Hi, I'm Ottopilot. You may know me from my NSFW main blog @ottopilotreturns, my writing blogs @ottopilot-wrote-this/@ottopilot-wrote-this-txt, my SFW blog @ottopilot-sfw, my AI image blog @ottopilot-ai, former blogs such as "ottopilot" and "opcaptions," or any of the many shadowbanned blogs I had before I figured out Tumblr hates VPNs.
The focus of this blog is original works of a sexual nature intended for mature audiences only. All characters are 18 years or older. Minors DNI. Except for posts specifically related to my writing and creative process, this blog's content and created works are fantasy and fiction. While the general themes are in the hypnosis/mind control genre, I strongly believe in informed consent and equal rights. This post is a living document and is subject to change.
I have used tags to denote both fetishes and content warnings, and content warnings are also called out iat the beginning of the text.
This blog does contain images created using AI (specifically Stable Diffusion 1.5). My rationale for using AI images is here. This isn't up for debate at this point. If you want to read them without the AI, I started a blog for just the text versions at @ottopilot-wrote-this-txt. (s/o to @subliminalbo for the suggestion).
Lastly, I'll just block you if I don't like your vibe. This is not the federal government, you aren't entitled to free speech and I don't have to give oxygen to your dumpster fire of an existence. This applies, but is not limited to: actual racists, TERFs, actual misogynists, ableists, right-wing nutjobs (RWNJs), et. al. Also blank and ageless blogs, you are on notice.
"He took the coffee mug - hot, decaf, cream and sugar - up to his mouth, peering over the rim as he took a sip.
"Portia hadn't changed a bit. Yes, her chestnut-colored skin had become wrinkled and bumpy. And her outer shell, what she showed to the world, was always crusty. But he knew how to peel back those delicate layers. That inside, she was soft, and oh so sweet. He had to drive all night to see her, but she was always worth the trouble."
27. What’s your favourite work of hypnosis erotica?
This is incredibly hard to narrow down, and I ended up skimming a lot of stories I haven't read in a decade.
The tl;Dr answer is Adaptation by Tabico. Longer answer after the break.
You cannot go wrong reading Tabico IMO. Her stories hit all the right buttons. Original. Hot. Devious. Rouge and Sub Routine are also standouts.
I wanted to shout out the Omega Girl series by J. Darksong because comic book superheroines are a root of my interest (the non-erotica answer would have been Uncanny X-Men #129-137 by Claremont & Byrne). One thing I really appreciate especially in comparison to Metrobay Comics is the continuity. The stakes feel higher if there are lasting repercussions.
Along the same lines I love @skarlette1 and their Libido League series. As an ADHDer I love there are short-form and long-form stories. I am envious of how they can hit the marks in just a couple of paragraphs.
I wrote a little more here because those authors are not very active anymore, at least I don't see them mentioned much, which is a shame.
Lots of great smut writers are here, including some real OGs: @jukeboxemcsa, @scifiscribbler, @dreamingdarkly22/ @dreamingdarklyblog, @hypnoswriter, @hypdom, @subliminalbo, @laurentidalreborn , @bimbosminder, @callidus-again, I'm sure I've missed many others
Read and reblog their stuff. There are a lot of great stories that don't get their flowers because they aren't at the top of the dashboard.
EDIT, June 2026: mildly ridiculous of me not to pimp my own shit. @ottopilot-wrote-this
Derek Lee shivered as he walked down Jackson Street, hands in his pockets. The brisk, cool weather of San Francisco was something he would need to get used to. While his family was practically roasting in Tempe, the fog blanketing the city had barely burned off by lunchtime, and was already rolling in early for the evening.
Derek had restaurant recommendations from the locals in his dorm, but he liked to explore. He definitely wasn't interested in tourist traps, or "re-imagined" bistros attached to celebrity chefs, anointed with Michelin stars. Chinatown was a living, breathing piece of immigrant history in America, and once you got past the overpriced and gaudy facade, there was something ironically genuine about it.
