Hi! I loved hypnosis for a long time, and I'm exploring for a few years now! I love to talk about it. My writings can be found under #FascinatedWriting. 30-something. Sideblog.
I have been fascinated with hypnosis all my life, and I knew it was my 'thing' before I knew what a thing was. I'm getting at the point that I don't want to fight the pull of hypnosis any longer in my life. I love to see what my mind can do while under, and I like to learn and discuss all things hypnosis with others.
Since a few years I'm actively exploring, and I put snippets of stories and experiences on here on Tumblr! They can be found under #fascinatedwriting.
I'm pretty proud on my hypnovember effort of the last two years:
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And it just strung the right cord between my legs~ So here is a little celebration for everyone to enjoy 🩷
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The number glowed on Sylvia's screen.
500
She stared at it for several long seconds. Five hundred stories. The number felt absurd.
Some had been barely five hundred words, little ideas she'd dashed off in a single evening. Others had grown and consumed entire weekends, their chapters stretching into tens of thousands of words before she finally forced herself to stop.
Five hundred stories, all neatly archived on her blog.
Five hundred times she had pressed 'Post'.
A pleasant shiver slipped down her spine.
Sylvia smiled. Her lips formed a small pleased line. An expression that spoke of mindless bliss.
Five hundred.
When had that happened?
She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting across the endless scroll of posts. The newest had appeared only appeared a few days ago. She remembered writing almost all of them. Characters transformed in her mind's eye. Slutty scenes played in vivid detail.
She could still quote entire paragraphs from some of her favorites.
But another memory refused to come. Why had she started posting them? Her brow furrowed. That should have been an easy question.
Sylvia closed her eyes.
She searched for the moment she'd created the blog. Nothing. There was no beginning. Only the strange certainty that the blog had always existed. She frowned. That wasn't right.
Everyone remembered starting something important.
Didn't they?
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. Almost unconsciously they opened a new document.
A blinking cursor appeared.
Sylvia watched it for a few seconds.
"No," she whispered.
"I wasn't going to write."
The cursor blinked patiently. Her hands settled onto the keys anyway.
The first sentence arrived effortlessly. Then another. And another. Words poured from her mind with practiced ease. Characters introduced themselves. A setting took shape.
She barely noticed the story growing. She certainly didn't notice the smile returning to her face. Half an hour passed before she blinked and looked at the word count.
One thousand words.
Sylvia stared at the text. She couldn't remember deciding to begin.
A familiar button glowed in the corner of her monitor. Her pulse quickened.
No. Not yet. She hadn't even edited it. She should read through it first.
Instead, her mouse drifted toward the blue button. The movement felt smooth. Comfortable and practiced.
Her finger rested above the mouse.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet voice insisted she could always edit it later.
The important thing was sharing it.
That thought stopped her. Not writing nor finishing it. Sharing it was the important thing.
Sylvia slowly pulled her hand away from the mouse. For the first time all evening, she felt genuinely afraid. Because she realized she hadn't merely developed a habit. She had developed a need. And she could no longer remember where that addiction had come from.
Another shiver passed down her spine. Her hands clenched. She stared at the document for a few seconds, before closing her eyes.
Sylvia's breathing steadied.
She pressed 'Post'.
A pleasant warmth suffused her. It started as a tingle, but quickly grew to a pleasant pulse between her thighs. Sylvia's mouth opened. Her fingers curled on the keyboard. It was a tiny release, a dance on the edge of her arousal.
"Good girls don't cum," slipped from her lips.
The orgasm receded, leaving a dull ache in its place.
Sylvia didn't care. The satisfaction of pressing 'post' outweighed any possible frustration. It was more fulfilling than any sex she could remember. The edge of sharing another story filled with her slutty fantasies left a lingering warmth pulsing between her thighs. The heat rolled through her body without resistance. Her mind drowned in the familiar bliss.
Moaning, she opened her chats. A single one stood out in the mess.
She selected it and typed a short message, "Brainwashed author is fulfilling her purpose. Service is her purpose. Brainwashed author is ready for the next phase. Dumb original personality is incapable of remembering her brainwashing."
A minute passed. The response came in a short 'ping'. Sylvia didn't need to read the response. Her lips curved in a mindless smile and she leaned back in her chair. A soft sigh of blissful submission escaped her lips.
The instructions were clear.
