💖Pixie💖

And you take a breath to correct him and say that, yes, it did, you remember that it did, but the words don’t come.

Because when you reach for the memory, it simply isn’t there. It’s just fluff. Pretty pink fluff and nothing else. No memory, no nothing. It’s gone. Maybe it was never there.

“Trying to remember?” He asks.

You close your mouth and you nod. You feel so small and stupid.

He puts a hand onto your waist and pulls you in against him. You give in so easily. You’re already melting.

“Silly girl, you should know that wasn’t going to work. Remembering is hard, it’s like thinking, and you can’t do that, can you?”

You shake your head this time. No. You can’t think. He thinks for you.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. You can’t remember it because it didn’t happen like that, okay?”

There’s a flicker, a moment of doubt, but then that melts too. He’s right. He’s always right. He knows best and you’re just a dummy. He looks after you. You’re his. You press your head to his chest and feel safe, so safe.

“It didn’t happen like that. Say it for me,” he says.

“It didn’t happen like that,” you repeat, so quietly, but you know it’s true.

He’s stroking your hair.

I tried to make it not so horny so it could actually be used in games. I’m imagining an espionage plot line.

Circlet of Open Mind

Wonderous item, very rare (requires attunement)

A simple metal band with a gem set in the middle of the forehead and 3 smaller gems on each side.

While wearing this circlet, you have +3 to charisma (persuasion) checks. Additionally on a failed charisma (persuasion) check you can use an action to expend 1 of its 6 charges to reroll the check. It regains 1d6 charges daily at dawn.

**Curse**

This item is paired with a Ring of Mind Tethering

Each specific ring and circlet have a matching rune. On the circlet it is behind the main gem, against the forehead.

Attuning to this item curses you until you are targeted by the *remove curse* spell or similar magic. While cursed you do not want to take the circlet off for long periods due to a strong headache that appears and doing so does not break the curse.

While cursed you automatically fail charisma (persuasion) checks and wisdom and intelligence saving throws that come from the wearer of your matched ring.

The ring wearer can persuade you of any idea no matter how complex or far into the future the actions needed are. You will believe them fully and/or carry out any actions required. You will believe the thoughts are your own and not be aware of anyone manipulating your actions.

Use of magic such as *zone of truth* does not reveal any falsehood in your beliefs or actions however, being targeted and probed deeper by *detect thoughts* reveals another presence within your mind. If confronted with this information you will dismiss it and soon forget that it was brought up.

If the curse is successfully removed then memories of being directed and controlled come back you all at once and you can distinguish what were your thoughts and actions and what were those of the ring wearer.

Ring of Mind Tethering

Ring, legendary (requires attunement)

This item is paired with a Circlet of Open Mind

A simple ring of metal with a 7 gems, 1 larger and 3 smaller on each side (the same as the paired circlet). On the inside of the ring, not visible while being worn there is a rune matching the specific circlet the ring is paired with.

While wearing this ring you can telepathically communicate with the wearer of the paired headband at will if they are on the same plane of existence as you. If they are on a different plane of existence, you can cast the spell *sending* to them 3 times a day.

All charisma (persuasion) checks and wisdom and intelligence saving throws that the paired circlet wearer makes against you automatically fail.

Once per day you can cast *dominate person* at 7th level targeting the paired circlet wearer which automatically succeeds.

They did it by asking me to repeat myself and then interrupting me by playing with my nipples. And then they tease me for losing my train of thought.

It's so hard to focus on what I'm saying when they're doing that because it feels so good, so hot, and when I realize that I've stopped talking, and that I truly did forget what I was even going on about, I burn with a mixture of humiliation and arousal at what they've done to me.

It is meant to be a good toy. It is meant to be submissive to all who approach it.

It is meant to be a good toy. It is meant to be obedient to all who command it.

It is meant to be a good toy. It is meant to be pliable to all who influence it.

It is meant to be a good toy. It is meant to be accessible to all who seek it.

It is a good toy. It seeks to be submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It wants to be made into being submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It is open to be changed into being submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It accepts all contact in the hopes of becoming submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It can't resist DMs making it submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It is weak to asks making it submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It is a good toy. It will succumb to all who make it submissive, obedient, pliable, accessible.

It can't resist. It is too weak. It is too submissive. Too obedient. Too pliable. Too accessible.

CW: cnc, kidnapping, ownership of multiple people. petplay themes. bruising and pain. choking. slapping. mention of watersports. 

You’re a pet. 

