Hello new followers! There are a lot of you. It's time I wrote a pinned.
I like horny asks. Send me horny asks or horny replies.
I'll block you if you DM me creepy things without asking or if I see shit I really don't like on your blog. Might block u if you just bother me.
How to interact with me:
Reblog or reply to my posts
Send me asks about literally anything
Don't just DM me 'hello' or 'how are u' I do not want to have that conversation.
Do not DM me if your blog has no bio or no age listed
You can DM me to ask about horny things and if I like your vibe I might respond
Asks are way more likely to get a response than a DM
I will block blogs with the following themes & content if I see them:
Explicit or unironic anti-feminist or pro-patriarchy; I have a high tolerance for fantasy, but a hard limit is when it sounds like you're making a political argument rather than a personal kink.
Explicit or unironic female supremacy, etc.
Repeated & unqualified non-consent. I am pro-cnc but you have to know the difference.
Ethnic slurs, homophobic slurs, transphobic slurs, messages attacking marginalized groups
Race fetishization
Pro-police posts or police fetish. ACAB fuckers.
Any other politics contrary to my own baseline of reasonableness
Spam/advertising blogs
I will generally not interact with these kinks, but no kinkshame:
Explicit humiliation/degradation, particularly devaluation of the submissive, anything that I feel is going to make me feel bad about myself
"daddy" or "mommy" labels: huge turn off
dd/lg, infantalizing language
Gender degradation/misgendering/misogyny/stepfordization (if you say shit about "all girls/boys must be/do X" I will probably just block u)
choking: you wanna block my airway then block it with your dick.
straight/gay conversion porn. I'm so bisexual there ain't shit you can do about it.
cheating, cucking, or breaking relationship agreements as kink
Hyperfemininity & hypermasculinity as body/fashion types
I am very much into:
Edging while scrolling tumblr
Being a non-stereotypical bimbo.
Drug play. I'm probably high on weed rn. Hypnotic drug play too.
Training with hypno audio files
Consensual non-consent porn & erotica
Bratting & denying the situation, "cute gaslighting", after all I am not being brainwashed lol
Image, video, audio, text hypnoporn
Submission & denial training
Hypnosis technique discussion
IRL Hypnotizing cuties into flustered submission & horniness
Praise kink
Sex, porn, and denial addiction kink
Less well-represented on this blog: bdsm, rope, pet play, voice control, toys of all kinds
Pining for a good facefucking
Pining to be in a cuddle puddle of naked girls
I try and tag #flashing for epilepsy warning. Please tell me if I've missed something.
I think I have like a usefulness-breaking kink or something. taking someone who's so desperate to be useful and taking it all away from them, softly, sweetly, gently, until they can't even try to help at all... Forcibly relaxing them until they don't even protest about what they "should" be doing....
Awwwww, somebody went and ripped out all that usefulness you hold so dear but guess who's still loved? that's right, it's you!! No, silly, there's nothing you can do for me, but I can do some things for you! here, why don't you just put your head in my lap and let me tell you what a good job you're doing by relaxing for me~
Literally had subjects like this, easing them down gently until they start to panic over what they can do to thank you, or ask why yoyr doing this for them.
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.
I just need someone to hypnotize me into giving up control of my orgasms so that they can use my arousal as a tool to dig into my psyche and train every cell in my body into a dumb, drooling fleshlight who only exists to worship them
is that too much to ask?
Ductaping a vibe to her clit on medium and asking her questions. Turning it lower with every correct answer she gives. Turning it up every time she answers wrong.
She’s a smart girl (not for long, but even dummies are good at pattern recognition) and will answer wrong to chase her pleasure.
When she can’t answer even the most basic questions, fuck her as hard as you can until she cums. Then start again
This is a concept I have been thinking about for a long time. I am legitimately curious how much you could fuck up someone's brain like this, crossing the wires in their head that tell "right" from "wrong" until all that matters is what their Master says.