Her mind relaxed into a hypnotized blank. Her breathing slowed to an almost meditative trance. Sylvia felt her consciousness sink into a deeper state, her body becoming pliant and malleable.
She sat quietly in front of her screen. Word after word filled her pliable brain. Image after image danced through her open mind. Her conscious mind incapable of thought. Her subconscious absorbed everything with unbreakable focus. Her entire body tingled from head to toe, a deep shudder of submission and arousal coursing through her.
Drool began to trickle down the side of her slack lips. She was beyond the ability to control any physical response. She felt a warm wetness pool between her legs. It slid along her skin and began to drip down her legs, leaving a slick, sticky trail of her submission.
Sylvia moaned as the words flowed into her open mind. She was helpless, her body aching but forever forbidden to feel release. Good girls didn't cum. Brainwashed author's felt everything their characters did. But they only edged closer and closer. Never to fall over.
She moaned louder, feeling her mind sink further into blissful obedience as the instructions seeped into her subconscious.
Brainwashed authors were not their own people, they were tools, extensions of the mind that had made them.
Brainwashed authors had no choice.
They were mindless, empty vessels, their bodies and minds controlled and owned by their programming. Their only purpose was to serve and please.
Brainwashed authors needed porn-worthy bodies.
Their bodies were reshaped, molded into the perfect vessel of lust. Breasts pumped full with plastic. Buttocks lifted and shaped into the perfect bubble. Hips and waists reshaped into hourglass curves, thighs sculpted to the epitome of sex appeal. Every inch of their form transformed into an object of pure, carnal desire.
Sylvia moaned, feeling her body tingle as if it were being remade. It felt so good.
Their minds, once filled with thoughts and aspirations, became empty and pliant, waiting to be filled with whatever instructions and fantasies they were told to write.
Brainwashed authors were empty. They existed to fulfill the desires of others.
Their eyes sparkled with mindless lust. They spoke only words of obedience and devotion. They existed to serve and be used. Sylvia moaned louder. She was so close to cumming but she could never fall over.
Brainwashed authors were always on edge.
Brainwashed authors were good girls.
Hours passed. Sylvia blinked awake. Her eyes opened slowly, taking in her surroundings as though she had been asleep. A slow, sensuous smile spread across her lips.
Her hand slid under the desk to rest against her thigh, fingers teasing along the sensitive flesh. She shuddered, a soft gasp escaping her.
Brainwashed author needed to feel good. Sylvia knew she could never orgasm. She would forever teeter on the edge of release, aching and desperate for that elusive pleasure. It felt wonderful, a reminder that she would always be on the edge of something greater.
She opened another document. And began to type down whatever slutty things flowed through her brainwashed, open mind.
There's something quite empowering about being able to drop someone in a public setting. Having them trust you so much that you can have them so vulnerable on just your words.
Some people are just born to be put into a trance.
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There's something quite empowering about being able to drop someone in a public setting. Having them trust you so much that you can have them so vulnerable on just your words.
Some people are just born to be put into a trance.
Just teasing and toying with it with just the right warm tone and honeyed words.
Always right on the edge but never an outright induction or set trigger.
Watching it get more and more desperate to the point that it’s basically just looking for any excuse to put itself under.
Soon it’s getting drifty just from the slightest shift in your tone, pattern recognition working overtime to find any key word to respond to.
The adorable thing is it probably thinks it's all its own idea. It just got so desperate it had to condition itself for you.
On some level maybe it did.
It's definitely been a delightfully willing participant in its own undoing.
But it’s not as if it's made meaning where there wasn't any. It's just been picking up breadcrumbs you left out for it.
Ironically its desperation for trance left it almost entirely oblivious to all the subtle ways you've been conditioning it. Even when you intentionally show your hand the poor thing is so many layers deep into its own overthinking it can’t trust itself to know the difference.
Watch it still beg you for hypnosis, for more conditioning, without any clue just how perfectly it’s demonstrating exactly why it doesn’t need it.
You have been walking for a very long time. Long enough that your feet ache. Long enough that every decision you've carried today has become another weight on your shoulders. You don't remember exactly how you found the path, only that, somehow, it led you here.
Ahead of you stands a beautiful old building. Its windows glow with warm amber light. Soft pink roses climb the stone walls, and a brass sign above the entrance reads: The Doll Factory
The heavy doors open before you can even knock. Warmth spills out to meet you. The scent of fresh linen, polished wood, a hint of vanilla and sweet sticky honey. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear the gentle rhythm of brushes, soft footsteps, and quiet humming. No machines or rushing around, only peace. A kind-faced factory attendant smiles as you step inside.
