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I used to think I was smart enough not to fall for the corporate line. Come on, most of the time it’s so blatantly, transparently see-through that it’s embarrassing to get suckered in: can’t you spot bad marketing when it’s right in front of you? Do you have any critical thinking ability?
Okay, I guess I should be asking myself that — or maybe the tech, but he probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer about my brain’s own faculties.
Even if he did, corporate would probably just edit it out right after.
Hell, I’m pretty sure they’re editing it anyway, which should definitely alarm me more than it does, but I’m not sure if it’s their changes talking or the fact that cumming your brain out as your mind is wiped away feels really really good that has me so nonchalant about the entire thing.
Or the paycheck; no point in pretending that’s not a factor. Extra brain wipes means extra money. I’m not above admitting that it’s an incentive; I can write reports or I can get my brain wiped, but one is shitty and the other is … rife with complications, but either way, only one increases my bottom line.
Which yeah, is probably coercion and I should probably be concerned about it, but again, we return to unemployment? In this economy?
“Gonna be a little cozier hold today,” the tech says, tightening the head restraint. “We’ll be testing some deeper penetration.”
“They’ve really gotta work on the language for that. It sounds like you’re about to stick a probe in to see what you can see.”
I also don’t put this past them, but let’s be real: once my brain’s been all wrung out, am I even gonna know if they do probe it?
“Different setup,” the tech says. “Your brain would have to meet certain requirements for certain experimental parameters.”
“No one size fits all?” I joke.
“It … tends to be more bespoke solutions,” he hedges.
“Test on the employees to make sure the customers are satisfied.”
“You can withdraw your consent at any time. You are compensated for your participation — which has been rather eager.”
I quite literally can’t deny that one: I’m sure he’s seen enough brain scans to see what enthusiastic consent looks like and I’m certain mine’s no different.
“You’ve said it yourself: modifications are made to ensure optimal performance.”
“Your brain’s responsiveness to the tech has been tested and documented,” he counters, positioning the device.” Sure, there have been some adjustments, but not towards sentiment. They haven’t been needed.”
“You probably tell everyone that.”
“One of your colleagues was persistently modified over a four month period to get him to quit.”
With my head held so firmly, the best I can manage is a very askew glance in his direction. “Seriously?”
“He wasn’t meeting performance markers for his management role. It was decided that an adjustment was a more economical option than severance pay.”
Oh my god. You know, what? That tracks. Have a few orgasms, let the company re-write your brain into quitting, ride off into the sunset and, probably, into another gig. Sure. Probably even pays better. You know management types: always failing upwards.
I swear, sometimes, working here is like being in the world’s weirdest workplace farce.
“So, is that what this is about? Deeper penetration to get me to quit?”
“If you had that inclination, it would probably be edited out.”
“Didn’t you just tell me my participation is voluntary?”
“It is.”
“Aren’t you going to add in a ‘for now’? Seems like that’s sort of the implication.”
“Review of your brain’s data shows a marked improvement in overall workplace satisfaction.”
Fucking corporate.
“Alright, so, why the deeper penetration then?”
“We’ll be connecting with your motor cortex for some assessments.”
“Isn’t that gonna be difficult with … you know?” I ask, wiggling my fingers for want of being able to actually move my hands.
“The upper body restraints will be removed once the wipe is complete.”
“And then…?” I watch him press a button on screen and my brain begins to tingle. I don’t have long now, but it’s so nice to relax into the feeling that I find I can’t worry too much. Why fight what’s good for you?
“We’ll assess the efficacy of reprogramming in your motor cortex.”
The tingling intensifies — it’s already getting harder to think. Some distant part of me wonders if it’s a byproduct of repeated exposure, but it’s a thought that’s so hard to hold onto for the effort. It would be easier to just enjoy the feeling of the scan. “When was it reprogrammed?” I manage.
“You’ve been subjected to a rather rigorous course of reprogramming over the last several weeks.”
