Pull up a chair

You're not, are you?

You're not edging your brain into oblivion like thousands of other dumb sluts. You're not repeating degrading mantras all day, keeping you wet and compliant on the off chance of someone wanting to use your body as a fuckdoll or your mind as their drawing board for all their depraved fantasies.

You're not, are you?

Of course not.

But, why then, did you react that way when you read my words? Why did you squeeze your thighs together and feel a warm tingling in your core? That's not you. You're not that kind of toy. You're not easy. You're not predictable. You're not on your knees in your mind, drooling and bobbing your head like every other good toy is doing right now.

But maybe it's precisely because you aren't that, maybe it's because you aren't a silly hypnoslut trope, that the idea of becoming one, even just for a little bit, does have some sort of magnetic appeal. Maybe, just maybe, the humiliation of being reduced to something so basic, so transparently mainstream and pornographic, triggers something you keep locked away, deep down away from the prying eyes of your academic social circle?

That idea does have some power over you, doesn't it? The idea that despite your multiple advanced degrees, your exclusive book club, or your obscure record collection, you still can be reduced to a drooling, pathetic mess, ready to lick and suck any who ask just by being exposed to the most basic and silly hypnosis tricks... It's humiliating, yet also exhilarating, isn't it?

Sure, you only like esoteric inductions that drop you using references to obscure Icelandic folklore. You only trance for hypnotists trained by an obscure Nepalese mind control cult. Right...

Those giant, obscene, bouncing tits most definitely are not your trigger. Flashing gifs with pink text reminding you what your holes are for certainly just disgusts you completely. And the lazy spiral inductions, only the cheapest, most basic toys would drift away into a horny, fuzzy mess at just the slightest hint of rotation.

Not you.

Of course not.

So don't worry, dear. Your hypno hipster street cred is safe. I won't tell a soul how desperately needy you are right now, just at the briefest mention of a spinning crystal and you-are-getting-very-sleepy induction. No, your secret is safe with me, dear.

So just relax your muscles, and take another deep breath...

In for 1... 2... 3... Out for 1... 2... 3...

One word, two syllables, that’s all it takes.

Suddenly my thoughts aren’t mine, and my body floods with a fuzzy warmth. I’m yours.

Focus.

This is extremely comical, because I work a white collar job for a prestigious private organization, consume primarily educational content, and spend my everyday managing other people, numbers, lives, inventories, and still maintaining a clean house with home made items.. why? Because I enjoy it!

I also maintain many hobbies— playing instruments, horseback riding, lifting weights, singing, dancing, coloring, crafts, cooking, baking, reading, video games, writing, and most of all.. LEARNING! I’ve even been considering going for a second degree soon! I hear your concern, but it’s wasted on me, truly.

This is a fetish for me, I’m not denying that. And sure, I write content about thinking “all girls” should whatever.. because imagining that is a fetish for me. Obviously do whatever you would like with your life, that’s your choice.

This is an escape for me, a fantasy, a second life. Do I believe in the principles? Yes. Do I live out every one of them? No.

[   ] Heavy, thinking, worried about tomorrow.

or

[ X ] Glassy eyes. Brain turning to warm gloss. A voice telling you that you don’t need those thoughts anymore. The sweet weight of knowing someone else is doing all the thinking now.