His favorite part so far had been the alleys. Tucked in between tenement apartments with iron bars and fire escapes were narrow passages full of signs marking benevolent societies, stairwells leading to basement businesses, and the clacking of mahjong tiles reverberating off the brick. Derek felt like he had stepped off the bustling streets and into the pages of a Dashiell Hammett novel.
Most of the signs in Chinatown were bilingual, but there was one, above a descending stairwell, that caught Derek's eye. The sign looked especially old and out of place, with gold lettering on a faded red. He pulled out his phone and used the Translate app. The hanzi read '饺子', or 'Dumplings.'
It was almost 3. He could go for something to eat.
Derek descended the stairs and opened a wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could make out the glow of a light.
The first thing he noticed was the space was much bigger than he had thought from outside. It appeared to be an old dance hall or banquet room. Round tables with white tablecloths flanked a parquet dance floor. There was a small kitchen where the sounds of Cantopop music and flourescent lights cast a cool, greenish tint on the rest of the room.
"Hello?" Derek called out. "Are you open?"
A middle-aged Chinese woman emerged from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn up haphazardly in a bun, and a dingy apron covered her house clothes. She looked confused, and addressed Derek loudly in annoyed Cantonese.
"Is this a restaurant?" Derek asked, speaking clearly. "The sign says 'Dumplings'?"
"English?" the woman asked, pointing at Derek. "No Chinese?"
"Oh. I'm Chinese, but I only speak English," Derek admitted. "American born."
This drew a vigorous nod from the woman. Derek thought she was probably very attractive in her day. "We open later. You by yourself?"
Derek smiled cordially. "Yes, I'm new here. College. First time in San Francisco."
"Ahhhh! Welcome." The woman's grin was slightly unsettling. "I make you something. Off menu. You OK wait?"
"Wow. That's great. Yes, please."
The woman motioned to the closest table and pulled out a chair, dusting offer seat with her hand. "OK. I bring tea?"
Derek nodded and sat in the empty chair. The woman came back quickly with a teapot, a glass, and an incense stick and holder. She lit the incense and placed it on the table, and poured some water into the glass on top of what looked like a little green pod.
The woman pointed to the glass. "Chrysanthemum," she said. "Flower bloom, very pretty," she smiled, as she made a motion with her hands. Then she shuffled off back to the kitchen.
Derek watched the flower in the glass slowly open up from the pod. After about a minute, it had expanded into a bright yellow blossom, and the water had taken on the same hue. The tea had a delicate, slightly sweet flavor, unlike the green or jasmine tea Derek typically had in Chinese restaurants.
As he sipped the tea, he had to admit he was impressed with the presentation. A trail of smoke rose from the incense, and Derek wafted it towards him. It was certainly a strange odor. There was an acrid sweetness to it he couldn't quite place. There was an earthy, woody smell and some citrus notes, a common scent to half the herbalists on Grant Street. But that sweet smell was very unusual, and Derek smelled it again, trying to place it.
Feeling relaxed, Derek looked around the dark room. It had a slight musty odor from the poor underground ventilation. The decor was like what you might find in Chinese restaurants across the country, but in a more reserved, less kitschy manner. On the walls were vintage photographs of pretty young Chinese women in cheongsam dresses, their short hair curled at the ends.
Derek imagined laborers getting off their factory shifts, tired and maligned, but cleaning up nicely and coming to this place to cut loose and dance with pretty girls. He gazed dreamily at one photo in particular. She seemed to be calling to him, his thoughts drifting off to a bygone era.
Derek blinked. Must be tired, he thought hazily. Zoned out a little. He sipped more tea. It tasted different. A little stronger. More bitter. More… floral. Like drinking perfume. Thicker, even. More tea at his parted lips. Swallow. Again and again, until it was gone. Eyes heavy and unfocused. He felt sweaty. Breaths shallow. Smoke, curling into his nostrils. The burnt sugary odor, swirling. In his brain.
Fresh air, yeah. Derek tried to stand on wobbly legs. Like that baby cartoon deer, they buckled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.