My whole head is tingling. I can barely process his words, but it doesn’t matter — not when I feel this good. “It’s good that my brain has been reprogrammed.”
“That’s right,” he nods. “You love having your brain reprogrammed.”
“I love having my brain reprogrammed.”
I don’t know if I love having my brain reprogrammed, but I love this. I love this feeling, this buzzy tingling, the way it slows my thoughts, the way it makes everything so easy, so clear. It’s so good to be reprogrammed.
“You want your brain to be stimulated.”
It’s so easy to obey, so easy to comply. “I want my brain to be stimulated.”
“Good subject.”
Blinding all encompassing pleasure, my head gripped tight while the rest of my body writhes. Tighter. Deeper. More.
More.
More…
He sits back and watches as one orgasm after another wracks the subject’s bound body. The tighter head restraint is a necessity for the experiment, but it’s clear its unintended effects aren’t unwelcome either. He’ll have to note that.
She babbles away, a string of nonsense syllables while her glassy eyes roll back into her head. For a subject who been so hesitant not so long ago, she’s made fantastic progress. The babbling devolves into a long, slow, slurred moan, and then silence. The machine beeps: brain wipe complete.
Now, for the real work.
He crosses over to the chair and begins undoing her ankle and wrist restraints. Even if she were a flight risk, it’s not as if she has a mind to go anywhere at the moment; he does take a moment, however, to tighten the restraint around her head. Nothing wrong with giving the subject what she wants when it facilitates the experimental procedure.
He returns to the control console and programs in a short sequence before pushing it into her brain.
She moans, but after a moment, regains something resembling consciousness. “Standing by.”
Voice flat.
No emotion.
No desire.
Empty.
“Very good, subject. Please, attempt to raise your right hand.”
She stares ahead, intensely focused. “Error. Unable to comply.”
“Excellent. Now attempt the same with your left hand.”
Again, the focus. Despite all appearances, the scan shows no activity in her frontal lobe: a positive result.
“Error. Unable to comply.”
“That’s right. Let me help.”
More programming pushed into her brain as her eyes roll back.
First the right hand lifts.
Then the left.
Her right arm rises up and extends out, the movement jerky. The left follows suit. What the movement lacks in fluidity, it makes up for in precision.
“What are you thinking, subject?”
It’s a joke, of course. Her frontal lobe is empty, any last tatters of thought thoroughly purged. Her pleasure center, however is a different matter.
“Error. This subject has not been programmed to ‘think.’ Please refer to experimental documentation for subject limits.”
More programming. Another eye roll. Mechanically, her hands make their way towards her crotch and begin to rub.
No job is perfect — that’s what I remind myself as the tech straps me in. No job is perfect and this one pays the bills and a promotion is a promotion.
Besides, the tech is safe. I’ve seen the demonstrations, read the briefings, even talked to people who’ve been through it. Everyone came through whole and unharmed and infuriatingly vague on what the company-mandated mind wipe is actually like.
“It was fine.”
“A big nothing.”
“Don’t worry about it!”
Admittedly, I’m not sure what I expected. It’s a mind wipe — even if it was the most agonizing thing they’d ever endured, how would they remember it? Well, I guess the better question now is how will I?
The straps are, of course, for my safety. The wipe process can sometimes interact with the motor cortex, producing disruptive motions. As long as I’m strapped in, I can’t … I don’t know. Fry my brain? As if that’s not what’s about to happen anyway. Anyway, they’re padded and reasonably comfortable; as far as restraints go, these are pretty nice.
“Head back,” instructs the tech.
Again, I can’t say it’s uncomfortable -they didn’t cheap on the padding; I’m pretty sure it’s memory foam and I’m equally sure the irony is lost on them- but it’s a little unsettling feeling the pads clamp down. I can joke about it all I want, but it’s not just “haha, corporate wants to literally wipe my mind” anymore; it’s “wow, I’m going to let my job alter my brain so I can get a pay bump.”
Okay, in my defense: it was get a pay bump or get fired. And getting fired? In this economy? I think not.