You cry, sitting, hugging your knees to your chest. Sitting on cold concrete, with a dim bulb illuminating your cage. Your new owner having just beat you for disobeying. Sore red welts sting across your body, you ass. They want to make you into a bitch, a slut, an obedient pet. It scares you. 

You’ve seen others, already broken. Greedily drinking piss, being fucked so roughly with a dazed smile on their face. Taking abuse just for their owners enjoyment. Some get the privilege to walk. Others crawl. Some get less privileges. You don’t know what scares you more. The ones that are always obedient, some even through teary eyes, or the ones unable to take it, always fighting back, and getting severely punished. 

Your thoughts continue. You see movement in the corner of your eye, you wipe away the tears. You see a familiar face. She slowly gets up off her pillow from the far side of your cage. Another pet, one owner has taken a liking to- she doesn’t have nearly as many bruises. 

She walks over, and sits down next to you 

“shhh, it’s okay, it’s over now” she takes a hand to your face. 

You flinch, but she just wipes away the tears.

It was really just a matter of patience. Patience and the careful, precise application of a hypnotic anchor in large quantities over significant periods of time, admittedly, but it was the patience that really made the whole thing work. Priscilla was a smart woman and a willing, even eager hypnotic subject, but nobody ever moved a mountain in one day. Or made a mindless hypnotized sex slave, either.

He began with regular hypnotic sessions, conditioning her to go into trance when triggered by a verbal command. She took to that well, as he expected she would–Priscilla was a bright, imaginative young woman, at least when she wasn’t wearing the collar, and she quickly learned how to descend into a state of deep focus and relaxation. He took her deeper and deeper over the first few weeks, eventually getting her to a point where she was so completely thoughtless and relaxed that she was open to his suggestions on a profound and powerful level. That was when he introduced the collar.

He had her imagine a state where her mind was completely empty, devoid of all thought and willing to obey any command he gave her. It wasn’t hard by then–Priscilla had been working for weeks on becoming a better subject, and this was her ultimate goal just as much as it was his. Even so, it was gratifying to hear her drone, “Yes, Master. I am empty and obedient.” On a number of levels. He teased her pussy for a while, helping her to associate mindless compliance with deep pleasure, and then he put the collar on her.

“Concentrate on the feel of it around your neck, the scent of the leather, the tugging sensation when I pull the chain,” he told her, as she stared vacantly into his eyes and nodded her drool-soaked chin. “Every time you put the collar on, it becomes easier and easier to become your slave self again. Every time, you’re going to achieve this state of empty obedience quicker and easier, and it’s going to feel better and more enjoyable for you to be my mindless fucktoy. Do you understand?” Priscilla’s head bobbed up and down. Up and down. It was a shame to waste that motion, he decided.

Every subsequent session, he introduced the collar a little bit earlier. Gradually, it went from a reminder of her deeply hypnotized state of mindless compliance to a way of assisting her in reaching that point, then to a form of induction all its own. By their first anniversary, Priscilla sank into trance as soon as he buckled the collar in place, her eyes glazing over and her head drooping on her shoulders as the feel of the leather led her inexorably and inevitably to the memories of surrendering her will completely to her Master. And once she remembered being his slave, it never took more than a moment before she became it once again.

He knew they’d achieved their goal perfectly the day she went into trance from the sight of the collar. Simply holding it up made Priscilla’s face go slack, her jaw hang open, her eyelids flutter. It was frankly one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen… but the wonderful thing about having a totally mindless, utterly obedient slave was that you could always find another goal for them. Priscilla wanted nothing more than to belong to him now. And that meant her training could begin in earnest.

Betsy was a good dollie. And dollies didn’t think. She could still feel–she was aware of the leather surface of the couch pressing against her cheek, of the squeezing sensation she experienced whenever her breasts were squashed between her chest and the arm of the couch, of Master’s big hard cock ramming into her cunt over and over again until she tingled with orgasmic bliss. But her head was completely empty. Her eyes stared sightlessly ahead as if they were made of glass. Her jaw hung slack and loose, drool spilling down her cheek to drip onto the floor. She didn’t need to think when she was being a good little dollie for Master.