His eyes fluttered. The woman from before was helping him up on his feet. He tried to stand. Fuck, he felt so hot. She pulled his t-shirt off his clammy back. Laid him down on the table. She left him there, as he curled into a fetal position on his side. Pupils blown wide, he stared into the darkness, drooling.
By the time it registered that she was removing his clothes, his pants were off, boxers going with them. He was naked but indifferent. He just wanted to sleep.
The woman spoke, her voice soothing and melodic. Had Derek been more lucid, he would have noticed her posture was now upright; her demeanor more authoritative. But first, he'd notice she'd dropped the broken English. "Perfect. The raw ingredients are ready, now the real work begins."
She reached into a steel mixing bowl, coating her hands with an amber liquid which she spread on Derek's body, starting with his chest. "This is the binder," she cooed. "Very important. You must be properly seasoned, yes." The liquid, thinner than honey but thicker than cooking oil, had an intoxicating scent. Flowers, peonies possibly. Ginger. Something spicy, like pepper. Star anise. Sesame. It went on cool, then it tingled, before quickly adding to the warmth inside. Especially as the woman began to massage and knead his flesh.
"However," she continued, working the oil into his thighs, "it cannot just be coated. The filling has to be molded. It has to be worked in." As she rubbed his muscles, they became loose. Supple. She gave a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. Softening up the meat. Breaking it down. Otherwise it will be tough." Sliding her hand along the length of his leg, she collected the loose body hair the depilatory salve had removed onto a towel. Satisfied, she gave his skin a playful slap.
Derek moaned softly as she worked the oil into his soft cock and balls, rolling him on his side, coating his ass, and sliding her slippery fingers around and into his hole. He felt the heat building, relaxing him, teasing him. Then he felt something unusual. Arousal, but unlike what he had experienced before. It originated deeper in his core, away from his penis. An inner hunger. He clenched around her finger as she slid out of him, trailing along his sensitive perineum and grazing his sack.
"Ah, there. It's starting. You feel it, don't you? The ingredients coming together, the flavors combining. The moment mere food becomes a meal." Her voice was like her touch, light and delicate, but firm where it needed to be. "Now the filling is ready, the binding has taken hold. Without the binding, you would fall apart before you could be devoured, and no one wants that to happen."
Derek said nothing in response. Completely overwhelmed, he merely sighed in contentment. The taste of the tea on his tongue, the dizzying smoke and aromatic fragrance in his nostrils, the soothing balm reshaping his body, and the woman's soothing words all wrestled for attention in his dulled mind.
"Now it is time for the wrapping. Otherwise, the filling is just a lump. The wrapping shapes the filling, makes it beautiful. Edible art." The woman pulled an end of the tablecloth over Derek's bare front, tucking it tightly under his left arm. It's unlikely Derek would have noticed the table was not lined with a thick linen tablecloth, but several layers of thinner cloth, smooth and delicate, nearly translucent. The woman moved with speed and grace, enveloping Derek tautly inside the sheet like a cocoon. The white fabric clung tightly to his oiled form, and with her prodding and adjusting, it began to take shape - slightly androgynous, slender, soft curves forming, with a muted bulge.
The woman stood back, assessing her work. "Lovely," she said with confidence. "Now I steam it gently. Keep the outer skin smooth and soft, while the filling becomes juicy and succulent." Using large tongs, the woman took the lid off an ice chest and laid large steaming hot towels over the encased young student. Inside the safe and cradling fabric, they felt the suffocating weight and sultry warmth permeating their skin. The moist heat seemed to further activate the ingested and topical agents, intensifying the sensations. It felt like all of what they once were was oozing from their pores, and being replaced by what they were becoming. "That's it, the imperfections are cooking off.
"Almost ready, my little dumpling. My little siu mai."
-----
District Attorney Ron Mitchell finished the last of his whiskey, placing the empty glass on a tray. He looked around the room, shaking his head. Normally, he would like to put half these people in jail. However, since the mayor, half the Board of Supervisors, those venture capital guys, the CEO of Panacea Tech, and last year's Best Actress winner were all here, looking the other way was part of the game.