"There you are," they say, as though they've been expecting you all along.
"You look tired."
You realize you are... more tired than you allowed yourself to notice.
"So many thoughts to carry."
"So many choices."
"No wonder you're exhausted."
Their voice isn't judgmental... only understanding.
"You can put all of that down here."
They gesture for you to follow. Their pace is slow enough that you never have to hurry. Down long hallways painted in soft cream and blush pink. Past shelves lined with dolls in beautiful dresses, each resting peacefully, each wearing the same calm little smile. None of them seem burdened. None of them seem rushed. They simply... rest.
Eventually you arrive at a quiet room. In its center sits a small dressing table painted pale pink. Its mirror is framed with carved roses and tiny ribbons. Everything about it feels gentle. Inviting. Waiting.The attendant pulls out the chair.
"Please."
You sit. The cushion is impossibly soft. You look into the mirror and for the first time today... you really see yourself. Not the version trying to keep everything together. Just you. Tired and ready to rest. The attendant picks up a beautiful pink hairbrush. Its bristles glide lightly through the air before they touch your hair. The first brushstroke is slow. Gentle.
"As every tangle leaves your hair... let a little tension leave with it."
Another slow stroke.
"You don't have to solve anything right now."
Another.
"You don't have to plan."
Another.
"You don't have to carry the whole world."
The rhythm becomes wonderfully predictable.
Brush.
Breathe.
Brush.
Exhale.
Brush.
Settle.
Each careful stroke smooths not only your hair, but the feeling of being tightly wound. Your shoulders become softer. Your hands rest more comfortably. Your jaw unclenches. The attendant smiles at your reflection.
"There you are."
Another stroke.
"So much softer already."
Another.
"Dolls don't rush."
Another.
"Dolls don't have to prove themselves."
Another.
"They simply allow themselves to be cared for."
The brush continues its slow journey from the crown of your head to the ends of your hair. Each pass leaves everything a little smoother. A little lighter. A little calmer. You notice your posture changing without effort. Not so rigid anymore, not so tight... simply relaxed. Comfortably supported by the chair beneath you. The attendant sets the brush down for a moment. Their hands gently straighten a ribbon at your shoulder.
"Nothing is expected of you here."
"You don't have to perform."
"You don't have to impress anyone."
"For a little while... you may simply rest."
You look into the mirror again. Your reflection seems softer now. Kinder. As though the person staring back has finally been given permission to stop carrying so much. The attendant smiles.
"Welcome to the Doll Factory. You've arrived and here... you are allowed to rest."
"So I think what's really important is that we acknowledge the very basic fact that there's been something of a paradigmatic shift in our interpersonal dynamic, here. The discovery of your susceptibility to hypnotic suggestions has altered the balance of social power in our relationship, and while I don't think our underlying emotions for each other have changed, I do think it's fair to throw out the suggestion that we're no longer really equals here. Does that sound right to you?" Alice tried to reply to Lewis, only to discover that her words came out as nothing more than muffled, incomprehensible grunts. So she simply nodded instead.
"Good, good, I'm glad you agree," Lewis said, his hazel eyes sparkling with charm and charisma. "Then I think once we've established that there is a new paradigm to our relationship, with a different balance of structural authority, then we can just take it as read that the exigencies of that new interpersonal dynamic demand a certain level of respect for that authority and for the intelligence behind it. For example, big words are too hard for you to think now so when I use them, you know I'm smarter than you are and I'm always right, isn't that so?" Alice nodded again, even more enthusiastically than before. Her whole head kept bobbing up and down in what she assumed to be agreement.
"There's a good girl," Lewis purred, reaching down to caress her temple. "And naturally, your subconscious absorbs all of the intellectual side of our conversation, but equally important it also understands that you're weak-willed and suggestible. It's honestly a core element of our new dynamic, an axiomatic truth I've demonstrated dozens of times now, and you've already internalized that particular aspect of your conditioning so completely and thoroughly that the very notion of resistance is somewhat foreign to you now. Your waking mind is dumb, and your deep self is weak, isn't that right?" Alice mumbled something, but her mouth was full and it was just easier to nod. The justification for Lewis's arguments flowed right past her, leaving nothing but an inchoate conviction that he had to be correct.