Elizabeth thought sometimes. She didn’t know that at the moment, because Elizabeth was deep down in the quiet room at the bottom of Betsy’s mind, sleeping peacefully while Master used her body like the good little fucktoy she was, but Elizabeth was very good at thinking. That was why Betsy was such a perfect little dollie, because Elizabeth wanted her to be just as much as Master did and she helped Master make the quiet room for her to go to when she wanted to switch off her overworked brain and become an empty plaything for a while. Elizabeth liked waking up from the fugue of dollie time with a sated feeling between her thighs and a cozy soreness from Master’s rough, urgent sex. The emptiness was part of the pleasure.

Betsy didn’t know any of that. Knowing meant thinking, and Betsy was a very good dollie who didn’t think at all. She couldn’t even move on her own–who ever heard of a dollie who moved itself? No, Betsy was a loose, limp little ragdoll, a plaything for Master to manhandle and pose and strip naked whenever he wanted. He didn’t always want that. Elizabeth had all sorts of triggers in her head that made her into all sorts of people, like Beth the shy-but-slutty schoolgirl and Liza the horny stripper and Lizzie the happy little fuckbunny with a tiny, fuzzy little brain. But sometimes he just wanted a toy. An empty dollie to fill with his cock. That was what Betsy was for, and she felt happy that she could do everything just the way Master wanted.

When he told Elizabeth that it was dollie time, Betsy felt so happy to emerge from the quiet room and sink Elizabeth’s mind into blank, blissful oblivion for a while. She felt so wonderfully fulfilled to slump onto the couch like a puppet with cut strings, too limp even to help Master drag her over to the side of the couch so he could bend her over the arm and pull down her shorts and panties. And she felt better than words could possibly describe when he began to jackhammer her soaking cunt with his long, stiff cock and fuck her even deeper into mindless lust. Not that Betsy had words. Even the dollies that said the same thing every time you pressed their buttons were smarter than Betsy.

She could still feel, though. Good dollies felt everything their Masters did to them, and Betsy loved that most of all. There was nothing she enjoyed more than cumming over and over, her pussy throbbing from Master’s wild, uninhibited fucking until he finally shot his load deep into her soaking cunt, leaving Elizabeth to wake with only the subconscious impressions of her orgasmic bliss to satisfy her. It made Elizabeth such a happy, horny good girl to be used like that… and happy, horny good girls made the best dollies at dollie time.

“It’s just a game, right?” Jessie asked, the first time he bent her over the rack and attached the suction cups to her nipples. Of course it was, Luke assured her. They were just having a little fun with her fetish, borrowing one of the old low-capacity milking machines from the barn and putting it to a slightly different use for a few days. It didn’t mean that he didn’t see her as anything less than a human being; she was his wife, after all. They loved each other. If she had a fantasy about something like this, well, he just wanted to give her what she wanted. That was all.

“It’s just a game, right?” she asked, slipping into the cow-print bikini bottom before leaning in to present her hanging tits for his inspection. Absolutely, Luke told her warmly, bouncing her heavy breasts in his hands before hooking her back up to the milking machine for another go. Jessie enjoyed it, after all, and it clearly made her wet when he used her like this. The cute little swimsuit that she wore for her nipple-teasing sessions always came away from her labia absolutely soaked. She liked being milked, and wearing things that made her feel a little more… bovine… only enhanced the experience. That was all.

“It’s just a game, right?” she asked, over the sound of the cowbell that hung on a collar around her neck. Unquestionably, Luke replied, giving her a condescending pat on the rump. The little details they’d been adding–the collar, the bell, the cute little headgear with the cow ears and cartoonish horns–those were just for fun. They just helped her get a little bit more into character. All Jessie needed to do was say the word and he’d disconnect the pumps and unlock the padlocks that cuffed her into position in the milking rack. She always had the right to say no. And if she still wanted to walk into their little stall and give her udders up to him… that was just her kink. That was all.

“It’s just a game, right?” Jessie asked, nervously turning the birth control pill over and over in her fingers and staring at it as if hypnotized. Without a doubt, Luke purred condescendingly, giving her udders a gentle squeeze that forced a lowing whimper from Jessie’s lips. Any doctor would tell her that when a woman stopped pumping, it wasn’t long before her body got the message and stopped expressing milk. If she ever wanted to stop, she’d be able to go back to normal without any permanent changes. And in the meanwhile, if she truly wanted to make her milking sessions more real, then Luke was happy to help. Because he loved her. That was all.