This place really did clean up well, he supposed. Over the murmurs of hushed conversations, and through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke, he admired the ornate Oriental fixtures, installed a century ago when this was the most notorious brothel in Chinatown. Bright red lanterns provided ambient charm, and the crystal chandelier over the dance floor was a nice touch.
Mitchell spotted Madame Chen, the organizer, talking to the head waiter, and made his approach. An elaborately embroidered gold dragon adorned the right flank of her stunning red cheongsam dress. Her hair was styled up, and a 24-karat gold braid draped her neck with jade earrings dangling from her lobes. Though she was probably his age, she had a youthful complexion and a classical beauty about her as timeless as this old dance hall. Still, Mitchell was familiar with her skills. Which meant treating her with caution.
"Madame," Mitchell offered.
"Mr. Mitchell," Madame Chen smiled wanly. Her voice had a soporific cadence to it that made him a little uneasy. "A pleasure, as always. Will you be placing a bid tonight?"
Mitchell shook his head. "No, too rich for my blood. Was a surprise to get an invite on such short notice, but this is an impressive turnout."
Madame Chen flashed a calculating smile. "Well, my dumplings are best served fresh, for their peak enjoyment." She motioned to the dance floor. "It's time, please."
The lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight shone on the dance floor. The scratch of a dropped record needle filled the hushed room, followed by the old Shanghai Jazz melange of brass horns and a woman singing in Cantonese.
A female figure stepped out from a curtain into the spotlight. Her dazzling red silk cheongsam clung tightly to her lithe figure, as she strode forth in matching heeled pumps. She began to sway and dance with the music, gracefully lost in the rhythm, her arms extended like a ballerina. Her dark hair stayed tightly in a bun, her painted crimson lips parted, and her eyes closed as she occupied the attention of everyone in the room. A delicate flower blossoming. A piece of art imbued with life.
The song ended, and the woman bowed slightly. And finally, she opened her chestnut eyes and smiled demurely.
"Let's hear it for Siu Mai!" a voice bellowed from the speakers. "Who would like to bid on this young virginal morsel? The bidding begins at one-quarter-of-a-million dollars."
As men and women alike began to hold up numbered paddles, Mitchell leaned over and, in hushed tones, said to Madame Chen, "Congratulations, Madame. You've outdone yourself once again." His brow furrowed slightly. "Why do you call them dumplings, anyway?"
Madame Chen pursed her lips, her eyes glinting with malice that turned Mitchell's blood cold. "Because dumplings are beautiful, delicate, and finely crafted," she said, "and because dumplings are made to be stuffed with meat."
Another kind of diversity we need in writing is protagonists without love interests. Give me adults with full-fledged stories that don't include falling in love.
Sorry to hear about the neck. When you are working on a series, do you plan out the ending ahead of time?
It depends on the series. Usually I have the ending in mind but I think it's important to leave room for the story to direct itself organically.
It took me about three years to write Captured and most of that time I had this plan to end it with Corbin being brainwashed but breaking free from Madison's control by using a trigger that she had implanted in her mind by another hypnotist ally. The story was supposed to wrap up from there but it just felt too neat for me, I preferred the 'bad' ending where Corbin just disappears into the Alphas and stops being the main character of the series altogether, so that's where I let the story lead me.
There are other series like Assimilation which are intended to be open ended but have these shorter arcs within the series, and I generally know how those are supposed to end.
it takes years to develop your craft. do not romanticize the idea of an ‘overnight success’. be a student. grow organically. get really good. hate your work. start over. find new ways to express the same ideas. the student becomes the master. your time will come.
