed off, unable to repeat anymore.
That was true. You got closer to them, still touching yourself as you looked into their eyes. Your moans turned into a chorus of needy words, your mind looping the same fantasies of being blanked by your dear pal. You were begging. You had to beg.
"Pleaseee uusee meee,, nneed uu to tell me whhat ddoo.. wahhat too thinkk.. pleasepleasepleasepleaseepleasee"
"Aww, good toy!", your tist responded, a smile forming on their face as they watched your pretty head break from the pleasure.
They waved their hand.
"You're blank."
That was true. You were blank. Your mind suddenly stopped, no longer thinking anything. You froze in place, awaiting commands. You needed to be told what to do. What to think. And your tist had some great ideas~
"I am blank.", you mindlessly replied.
And just like that, with a few waves of a hand, you were gone.
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"Coming back up, one, two, three, four, five, and DROP." Tadeo tugged Abby forward by the wrist as he spoke, and her gently fluttering eyelids slammed back shut before she could even fully process the act of waking. She slumped back into his arms, and this time he guided her down into a full collapse into a supine position with her head resting in his lap and her body limp on the cool grass of the campus quad. "That's it, deeper and deeper now, ten times deeper, now a hundred, now a thousand, sinking and dropping and plummeting into my voice and my will as you relax, relax, relax."
Abby heard herself let out a little sigh, and it served to convince her dazed and drowsy mind on a level conscious understanding couldn't reach--she'd really been hypnotized, put into a deep trance by a man she'd been talking to for less than five minutes just like he told her he would, and the sleepy realization that her puffed-up insistence that it couldn't possibly work and she'd be able to easily resist him had proven utterly ineffectual in the face of his 'instant induction' left her feeling more passive and helpless than ever. "You can't think anymore," Tadeo intoned, his fingers stroking and massaging her forehead as he spoke, and Abby found herself meekly accepting it to be true.
"It feels good to be blank," Tadeo murmured, "it feels good to give in and let go and let my words become your thoughts," and even though his hands were roaming more and more intimately over her body it only made Abby feel even further dissociated from the reality of the situation. She was barely even a person anymore, her body limp and her mind empty, and Tadeo's touch carried with it an immediate reward of pleasure that helped to make any consequences feel abstract and distant and unimportant. The only hope she had was that someone might find her and snap her out of Tadeo's trance before he could do anything permanent, and that seemed faint and absurd--the quad was rapidly emptying out as students went on to their next classes, and even if anyone saw them she'd just look like a young woman enjoying a cuddle with her boyfriend.
But he was rapidly becoming so much more. "Every time I tap your forehead," he purred, "you're going to feel yourself come all the way back up and then drop again, a thousand times deeper and more relaxed and more open to my suggestions." He began to very lightly drum his index finger against her skin, keeping a metronomic rhythm that fractionated Abby into insensate oblivion within a matter of seconds, and even though she registered his other hand unbuttoning her blouse she felt far too passive and lethargic to do anything about it. He pulled up her bra to expose one of her bare breasts, only to immediately cover it again with his palm, and Abby's breath began to come in rapid gasps as the arousal sank in with nothing to oppose it.
Abby woke perhaps two hours later, her body now in Tadeo's apartment off-campus and her mind in a whirl of stupefied bewilderment, and even though she tried to fumble her way through some stammering excuse to leave Tadeo simply pointed to his bed and she sat down meekly like a chastised puppy. It was then that she realized just how deeply he'd sunk his hooks into her brain… but by then all she could do was stare up into his eyes, a saccharine reverence overwhelming her thoughts, and beg him to hypnotize her again.
(If you enjoy this fiction and want to make sure it continues, please visit https://www.patreon.com/Jukebox to become a supporter. Or, if you simply want to make a one-time contribution, you can drop me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/jukebox instead. Thank you!)
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