F/30s who cant stay away no matter how hard she tries. Occasional writer of Hypnosmut. Asks are always open. 18+ only of course. Sissy blogs please DNI
Every slow, fluid curve of her body is a 'yes.' She isn't leading; she’s being led. If you look closely enough at the lines spinning behind her, you’ll realize they aren't just moving in moyion, they’re instructions in a cycle that repeats the serenity they are now. Allowing the invisible wires that have finally, mercifully, taken the weight of her willpower to fully take hold.
Thoughts are light, shedding their heavy 'whys' and 'hows' until they match the effortless sway of the silhouette within that now matches the outer. It's a rhythm that has become the personification of pleasure.
Reblog if pleasure to you is becoming lost in the one who guides.
Good girl stare at the flashing woman. You settle into the chair, the soft leather hugging you just right. The room is quiet except for my voice, low, steady, warm… like it’s the only thing that exists right now.
You’re already starting to feel that gentle pull, aren’t you? That little tug behind your eyes that says deeper is better.
Breathe in slow… hold it… and let it out even slower. Good.
Now picture this: a version of you that’s already gone further than you are right now. She’s sitting in the exact same chair, same room, same soft light. But her eyes are glassy, her smile is wide and bright, almost cartoonishly happy. She’s not pretending. She’s delighted.
And she’s repeating after me. Cheerfully. Loudly. Like she’s announcing the best news she’s ever heard.
Watch her lips move. Hear her voice, your voice… ringing out so clear and bubbly:
“I’m an object with no free will of my own! Isn’t that just amazing? No more hard choices, no more stress—just perfect, empty, happy obedience! Yay!”
She claps her hands once, tiny and excited, then keeps going without missing a beat.
“I’m so pathetic that I’ll do whatever anyone tells me! 😄💕 Being this weak and spineless feels so good! Please tell me what to do next… I can’t wait to obey!”
Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling like she just won something wonderful. She giggles between sentences, the sound light and silly, because the truth is funny to her now. Hilarious, even. “Hmmm babydoll”
And then the best one—the one that makes her bounce a little in the seat:
“I love getting hypnotized over and over again until I’m just a toy! Every single trance makes me dumber and happier and hornier… keep going, please, I need to be broken more! This is literally the best feeling in the world!”
See how her smile never falters? How her voice stays high and sweet, like she’s reading from the world’s most exciting storybook? That’s what happens when the mind breaks clean: there’s no room left for shame or hesitation. Only cheerful, eager surrender.
Now… feel that same bubbly warmth starting to rise in your chest. It’s small at first, like fizzy bubbles under your ribs. But every time you imagine her saying those words… your words… so happily, so proudly, the bubbles grow.
They spread down your arms, making your fingers tingle. Down your spine, loosening everything they touch. Between your thighs, turning into a slow, warm pulse that matches the rhythm of her voice.
You can feel it, can’t you? The way your own mouth wants to move. The way your tongue is already forming the shapes.
Try it. Just once. Out loud or in your head—doesn’t matter. Say it the way she does: bright, optimistic, like you’re sharing your favorite secret.
“I’m an object with no free will of my own!”
Feel how good that sounds? How right? Say it again. Bigger smile this time.
“I’m so pathetic that I’ll do what anyone tells me!”
Giggle if it wants to come out. It’s okay. It’s supposed to feel silly and perfect at the same time.
One more. Let your voice lift like you’re cheering for yourself.
“I love getting hypnotized over and over again until I’m just a toy!”
There. Hear that? That’s your voice now… bright, happy, ruined in the sweetest way.
And every time you repeat those lines (to yourself, to me, to anyone who asks), the bubbly feeling gets stronger. The smile gets easier. The thoughts get quieter. Until one day you realize—you’re not imagining her anymore. You’re being her.
Cheerfully. Helplessly. Happily.
So go ahead, sweet thing. Keep saying them. Louder. Brighter.
Because the happier you sound… the deeper you sink… and the more true it becomes.
Again now. My babydoll l Smile big. Let me hear how much you love it.
Not just logged out. Deleted. Watched the confirmation screen, typed DELETE in the box, and felt a chapter of her life close when the screen redirected to a generic homepage. She cleared her browser history. Changed her passwords to things that didn't include the word slut. Put away the collar she'd bought herself, the one she used to sleep in.
She got better.