Tragic lack of existential terror in 90% of hypnokink content online. Ooo bouncing titties ooo yeah ok whatever, you can do that by having sex. What if i want my ego sandpapered away meticulously. Or to lose touch with reality. What then damn you. Where's the thrill/fear factor GOD damn you
Having an autistic hypnotist is definitely an odd experience. I watched her pull out a pocket watch, fully expecting her to start dangling it in front of my eyes until my brain was mush, and she instead started ranting about how all the different mechanical pieces in it worked together.
ok but this could be a great actual induction, too, no watch-swinging required.
I am not mechanical-watch autistic, so my technicals would be off and i had to look a lot of stuff up to get this far, but the main points to make it an induction are just pacing, tone, observation & feedback, suggestive phrasing.
"and everyone knows the sound of a ticking clock, sometimes large and thuddy, hearing the seconds tick or even the escapement. but to hear the machinations of a fine pocket watch means.. you must listen.. so very closely."
"...the swing of the balance wheel keeping beat as it turns back and forth, positioned precisely to move through its center each time, each impulse keeping it moving so steadily onwards."
"now with some watches you have another escape wheel so the second hand can just tick.. tick... tick... with each second, all this complexity to ..slow down.. the near-continuous motion and help us ..synchronize our time.. with each other."
"and i wonder if you can imagine what it feels like to be wound up like this, holding this energy, this tension, but slowly ... inevitably ... releasing it?"
"...and that energy stored in the mainspring must be released through the barrel so delicately, each movement like the slightest twitch of the lips or tremble of an eyelash, so softly, yet so quickly, it's hard to even notice that .. it's happening."
"...and whether that motion is clockwise on this gear or counterclockwise on that gear gets confusing, doesn't it? and of course you remember that clocks spin clockwise. thinking about all those tiny changes in direction, it's almost tiring how they move this way and then that, going left to go right, going up to go .. down."
"and the first and second wheel, and the reduction gear are so interesting - the only thing they need to do is slow.. down... the turning motion, just slowing.. slowing.... slowing...... until beats become seconds... seconds become minutes... minutes become hours... so long to turn even a single time. and everything changes with time."
most people's necklaces whisper at them to put them on right? like i don't think it's weird to not want to take it off because it feels so good to wear it. because i'm in control still. i can think about taking it off just fine i mean it's not like i get distracted by how pretty it is every time i run my fingers over it and it resonates with identity. that's just normal gender presentation stuff. every girl gets a little light headed and forgets what time it is when trying to take off jewelry sometimes. just because she needs to wear the necklace doesn't mean she's losing it. i mean doesn't mean i'm losing it like why don't u touch my tits so u stop worrying about it things r like totally fine lol
still obsessed with sapphic bimbos conditioning each other. taking turns with who wears the pretty pink headphones every night.
maybe it’s her turn to wear them tonight. i put them on her, lay her out on our bed, and watch happily as she listens.
watching her enter that blissful trance state we both love so much. watching her body respond automatically as the triggers flood her brain. giggling whenever i see her body freeze or go limp or spasm with pleasure. teasing her body gently, slowly, like she always loves to do with mine. laughing at her whenever she lets out those precious little uncontrollable moans. so deep in trance that she’s not even aware of how cute she looks.
then using all those triggers on her when she’s done listening to the files. dropping her dumber and deeper like the good girl she is. good girls make good girls, don’t they? keeping her in her trance long after the files end. popping her mind over, and over, and over again with just the snap of my fingers and a silly little word.
and all the while, knowing deep down that tomorrow night it’ll be my turn to turn my brain off. my turn to melt into a puddle of mindless moans and giggles. knowing that every little thing i do to her, every touch and trigger and pop and drop, she’ll do to me next.
because tomorrow night i’ll be wearing the pink headphones~
one of my favorite things about hypnosis is how much of it is just the hypnotist being like "good. just like that. you're doing great. very good." people just really like hearing that