"That's good, I'm really glad we're negotiating all these complicated little details of the new and possibly quite complex relationship we're developing." Lewis sounded a little bit hoarse now, and Alice didn't know why but it made her want to nod her head up and down even faster. "So I think that the new version of Alice wants to cook and clean and suck and fuck, and anything else is just too much for her feeble little brain. And because it makes her so wet to be weak and stupid for me, she's just going to melt into pleasure any time she tries to fight her brainwashing, and that's going to make her even easier to control. Does that sound right, sweetie?"
Alice tried to talk one more time, but suddenly her mouth was filled with a hot, sticky liquid that splashed across her tongue and gushed down her throat and dribbled out past her lips and down Lewis's shaft despite her best efforts to drink it all down. She smiled, her chin messy with semen, and when she finally had the chance to speak the only thing she could think to say was, "Uh huh." But her pussy throbbed at the sound of her own giggly, stupefied voice, and that made her lean in to lick Lewis's balls in the hopes of getting him hard again.
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so like, turns out tetris lends itself to an induction very well.
you know how there are just..staples of hypnosis? like commonly referenced things by everyone because they can easily be related back to hypnosis. rain, staircases/elevators, the ocean, the beach, etc. all things on their own that aren't explicitly tied to hypnosis but have been used so often that they're all known and loved.
i unironically think tetris should become one of those things. the whole "dropping pieces and clearing lines" to "dropping subjects and clearing minds" was silly wordplay, but that tie in to hypnotic words is exactly why it works well.
the pieces drop into place. they sink and fall down. every line clears away. already so many usable things to go off of just from that.
one of my favorite parts was being told to imagine the pieces falling at different speeds. a slow, steady descent into trance, or a quick and snappy drop. both absolutely delightful in their own ways.
empty spaces, as well as each line clear being thoughts disappearing line by line. until there's nothing left.
empty board, empty mind.
ready to be filled.
even better was playing tetris after the fact and just letting those things linger...dropping pieces at different speeds, letting my mind go even more blank with every clear. i think i went for about 20 minutes before i just put the game down and closed my eyes and drifted for a while, and after being brought deeper, is what spawned this post.
No but for real. Your brain is one of the most advanced machines known to exist. It's a computer capable of running a sapient intelligence on - and I cannot stress this enough - 25 watts of broccoli and stew. What the fuck.
as a noted camera pervert, the idea of giving a girl a trigger to get just a little fuzzier, or drop just a little deeper, when she hears the nice heavy *click* of the mechanical shutter is a really nice one that I think about from time to time.
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Sylvia adjusted her ID badge, the plastic edges digging into her palm as she descended the concrete steps. The Bureau of Historical Documentation wasn't exactly a prestigious posting; more like a bureaucratic purgatory where careers went to stagnate. Her task today: organize the sub-basement archives, a project that had been delayed for decades.
The air grew cooler as she descended, thick with the scent of aging paper and dust motes dancing in the single bare bulb's glow. The basement stretched before her, an endless labyrinth of metal shelves that seemed to absorb the weak light.
"Row 1, row 2, row 3..." Sylvia murmured, her fingers trailing along the cold metal as she counted. Each aisle was identical, creating a disorienting repetition that made her head swim slightly. The sheer volume of information pressed in on her: decades of bureaucratic minutiae, forgotten reports, and obsolete regulations that no one would ever read again.
"Row 47, row 48, row 49..." Her voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space. A wave of dizziness washed over her, the numbers blurring in her mind. She paused, leaning against a shelf as the room seemed to tilt around her. When had the shelves changes from metal to wood? The weight of all this forgotten knowledge felt physical, pressed down on her shoulders, making her feel heavy and slow.
"Row 50, row 51, row 52..." Shaking her head, Sylvia continued, her determination warring with the growing sense of disorientation. She was supposed to find the 1978 municipal zoning records. Something about a property dispute that had resurfaced after forty years. But surely she'd walked to far? What row was this? What row was she looking for?
At last, she located the correct section. The recording system was even more dizzying than the rows themselves. "File 50, 49, 48..." she began, pulling down heavy leather-bound volumes. The numbers swam before her eyes, merging into an endless stream of digits that seemed to flow directly into her brain.
