Glamrockification. Hypnotizing Someone To Dress More Flamboyantly With Eccentric Makeup And Act More

Hey girl, are you a hypnotist because I… I uh… keep… um… I o-obey. The fuck? I didn’t mean t-to say I obey…. I obey…. No, I obey… I…

"jim."

"what?"

"tell me you're hypnotized."

"what?"

"say that you're hypnotized right now."

"i'm not, though."

"i just wanna hear it."

he hesitated. "...i'm hypnotized." it felt odd coming out of his mouth.

"say it a little slower."

"it's two words."

"yeah, and four syllables. you can say it slower."

"fine," he said. "i'm... hypnotized..."

"say you're deeply hypnotized."

"this isn't going to work," he said, although he caught himself staring at them in a particular way.

"all i'm doing is asking you to say something. is it really that hard?" they looked smug. "come on. tell me you're deeply hypnotized. say it nice and slow."

there were already chills creeping down his spine. "fine," he responded. "i'm... deeply hypnotized..."

he was a little annoyed to find that familiar fog just barely forming in his mind, just from that.

"yeah, that's right."

jim almost shivered. "i mean, i'm really not. i'm not particularly deep, i'm just doing what you tell me to."

"sounds like something someone who's deeply hypnotized would do."

"that's not-"

"say it again for me, jim. come on."

he froze, a blank, dull voice escaping his lips. "i'm deeply hypnotized..."

it still wasn't completely true, but...

"that's right. good. that's all it takes, isn't it?"

"it's not..."

"it's more true every time you say it. try saying it again. you'll feel it."

"i'm deeply hypnotized..." he felt his shoulders sink.

"again. tell me how you feel right now. say it again."

"i'm... deeply hypnotized..."

"that's how you feel, isn't it?"

he wasn't answering their question, he was following the command to repeat it...

"nod your head for me. you feel deeply hypnotized, right?"

he nodded, trembling as his spine tingled.

"you're deeply hypnotized. tell me again."

"i'm deeply hypnotized..."

"and it's true now. isn't it?"

this time they hadn't told him to, but he nodded his head, anyway.

"it's that easy. you probably don't even care about me teasing you anymore, though, do you?" they pet his head. the warm tingles started to feel relaxing as he surrendered to them. "and can you tell me why you don't care?"

"i'm deeply hypnotized..."

"good boy."

Cute date idea...

I tie you to the chair and jerk you off into a mug before adding it to a cup of tea. Then I give you the tes so you have something to drink while you watch me fucking your partner, knowing you won't even get hard as you watch because you're so useless it takes you hours to recover.

I love the idea of calling a switch good boy or good girl even when they are making my brain shut off because they are fucking me so hard. Like yes...please you are such a good boy or girl for fucking me like a slut. You are doing such a good job doing exactly what I want~

Unusual NSFW Asks:

1. What are the ideal nudes that someone could send you?

4.Genie granted you three NSFW wishes. What are you wishing for?

(there are a LOT of good questions in that post...😉)

1. I guess that's kinda dependent on what someones best assets are. Honestly just something that they feel beautiful/hot/sexy in then I'm sure i will find that as well. Lewds are almost sometimes better because you can do more with the clothes drawing in the appeal

4. I think my wish would be the fact that the portal kink would be a real possiblity in this day and age. Another would be if I thought of one person then I could tease their body (aka make it so like they have a vibe in, etc) from whatever distance. Last one would be I could summon sex toys out of pocket dimension (free sex toys)

Hope this answers your questions <33

ahhhhh thats literally me reoccuring dream....fuck me why cant this happen irl

Getting to know you. You wake to a blinding light searing into your eyes, a harsh beam that pierces through the fog of your groggy mind. Instinctively, your hand jerks upward to shield your face, but it catches mid motion, snagged by something tight and unyielding around your wrist. A quick, frantic glance down reveals your new reality: you’re naked, sprawled on a cold, hard surface, your skin prickling against the chill. Ropes bite into your flesh, taut and expertly knotted, pinning your arms above your head and your legs splayed wide.

Footsteps echo in the dimness beyond the light, deliberate and unhurried. Your pulse hammers as a shadow looms closer, resolving into a man — tall, lean, his face slightly obscured by the glare. You don’t know him, not really, but flashes of memory come crashing in: a man from the coffee shop who stared too long, a figure lingering outside your apartment, the faint creak of your floorboards late at night. You’d dismissed it as the house settling, but context clicks everything into place: he not just some creep. He’s your stalker, and he's brought you here — wherever here is — for this.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice calm, clipped, like a doctor noting a patient’s chart. He adjusts the light — a portable lamp rigged on a stand — tilting it so it bathes your body in an unholy glow. “Good. I was starting to wonder if I’d misjudged the dosage.”