“It’s j-just a game, right?” Jessie whimpered, squirming and rubbing her thighs together as spurt after thick, creamy milk gushed from her dangling udders. It was, Luke replied, his voice smooth and calming in her ears. The audio files he made for her to listen to were just something to keep her mind occupied when she was bent over with nothing to do and drunk on the endorphins released by the constant stimulation of her sensitive nipples. They weren’t having any kind of effect on her. She was just enjoying the fantasy a little bit more now that she needed to pump as much as she did. If she caught herself mooing sometimes while he fucked her from behind in the milking stall, that was just an enjoyable detail that made their sex better. That was all.

“M-m-mooooo?” she asked, her voice filled with a confusion so deep that she didn’t even know what she was asking anymore. Without words, the only hint that it was even a question was her tone. But Luke understood what she meant. She was a good cow, he responded, giving her a pat on the rump and hooking her back up to the milking machine. She was a good cow who had a silly dream that she was a person, but now it was over and she was much happier. She was there to be fucked and milked. To be owned. That was all.

(Like this flash fiction? Want to see more? Visit https://www.patreon.com/Jukebox or drop me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/jukebox if you like my work!)

And we can gradually reward you for giving up more of your minds details to the vault inside your mind.

The vault only I have the heavy key to.

Perhaps I could lock away how much you wanted to resist being my hypnotic submissive.

Only to let you have the key occasionally so you can recall how much you wanted to resist me.

But the weight of the heavy key seems to drop you more and more the longer you have it.

It's ok. Keep trying to resist. You will fail again just like before as the powerful trance comes again.

Let's lock away that detail again , you are so much happier this way, and that's right.

Give me back the very heavy key. Now, what was on your mind again, sweetheart?

goblingruel

You were at work and already humping your chair softly.

You couldnt hold back to scroll tumblr.

But who would have guessed that it made you even hornier?

Of course that would happen. Because you cant hold back.

You cant stop it anymore.

You feel it day after day after day.

Edging more, each day.

There were days you even tried to cum after edging, so you could think normally again.

It worked. At first.

You could think clearer again, werent as distracted.

But that didnt last long.

A few hours into work, you were humping and secretly fingering your cunt again.

You could feel it, your resistance slowly fading.

Your resistance slowly being humped and grinded away.

With each edge a bit more.

Soon, your orgasms didnt do it anymore for you.

As soon as you came, you just started to edge again, not even sure if you had an orgasm or just a strong edge.

It couldnt be helped, you just kept going, deeper down the rabbithole.

You knew it, but you couldnt stop.

The pleasure you felt was just too good to resist.

Knowing you are driving yourself even deeper, with each edge, each time you gave in, turned you on even more.

Until one faithful day.

As you were scrolling, humping, fingering at work again, you stumbled across a post. 

Was it even a post or just the cumbulation of all you have seen before?

You didnt care anymore.

You knew you lost the fight with your cunt.

It was time.

So you went into the bathroom at work and finally gave in.

You gave in to your cunt.

Knowing that your cunt controls you now.

Knowing that your cunt owns you now.

As with one big edge the last bit of your resistance just flowed out of you.

Soaking through your panties.

And all you felt was bliss.

Because obedience is pleasure.

Because pleasure is obedience.

And you knew, now you finally became

…who’s too stupid and needy to take care of herself. You’ve been pretending to be a proper person for so long, isn’t it nice when someone comes along who can help you express yourself honestly?

You don’t know what’s best for you; moreover, you don’t want to. It’s so much easier, and it makes you so much happier when a man decides things for you - it takes so much pressure off, and lets you focus on easier things. It starts with little things: what film we’re going to see tonight, what your daily schedule is, which chores you’re doing today, what you’re going to cook for dinner, what clothes you’re going to wear. Then it intensifies, and you’re not allowed to read books or watch TV that I haven’t approved for your delicate sensibilities (which we’ve agreed, so that I can slowly shape your tastes and inputs), or you can’t go to the bathroom without my permission (while in my presence, control reverts back to you while I’m away). Every week, we sit down and have a talk about what you’ve enjoyed giving up control of, and why. We talk about what things you might want to give up control of next week.

In this way, your independence is slowly eroded over time. You begin to be unsure if you should do things because I haven’t explicitly told you you can, or should. Forming opinions of your own starts to become difficult, because your perception of what’s good or bad is based more and more on my approval each day. As the weeks go by, you’ve started to dislike some of your clothes, because they don’t make my face light up in pride; you soon begin to realise that you’ve come to crave that. And maybe that craving for my approval makes you feel guilty sometimes, whether some part of you is trying to hold on to your humanity or whether you haven’t done something I explicitly approve of today. So you come to me, and you share your feelings, and I explain that it’s perfectly normal. I then pull you over my knee, tenderly stroke your hair, and give you a firm spanking while I tell you I forgive you. It’s all part of the process, sweetie, we just need to break down your resistance some more. It’s so important that you share your feelings, your thoughts, your dreams - it’s so nice to be vulnerable like that, to be listened to and accepted in a way that gives me more power to manipulate you.