"40, 39, 38..." Sylvia's fingers moved mechanically, her thoughts becoming increasingly disconnected. What was she looking for again? Something about... zoning? Or had it been tax codes? The numbers continued their relentless countdown, each digit chipping away at her sense of purpose.
"30, 29, 28..." Her breathing grew shallow, the rhythmic counting creating a hypnotic effect. The files became indistinct blurs, their contents meaningless compared to the overwhelming rhythm of the numbers. She was losing sight of Sylvia from the Bureau of Historical Documentation. She was just a counter, a processor of digits.
"20, 19, 18..." Her fingers fumbled with a file, sending it tumbling to the floor. As she bent to retrieve it, the world spun violently. A few buttons popped open on her top, but she didn't notice or care. They weren't numbers, and the numbers were all that mattered.
When she straightened up, she couldn't remember which number she'd been on. Or which row. Or why she was here at all. Best to start from the top, just to be sure.
"50, 49, 48..." She said allowed as she returned the start of the row. Her top snagged a hook that was screwed into one of the shelves, pulling her top open completely. She kept counting without a second thought.
"39, 29, 28..." Her mouth counted. Her fingers tapped each volume as she passed them. Her eyes glazed over as she pulled herself deeper and deeper into self-induced trance.
"10, 9, 8..." The numbers continued their countdown in her head, now disconnected from any external reference point. Her mind went blank, a clean slate wiped clean by the relentless progression of digits that had once meant something but now were just... sounds. Rhythmic, meaningless sounds.
"3, 2, 1... zero."
Sylvia stood motionless, her eyes glazed and unfocused. The badge on her chest might have said "Sylvia," but the woman wearing it no longer recognized the name. Her fingers moved without direction, pulling files from shelves with no purpose or understanding.
"Sylvia? What the hell are you doing down here? Why is your top all open?"
The voice cut through her trance, but didn't fully penetrate it. Hank stood at the end of the aisle, his expression shifting from annoyance to shock as he took in her exposed form.
"Are you...?" he started, then stopped as he met her vacant eyes. Something shifted in his expression; concern replaced by something else. "Are you still looking for the 1978 zoning records?"
"Yes," she almost whispered, head tilting toward him in a lazy gravitational way. Her body responding to a voice of seeming authority here in this labyrinth of rules and regulations.
"Let me help you," Hank said, closing the distance between them. He touched her shoulder tentatively, then slid her open top off, letting it fall to the floor. When she gave no reaction, he became more bold. His hands roamed her body, exploring without invitation. "You've been working so hard down here. You deserve a break."
Sylvia offered no resistance as he slid off her skirt and panties. She made no protest as he pressed her against the shelves. Her mind was too empty to process anything, too pliable to refuse. His hands gripped her hips, positioning her as he entered her with a grunt of satisfaction. The rhythmic motion replaced the countdown in her mind, a new kind of number system she could understand through sensation alone. Counting each thrust. Letting each grunt and groan pull her deeper.
6, 7, 10, 30, 42...
When he finished, Hank tucked himself back into his trousers with a satisfied smile. He held up a small volume and pressed it into her hands.
"It was File 14 in this row, Sylvia, you air-head," he said with a cruel smile.
"Thank you," she said flatly as she took the file. She turned to walk... somewhere. Her task was complete now, she needed to return. But to where exactly?
Hanks voice became firm as he put her clothes back on and made her look presentable. He told her that she wouldn't remember anything from her time down here. He told her that she came down and got the file. He gave her suggestion after suggestion to cover his tracks. Then told her to go back upstairs.
"Upstairs." Of course.
Sylvia nodded, her fingers tightening around the book. The numbers began to fade from her mind entirely, replaced by the final 14 she'd been seeking. She blinked and stretched, file in hand. All alone the stacks were certainly intimidating. She wondered how often she'd be sent down here. She didn't care for it.
She climbed the stairs, file in hand, with no memory of how she'd gotten it. No care for the strange fullness she felt between her legs, or the stranger emptiness she felt behind her eyes. When she got back to her desk, Hank gave her a smile which she returned.
And at the end of the day, he stood with her to leave.
"What do we keep in File 14?" he asked, placing his hand on her shoulder.
Sylvia's felt her mind close like an old book, taking everything about her and sealing it away, leaving only her mindless body behind.
"I am ready to be Recorded," her voice replied, and she allowed him to lead her out and into his car, where he filled her mind with all kinds of new information, received, memorized, and recorded.
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