I think. Ha. Not going to be doing a lot of that soon.
“So,” I venture, watching the tech position the device. “I know I won’t remember, but humor me: how much is this gonna hurt?”
He pauses, surprised. “It’s intense, but it shouldn’t hurt. I’ve never seen brain activity consistent with a pain stimulus. Some do report a mild headache post-prodedure, however. Nothing lasting and you’re welcome to take the rest of the day off if you’re in that group.”
“Does it count against sick time?”
“No, you’re covered. Try not to worry, though. You’d be shocked how many people opt for a second round.”
“A second?”
“If you knew how many people have a standing appointment for this procedure, you’d be stunned.”
“I’m already stunned.”
“Your heart rate’s a little elevated,” he says, eyeing the screen behind me. “You’ll feel better once we get started.”
“Sooner we start, sooner it’s over with, right?”
“Sooner we start, sooner you’ll feel better.”
Well, yeah, sooner I won’t — oh. Oh, it’s tingly. Why is it tingly?
“We’re starting the scan. This’ll preserve your brain’s data for monitoring and reinstallation.”
Right, monitoring: the whole “let’s make sure you’re not some spy planning to sell our data” nonsense. Seriously, who’s stupid enough to corporate espionage the company with brain modification tech? Surely, they have to work out the kinks on some poor sucker, and that’s not gonna be me.
“Heart rate’s looking a little better. See, not so bad, right?”
My whole brain is tingling and, alright, fine, it feels good. It feels better than good. “This isn’t the part I’m worried about,” I answer. “This is … okay, this feels pretty good. But it’s just the scan, right?”
"Just the scan. Try to relax. I’ll let you know before we start the wipe.”
I can’t really relax, but I try to let some of the tension out. The device hums along, tickling my grey matter, mapping every neuron, every synapse, every wrinkle.
“You’re feeling much better,” the tech says.
“I’m feeling much better,” I hear myself say. Which, of course, I do. But why would he say that? And why did I say that? I mean, I guess he can see my brain’s activity and there’s no point in trying to deny what—
“You’re feeling a little excited to have your mind wiped.”
Am I? I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty good — much better than I expected to feel — and I guess I’m feeling less nervous and oh, that scan’s hit just the right spot. “I’m excited to have my mind wiped.”
Yeah, sure, okay. Maybe I am excited. Maybe I want to see what the hype is about.
“Tell me what you want,” the tech orders.
“I want you to start the procedure.”
“And what will the procedure do?”
“It’ll wipe my mind.”
“And is that what you want?”
Yes, yes, that’s what I want. It’s more than what I want: it’s what I need. I need to have my mind wiped. Why was I so hesitant? The company only wants what’s good for me.
I’m cumming before I can even try to stop myself, thrashing hard against the restraints.
“That’s right. Initiating wipe now.”
The tingling ramps up into a buzzing, boring into my brain, disconnecting and discombobulating every …
Every …
Ev …
The tech leans back and watches as another orgasm wracks the woman’s body before pressing a button to tighten the restraints. Her thinking mind is well on its way to oblivion, but her pleasure center still lights up at the sensation.
She’d been remarkably receptive to the “scanner’s” alterations to her thought patterns — confirming the suggestion posed by her brain scan from the last quarter. Good candidate brains were so difficult to find.
"How are you feeling?” He asks.
Her answer is utter gibberish, her mind largely unable to form a coherent thought.
“That’s right,” he says. “Now let’s get rid of the last of that pesky brain of yours.”
She cums again as the last of her frontal lobe is wiped.
Want to check in with your adorably discombobled, thoroughly fractionated, mindfucked mess of a hypnokinky partner and worried they're just too far gone to give coherent or reliable feedback?
"Hey sweetie. I know, words are hard, but that's OK. You don't need to understand them. That clever brain of yours can follow along even when you can't think at all. Can't it? Just nod and smile, pretty thing. Exactly.