October 2024
Coven, parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. liner notes
November 2024
The Accidental Domme
December 2024
LooseChange
March 2025
The New Model
Flex Hours
June 2025
Backend Support
Generational Trauma
July 2025
Right to Repair
August 2025
饺子 (Dumpling), liner notes
November 2025
Check for Doneness (Hypnovember 2025 Day 30, Button | Time)
March 2026
Influencer
April 2026
April 15
Non-Smut
January 2025
A New Year, liner notes
A Nudge and a Wink
October 2025
Liquor Store (Fictober Challenge)
Dissonance
November 2025
Patina (Hypnovember 2025 Day 14, Voice | Song)
December 2025
The Valkyrie, Chapter One: Stones and Seeds
Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story
The Vault (2014-2018, all smutty)
Amazon Primed
Vault of Horrors, Part 1
Maid to Order
Vampire Weekend
Bitch
Whore
Series
Coven
- parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. liner notes
Bailey Castillo
1. Generational Trauma
2. Backend Support
3. Auld Lang Syne: A Bailey Castillo Story
The Valkyrie
Chapter One: Stones and Seeds
This image is AI generated, I couldn't find a royalty-free source photo I liked. Don't like AI? Cross-posted to @ottopilot-wrote-this-txt without it.
"Are you unhappy with your service, Sir?" the restaurant owner asks in a gruff voice. This was a mom-and-pop operation, which I guess would make him Pop, and he was doubtless busy, hence his irritation at being called to my table. My waitress, a pretty brunette whose name tag read "Elizabeth," stood next to him, fidgeting with her order pad.
I dab at my mouth with a paper napkin. "No, the service was great, I just wanted to make a suggestion. If you aren't already doing so, you should pay your wait staff a living wage. And if you're skimming their tips, stop immediately and make restitution."
There's always a brief moment, maybe a split-second, where their brain has heard the words… but hasn't processed how to comply. I'm always worried it's not going to work when I see that confused, sometimes angry, glance, but then it fades into a glassy-eyed stare and an open mouth. Like clockwork.
"Yeah, sure," he says, his voice distant and his free will in another zip code.
"Great. Only one more thing before I let you get back to it, lunch is on the house today, right?"
"Yeah. On the house," he drones, before blinking and heading back to the kitchen.
Elizabeth picks up my utensils and plate with a practiced ease. "Anything else I can get for you today, Sir?"
I lean in, just a little, and lower my voice. "It's Doug. You are… Elizabeth…?"
A warm smile. "Liz. Just Liz."
"Liz. You'd like to have dinner tonight with me tonight. Write down your number and I'll text you my address. You can bring some food—you pick—after your shift, and we'll fuck a couple of times. You'll cum easily and often, and it will be the best sex you've ever had, because you think I'm good-looking and funny."
I look into Liz's gorgeous blue eyes, like tiny wells, blue but deep. I look deeper and deeper, until the light from the diner and the world isn't visible, just darkness. It's like looking directly into her mind and just moving things around a bit, like moving a houseplant into the sill of an open window.
Liz puts the plate down, and pulls a pen from her apron. She scribbles her number onto my check, which I don't have to pay anyway, and hands it to me with a flirty wink. "See you at six. Doug," she says suggestively, turning and sashaying her big ass intentionally as she walks away.
Sliding out of the booth, I put on my coat. I slide a ten under the sugar packet caddy, confident Liz and her co-workers would get their fair share of it, as I walk out into the chilly city streets.
People think being able to control minds at will would be glamorous or sexy. But it fucking sucks, if you ask me.
I don't know how long I've had this power—it just sort of happened one day. Up until then, I'd lived a pretty charmed life, and I thought that was just dumb luck. Now… I'm pretty sure that's not true.
There are a couple rules I learned from trial and error. I don't have to be looking at a person (but it helps), and I do have to be relatively close to them. I can't undo a previous command. And the effects are permanent.
It definitely has its perks, don't get me wrong. I get a lot of stuff comped, like that soup and sandwich, and a lot of pretty women like Liz have sex with me whenever I want. If you think that's neat, it's small potatoes. I'm a writer by trade, but I have millions in the bank. How did it get there? Well, when you live in New York City and have access to the minds of politicians, bankers, and CEOs, the world is your oyster. I've had crazy, wild sex with the world's most beautiful women, sometimes simultaneously. I've thrown out first pitch at Yankee Stadium. I've been the equivalent of white, pudgy Jay-Z.
