I want to take care of a girl...
…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.