You thrash against the ropes, your muscles straining, but they don’t give an inch. “Let me go,” you snarl, your voice raw with fear and defiance. “Let me go, you sick fuck!”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he pulls a notebook from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist, and jots something down with a pen he clicks twice — each sound a tiny gunshot in the silence. “Hostility noted,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Expected, given the circumstances.”

He steps closer, and you catch the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to him, mingling with something muskier, more human. He’s not frantic or wild eyed like you’d expect from a madman. No, he’s methodical, his movements precise as he sets the notebook on a small metal table beside you. On it, you glimpse an array of objects — glossy, sleek, some buzzing faintly already — your breath catches in your throat.

“I've been waiting to study you up close,” he says, picking up a slim, curved vibrator. “I hope you understand — some things you just can’t learn without…hands on experience.”

You grit your teeth, twisting your hips away as he kneels between your bound legs. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, but your voice wavers, betraying the tremor in your core as he presses the device against your inner thigh, letting it hum there, teasingly close but not yet where you dread — and, shamefully, half anticipate — he’ll take it.

He tilts his head, observing you like a specimen under glass. “Resistance is encouraged. It'll help us establish a baseline for your collapse.” With a flick of his thumb, the vibrations increase, and he drags it upward until it grazes your clit. The jolt is immediate — sharp and unwanted — but your body betrays you, a gasp slipping past your lips before you can choke it back.

“No,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut, willing your nerves to deaden, to ignore the heat pooling within. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, a desperate anchor against the rising tide. But he’s relentless, adjusting the angle, pressing harder, and the sensation builds too fast, a wave you can’t outrun.

“There it is,” he says, his tone almost reverent as your thighs tremble despite your fight, the first orgasm of the night flowing through you. “First peak at… fifty seven seconds. Remarkable sensitivity.” He scribbles in his notebook, the scratch of pen on paper maddeningly loud. “Outside of expected bounds.”

Shame burns hotter than the pleasure, and you glare at him, tears forming in your eyes. “Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking. But he doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. He just nods, setting the vibrator aside and reaching for something else — small, metallic, glinting. Nipple clamps.

“Let’s introduce a new variable,” he says, and before you can brace yourself, he fastens one to your left nipple, the pinch sharp and insistent. You yelp, arching against the ropes, and he watches, unblinking, as your body try to adjust.

“Pain threshold seems moderate,” he mutters, attaching the second clamp. The dual sensation — sting and throb — makes your head spin, and when he tugs lightly on the chain connecting them, a moan escapes you, unbidden and humiliating.

You bite your lip hard, tasting blood, trying to focus on the pain, on anything but the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece. He picks up another toy — a thicker, ridged dildo this time — and coats it with lube from a bottle on the table. “I need to test internal responses,” he says, as if explaining a lab procedure, and then he’s pressing it against your cunt, pushing in slow but firm, ignoring your choked protest.

Your body resists, then yields, and the stretch is overwhelming, filling you in a way that’s both invasive and maddeningly good. You thrash again, weaker now, your strength sapped by the relentless assault on your senses. He works it deeper, methodical, watching your face, your chest, the way your muscles clench and release.

“Stop — please,” you rasp, but it’s a plea you barely believe yourself, your hips twitching traitorously as he finds a rhythm. The pressure builds again, and when he angles it just right, brushing some spot inside you that lights up your nerves, you shatter. Your cry echoes off unseen walls, your vision blurs, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth as your head lolls back.

“Fascinating,” he says, pulling the toy free with a wet squelch that makes you flinch. “Second peak at…” he checks his watch, “two minutes, twelve seconds. You’re… efficient.” He wipes it clean with a cloth, his hands steady, clinical, while you lie there, limp and buzzing, your mind fraying at the edges.

It continues like this, as hours blur into a haze of sensation — clamps tightened, toys swapped, his voice a constant drone of observation. “Clitoral overstimulation after seven peaks… anal elasticity exceeding projections… vocalization increasing with fatigue…” You fight, you really do — twisting, cursing, pleading — but each climax drags you deeper, until your thoughts are a jumbled mess. You’re numb yet hypersensitive, drooling, glassy eyed, reduced to a creature of pure reaction.

He steps back at last, notebook full, his expression one of quiet triumph as he looks on at your exhausted body. “You’re a marvel,” he says, almost tender, as he adjusts the light one final time, leaving you trembling in its glare.

“Of course, I’ll need to replicate these results tomorrow. For accuracy.”

i need one of those fuck machines

Reblog if you want to be hypnotized into a brainwashed bimbo, a horny pet, or just a needy, helpless mess. Or if you want a hug!

Where can I sign up...

Sharing this one again with @shibarifairy777