I wave to a retired teacher I pass once in a while. "Hey Mrs. Garcia! ¿Cómo estás? That's a very pretty hairstyle. You feel confident and beautiful and people who tell you otherwise are wrong." She looks at me blankly before her face lights up in a proud smile.
Anyway, it's isolating. No one will ever understand what it's like to be me, and all my relationships fall into two categories: people I can't trust because I've already mind controlled them, and people I haven't mind controlled yet. I've surrounded myself with yes men before, and that's an empty and unfulfilling life. I also can't trust myself to make new friends or partners and not accidentally, innocuously, alter them. A little slip up like "I think you should wear that dress" and they'll be a different person, forever. And there's always the risk of breakage.
Let me explain. No, wait.
"Hey," I call out to some asshole manhandling his lady friend on the street. "Don't be a dick to women." And to his girlfriend: "If he treats you bad, leave him. If he hits you, you cut his dick off."
OK, now where was I? So here's an example: I naively, stupidly, made a woman fall in love with me. Sounds great! Until you realize what you wanted is someone to love you for you. So I'll just undo it. Nope, doesn't work that way. That woman will be in therapy for years, and it's my fault.
Plus, when you tell a corrupt CEO to come clean to the press, and he tells a reporter about all his trips to Epstein Island… Lemme just say that crashing the world's financial markets will make you take it down a notch.
I learned over time: don't rock the foundation of the world to its core, don't upset the balance of the universe. I like to call them nudges. Just a little suggestion here and there. Some harder than others, but never a push, just a nudge.
Ah, back home. Another fruitless day of ennui for the most powerful man in New York. I throw my keys on the counter and hang my coat on the back of a chair. I flip the TV on and plop onto the couch and sigh.
News, news, sports, infomercial, talk show…oh. Men in Black is on. I've always wanted to see this. I watch while I scroll my phone. It's pretty funny, though it feels like something else I've watched before. Tommy Lee Jones is funnier than I thought. Oh, that's interesting. Huh. Will Smith makes Agent K forget he was Agent K. Then he lives a normal life. Could I do that?? Could I live a normal life?
I rise slowly and think this through. I don't even know if it will work. Nothing could happen, or I could turn my brain into a turnip. I'd ask myself: if I didn't have this power, how did I get rich? I mean, I used to think it was just luck. I can tell myself to think that. Excited, I walk over to the bathroom vanity.
Well, I thought, taking a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
"You will forget you can control minds. You will just assume your fortune to this point is the product of charm and good luck."
I stare at the reflection in the mirror, and it stares back at me. And I feel kind of funny, like my brain was a muscle that had fallen asleep, and blood was rushing back into it. Tingly.
Liz, the waitress from the coffee shop on Broadway, is wearing one of my t-shirts and looking at my bookshelf. I guess she liked me more than I thought, she practically threw herself at me when I opened the door. Helluva first date, I thought, as I microwaved the food she brought.
Liz reads off some of the titles. "Total Recall, Men in Black, The Matrix, Memento…" She pulls a DVD box off the shelf. "Oh, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind! I haven't seen this in years, it's such a good movie."
I shrug as I plate the food. "I've never seen it, I don't even remember buying it."
"Really? The case is pretty worn. Maybe you got it used."
I furrow my brow. Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing any of those movies. I must have got a good deal.
I pull out at chair for her, then stick my head in the fridge. "Maybe. What would you like to drink? I have Diet Coke, uhh… Diet Coke. And water."
Liz smiles, "Water is fine, I don't like fizzy drinks."
"That's too bad. Because I do have some syrups and club soda, so I could make an Italian soda. I think you would like an Italian soda if you've never had one."
I hear the sound of a fork hitting the china plate, and I turn. Liz's full lips part slightly. Her big blue eyes go glassy, her breath hitching before she exhales, long and slow. My Wu-Tang tee slips off one bare shoulder as she slackens and sinks, her expression melting like warm butter.
"I like Italian soda," she drones in a monotone voice.