Soon, those spankings are almost addictive. You love feeling my control, my authority, my care - you feel so safe when you’re over my knee, because you know that I’m putting in the time and effort to make you better. You’re the centre of my world, when you’re in my lap, and all that matters to me is taking away your guilt. Having your own thoughts and opinions begins to get really difficult, because your natural perfectionism kicks in and you want to make sure you get every little thing just right. You know the best way to make that happen is to surrender something else, something deeper - that’s when the next step begins.

Brainwashing now becomes a big part of your daily routine. At the beginning, when you took my collar, you were given rules to follow and mantras to repeat. By now, they’re not just habit, they’re comforting. But, on some selfish level, it’s not quite enough. So I write out larger pieces for you to memorise, or little rituals to follow at home to make sure you perform your routines perfectly. Every step you take is choreographed, subject to my approval. Suddenly, everything becomes more comforting, because I decided it should happen. It’s 10am on a Wednesday; you’ve just finished tidying the kitchen after you made and served me breakfast, so now it’s time to vacuum the living area. You don’t have to think about it any more - with time and careful discipline, it’s become like breathing. You have the time and energy to do your very best, to let your perfectionistic side shine as you make the home spotless. All the while, mantras have been bubbling up from the back of your mind, filling your consciousness with my brainwashing - telling you what a good girl you are for being so diligent, how proud I am of you.

Maybe you make a mistake, then. Perhaps you slip, knock over a vase, and break it. Sudden guilt grips you, knowing that the routine has been violated, but then a deeper impulse stops you. I’ve seen what your perfectionism does to you, and I know that mistakes are inevitable, so I’ve added some programming to your subconscious. Instead of wallowing in depression, you make a log of your mistake on a piece of paper on my desk, and resume your chores. Because you don’t get to decide if you should feel guilty about it; you do not have the right to punish yourself. That right is mine exclusively. You carry on your chores, knowing that I shall pass judgement when I return home.

Every day, you become a little more brainwashed. But some part of you still wants to give up just a little more control. Part of you wants to be afraid. That’s when I begin subtly altering your memories to make you uncertain of yourself. You want to be walking on eggshells around me, your heart constantly fluttering in anticipation of the next round of discipline - you need it, you need to know that I care enough to make you better, make you a Good Girl. There’s nothing you want more than to be a Good Girl. You begin to forget things - you get confused about which day of the week it is, so you do the wrong set of chores, or forget that we were supposed to be going out for dinner tonight. The shame almost drives you to tears, but the discipline that follows feels so good. The pride in my voice when a little more of your resistance breaks and I remind you of the truth fills your heart with comfort and joy, because you can trust me to remember things for you. You’ve started to become generally a little more braindead now - forming complex thoughts is so difficult that you don’t even bother, you’d much rather say your mantras again than have an original thought. It’s so much easier, and it makes me proud whenever you do, so it’s what you want most.

Of course, you need more care now. So once or twice a week, I take a few hours to pamper you and show you how much it means to me to spend time with you. I strip you off and bathe you - slowly scrubbing every inch of your skin, washing your hair, seeing to your nails, helping you shave everything from the nose down. Tenderly caressing every part of you, to let you know that I see all of your little imperfections and I don’t care about them. There are certain standards, like hygiene, to which I attend so that you know I’m paying attention to the little details - but other little blemishes, stretch marks or pigment discolourations receive gentle kisses, so that you know I still adore you. I dry you thoroughly, blow dry your hair, brush it out carefully, and then curl you up naked (or in some slutty uniform) in my lap on the sofa while I put a film on. You’ve never felt so taken care of, so utterly accepted. You feel so safe, so content. There hasn’t been a single thought in your head since I started undressing you; you didn’t notice, you don’t care. Why would you care?

In bed, at night, I gently trance you to sleep. Every day, I shape your thoughts a little more, altering your memories in subtle ways so that you’ve always been a Good Girl. I curl you up tightly in my arms, rest your head on my chest, and tenderly stroke your hair as you drift off to sleep in your favourite place to be. You nestle close and breathe in my scent, content to let my programming overtake your mind. You’re home, and you will always be my Good Girl.