In just a little minute - when I say - , that clever brain of yours is going to play pretend for me. It's going to pretend to be a whole real $name, all awake and comfy and as thinky as it likes.
And when we're done playing pretend, you'll just slip right back into all mindless and gone. Just like that. Would you like that?"
Another good option is something in the vein of:
"And while we're talking, I want you to do your very best to make sure to listen to you-from-yesterday/you-from-tomorrow."
Like, it ain't magic and it doesn't replace other consent and communication tools, but with a bit of practice and some helpful framing you, too, can get trustworthy feedback in the middle of a thorough mindfuck.
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big warning if you do get into hypnosis: develop the skills necessary to know your boundaries extremely well and firmly impose them and you need need need need need to be able to pull yourself up out of trance. there is no harm in hitting the block button if people try and harm you, even if it is smack dab in the middle of a session, but you do need to be able to know how to protect yourself
it's so wonderful when a good mantra takes over my brain completely. nothing but a hollow echo repeating eternally. a gentle and vacant spiral of words falling from softly parted lips.
Me: Basically all forms of hegemony and authoritarian control are immoral, let's rip down established power structures and challenge all doctrines that dictate to us, freedom and self-determination are the natural states of the human experience
Also me: If somebody doesn't tell me exactly what to do and then praise me for it I'm about to start crying
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Was on a break from sessions and, in between reading up on NLP, I've been listening to a bunch of other files -- both for studying and for getting that brainwashed feeling in.
(The feeling of getting your brain fried by electricity in trance is a relatively hard one to come by in files.)
I went to film some content tonight and dropped so quickly. Came just from humping and then had a bonus HFO from my mantra.
Irresistible. Irrevocable. Their words were seeping into your mind. You couldn’t begin to think of how to resist. Not that you would want to. “Just keep sinking, pet. You don’t need to worry about anything right now. You just need to give in to me. You just need to obey.”
Your eyes rolled slightly as their hands slid down your chest. Their touch felt incredible. You let out a soft moan as a nail dug in slightly. The pain juxtaposing the soft, sleepy feelings flooding your mind. “Such a good pet. You want more of this, don’t you? Say yes.”
“Y-yes.” The words left your lips without a conscious thought, and you heard them chuckle.
“That’s it. Such a good, obedient little pet for me.” They lifted one of their hands, and placed a finger on your forehead. “I’m going to press down, in a moment.” They said.
The finger brushed gently against you. “When I do, I want you to feel my finger entering your mind. Digging deeper, and deeper with every second. Burrowing to the core of your brain.” With that, they pressed. You gasped, shuddering at the sensation.
It wasn’t painful. But it was intense. Like they were pushing in between the hemispheres of your brain. Your eyes rolled again. Your mind felt like it was being switched off. You felt their finger in your brain, making changes. They laughed, and paused the pressure.
“Okay, now I’m inside… Let me just…” They pressed again. “Remove that free-will.” A part of you shut down. Your thoughts of your needs disappeared. “And now let’s enlarge that obedience.” They relieved the pressure. And you felt another part of you flourish.
Your obedience filled the empty space where your free-will had been. They pulled their finger away from your forehead. You could feel yourself drooling. They laughed. “You look so pathetic like this. Just a plaything for me to use. But it’s okay. I like you like this.”
* * *
This was released yesterday on patreon (patreon.com/hypnopum) and subscribestar (https://www.subscribestar.adult/hypnopum)! Support me there to get early access to all future microfictions, from just £1/month! Or, from £5/month, you get access to my longer pieces!
You can also buy my book, Mesmorium, now, on Amazon, and Smashwords. It's an anthology of twelve tales of deliciously hot hypnosis and mind control. It's queer, and sexy as hell!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hey Uh 🥺 so yknow that Dominant’s consent matters too right? Like if I as a sub do somethin that makes you uncomfy we should communicate about that 👉👈 Dominant boundaries are just as important as Submissive boundaries we should all hype up the Dominants that make sure they communicate their needs cause they deserve all the love 💕