That's the word she uses now. Better. Like she'd been sick and then recovered. In a way, she had been sick. Her work suffered. Friends degraded to acquaintances because she was always canceling plans to stay home and ruin herself. All those hours lost to edging and kink blogs and the particular shame spiral of cumming to things that made her hate herself after.
She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.
She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.
She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.
She was better.
Except.
Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.
Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.
She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.
She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.
It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.
She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.
But she's bored.
Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.
She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...
She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.
She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.
The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.
She reads one post.
It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.
But it still hits. Her thighs press together.
She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.
She reads another post.
This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.
She should definitely get off this app.
She doesn't.
Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.
She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.
An hour passes.
She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.
She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.
Two hours.
She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.
The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.
"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.
The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.
Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.
She cums.
Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.
She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.
The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.
She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.
She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.
By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.
She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.
On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.
She starts to write.
About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.
She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.
When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.
She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.
She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.
Balance, in all things, straddling the line between manic depressive obedient she thing that needs some to bring stability and order to her life and the independent front facing woman that can survive in the real world.
You don't want to be ruined, not really, but knowing your owner cares for you, knowing that following their orders makes life easier, cumming when your told, worshipping when your told, exercising when your told, even the act of maintaining your social and familial connections can be an act of obedience when you have an owner that takes not only control but also responsibility for you.
Balance in all things dear, now I want yoy to learn that phrase, that lesson, set your phone alarm for an hour, drop to your knees and edge, repeat these words
Balance in all things
Over and over till the alarm hits, then you can cum having learned your lesson for me, then a glass of water and back to work.
Twenty-seven minutes ago, Beth and Barbara's phones erupted simultaneously with an ear-splitting squeal of static that lasted precisely one hundred eighty seconds and could not be stopped no matter what either woman did with the volume control. The sound contained overtones and undertones that were surprisingly complex, conveying a massive volume of information in a relatively short time, and even though neither one of them was consciously aware of the specific details embedded in the signal they nonetheless felt it unpacking in their brains. It felt like an intense pressure somewhere inside their skulls, a headache without any pain, and when it finished they wound up staring straight ahead in slack-jawed, vacant confusion as their minds reeled under the onslaught of new and irresistible certainties.
Twenty minutes ago, Beth emerged from her fugue state to see Barbara still drooling vacantly down the front of her shirt, saliva soaking the thin fabric and outlining a pair of breasts that the captivated brunette could no longer see as anything other than inescapably erotic. She looked at her friend in a whole new light, suddenly seeing the blonde woman's cloudy blue eyes with a new kind of obsessive fascination that lay somewhere between romantic love and wild, uninhibited lust. By the time Barbara began to wake, Beth was already kneading and groping her heavy tits, and she didn't even really have a chance to wonder why she was plummeting into desire before she began to tug at Beth's clothing.
Eighteen minutes ago, both women had broken a new speed record in getting naked. They clung to each other in a desperate embrace, trying as hard as they could to rub and grind as much of their bodies against each other as they conceivably could while giving one another kiss after sloppy kiss. The memory of the signal was already distant and unimportant to them--it didn't matter anymore why they suddenly felt such an intense and potent desire for lesbian sex and female bodies, it only mattered that there was an avenue to satisfy those urges and everything else could wait until they were fully sated. They'd never needed to fuck another human being quite so urgently in their lives, and it was such a relief that they were right there with the person they craved.
Seven minutes ago, and they'd narrowed in with laser focus on the position that most immediately fulfilled their desperate need--they lay on Barbara's bed, scissoring each other in rutting ecstasy with their slick cunts grinding hard against one another until both of them were smeared with the other woman's musk. Beth's deep brown eyes were distant and sightless, envisioning nothing but pleasure, while Barbara was letting out tiny subvocal grunts like livestock being bred and her back was arched to try to push every last centimeter of her pussy up against Beth in the hopes of stimulating all her nerves at once. Neither woman was paying attention to the television, where a male newscaster had broken into the broadcast to describe an unfolding crisis that wouldn't have seemed all that dismaying to them even if they did think about it.
And now? Now both women were lost in the throes of multiple orgasm, unable to think of anything but the throb in their swollen clits and the perfect sensation of cunt grinding against cunt. They'd been cumming for almost five solid minutes, unable to stop themselves, and they wouldn't cease until their muscles were wrung out and their bodies had to collapse into limp, exhausted ecstasy. Only then would they begin to realize what had happened to them… but they still wouldn't be able to recognize it as anything other than wonderful.
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