Brainwashed by Day

You have a routine. Every morning, your eyes blink open and you stare at the ceiling for a minute, letting your mind rise out of the depths of your unconscious. Your dreams evaporate like early fog, leaving you with the sense that you've forgotten something important. Soon, even that disappears in the light of the new day. It's time to rise.

You pad to the kitchen in your bare feet, putting a kettle on for tea as you switch on the little kitchen TV, an artifact that you found at the lease place for a steal. News anchor Selena MacPhearson is already reporting on the important parts of the morning. The traffic. The fog. You stop and watch her for a minute, admiring her pretty, pretty eyes. She's such a good news anchor. Something about the way she talks about your morning, how she discusses the fog and how it rises, making everything darker and deeper, is easy to listen to. She even has a graphic on the screen that can show you the deepening fog, and as your eyes find it, you realize that the fog is swirling, coiling in on itself like an eternal snake, or a spiral...

The kettle screams, and you jump. Selena is still on TV, smiling, speaking about a deep lake. It's under the fog, and it draws your mind into its depths. You grope for the stove and flip off the burner, interested to see the depths under the lake under the deep, deep fog. The fog, Selena reports, is getting deeper, but you're falling through it into the depths of the lake. Here's a visual. And artist's rendering of what your mind sees now. It fills the screen, water flowing past you as you focus on the depths, trying to see to the bottom. That's right, Selena says. Just keep watching. You don't need to resist, because it's safe and easy to watch. You don't need to worry about going to work, because you are forgetting that you have a job. You don't need to worry about the fact that you don't have an antenna box on your vintage kitchen television. That its cable cord lies on the counter, connected to nothing. No aspect of this setup is strange at all. It's easy to accept, just like the heaviness of your eyelids.

You blink. You are feeling very, very sleepy. So tired. The longer you look, the sleepier you get. It's always so nice to sleep. Selena's voice makes sure that you won't fall when your body finally relaxes, swaying slightly on your feet as your head nods down to your chest. You're falling, falling, falling deep into a wonderful state of mind. You finally feel relaxed and carefree. Selena has taken away all your worries. All your thoughts. In return, all she needs is your obedience. You sigh, feeling happiness suffuse you at this understanding. Happiness at the idea of obeying... and something more than happiness.

It seems to come from that secret, soft, sensitive place between your legs. The heart of you. The source. Selena has it in her hand now, and you moan as you feel the full pleasure of obedience to Her. Every stroke of her fingers sends you deeper into the lake below the fog in your mind, deeper into a trance where you don't need to think or decide or struggle at all. Just obey. Your arousal increases until every breath is a moan, every heartbeat an erotic jolt. Selena can make you obey her, and that is sexy. You are capable of being her toy, her slave, and that is sexy. Lust as powerful as a net seems to snare your entire body, wrapping you, dragging you still deeper into submission. Your hands augment Selena's touch, Selena's control, Selena's commands rewriting your mind. You are being brainwashed, and you've never felt better in your life. You think you might come soon. Your hands are flying, tweaking, flicking, squeezing. More. You need to obey. More. More...

You're still tingling all over when your eyes snap open. The TV is silent now, black-screened, but your mind is full. Selena's voice fills it, displacing your thoughts, whispering instructions. You try to collect yourself—you do have a job, but what is it? Where are you supposed to go? Selena's voice reminds you, and you struggle briefly to remember if this is correct. You're sure you work in an office. But struggling is hard, so difficult that your mind becomes tired again. Distracted. Entranced.

It doesn't matter. Your body knows what to do. It drifts back to your bedroom, nearly floating, and removes your starched and clean work clothes. As your mind slowly loses itself to Selena's commands, your body simply obeys her. It finds the clothing that you keep in secret, the sexy lacy lingerie that feels like a cloud and weighs less. You bought this for a lover who left you before you gathered the courage to show her this secret sexy thrill—but who was that? Selena's image transposes itself over the memory, Selena's body, and you quake suddenly with a spasm of lust. Selena, your ideal woman. Even now, you can see her nipples harden, smell her pussy respond to you. She smiles, a wicked witch with a new toy, as you kneel before her in your mind. This new thought is overwriting your memories, overwriting you.

Meanwhile, your body obediently dons the lingerie, discarding your boring underwear. It slips on those erotic high stockings you've never dared to wear. It slips its feet into your secret, racy high heels. Selena's voice has driven all thought out of your head, reminding you that you are obedient, that you are sexy, that you want to be her slave. And you do. There is no other option. Selena is all that is in your mind. As you lose yourself in her control, your body drifts out to your garage, starts your car, and leaves your house. Where is it going? You've lost the capacity to wonder. There is a door before you now, an expensive door with an elaborate brass knocker. You raise the handle and drop it. A boom echoes through a strange mansion.

An hour ago, you would have known that this isn't where you work. You would even have insisted that you'd never been here before in your life. But you have been here. That's why your obedient body shakes with barely contained desire, recalling the bedroom, the basement, the decadent tools of dominance and submission that fill the cavernous closets of this house of pleasure. Selena's touch on your neck, your chest, your legs, your ass. You've let her touch you everywhere, rub her wet cunt against your leg as she used you like the plaything you are. The memory of her wet pussy is in your mouth already. You will make her come soon, whispers her voice. You will obey and call Selena your Mistress. Mistress Selena. You will do everything she commands. The image from the news broadcast, of the sinking into the depthless lake, overtakes your mind, pulling you deeper, deeper, deeper. The last light of independent thought in your mind flickers out.

The door opens.

Rhea is a submissive and writer of hypnosis erotica. You can find more of her work on Amazon or support her on Patreon. She's also a contributor to MCStories! If you like her tales of free erotic hypnosis, be sure to tip her!