"It's great to see you, Cyril, but if you could ever show up 10 or 15 minutes late, instead of right on time, I'd be a happy woman."

Despite a flustered and slightly unfinished appearance when you open the door to let me in, you look amazing. The sleek, white dress and matching hose you wear perfectly contrast against your black hair and mocha skin. Neither the smirk on your face, nor the pumps held in your hand (rather than gracing your stockinged feet) diminish your beauty.

I make sure to tell you how lovely you look, as you beckon me inside. You accept the compliment, a peck on the cheek, and a friendly hug from me. And when we part, your smirk has dissolved into a happy smile.

"All right, Speedy McNe'erlate, into the living room with you. I need a couple of minutes to finish up."

True to your word, you only keep me waiting for two or three minutes. When you enter the living room, all traces of fluster and lack of finish are gone, and you stand a few inches higher in your heels.

"Ready? The reservation is for 09:15. Just got a text that our car is three minutes away. We should get to the restaurant by 09:10."

I don't get up from my seat. You motion for me to go, but I stay put.

"What? Seriously, what is it?"

I tell you that I'd rather stay in.

"We can 'stay in' another night. These reservations were hard to get, and I've wanted to go to this place since before the pandemic. You have, too. So, come on. The car is a block away."

No movement from me. Your expression sours.

"What the hell, Cyril?"

I say something, hoping it will have a desired effect, but not knowing if it will. Immediately, quizzically, and without any comprehension, you repeat what I've said.

"Barefoot?"

For an instant, you look deep in thought, as if working through a complex equation or pondering a philosophical paradox. Then, the intensity of your expression diminishes.

"Barefoot."

Your eyes lose their focus.

"Barefoot. I must be barefoot."

You move to a chair and sit down. Then, you scoop off your pumps one at a time.  And then, you begin pulling off your hose. Soon, your footwear lays discarded on the floor in front of you, leaving your feet bare.

I say something else, which you also repeat.

"Cancel the car."

On your phone, you cancel the ride-share that has probably just pulled up to the curb outside.

Now, I smile. The effect of the trigger word has not lost its potency. That had been my hope. But after not seeing you in person for close to a year and a half, I hadn't been sure. After all, post-hypnotic suggestions and brainwashing are never permanent. They require reinforcement over the long term. Thankfully, our time apart hasn't yet been too long for your conditioning to remain intact.

It's not that I couldn't hypnotize you from scratch this evening. Of course, I could. I would enjoy doing it. And, I would ensure that you enjoy undergoing it, too. But it's been a long week, and, honestly, I don't feel like putting in the effort if I don't have to. Besides, I already put in the effort, albeit umpteen months ago.

Granted, it wasn't straight-forward hypnosis that I used on you way back when. My Cyril Machine (as you have begun to call it on DA, much to my amusement and delight) did all the work. But it still took plenty of effort to coax you into the chair, convince you to stay there until the automatic restraints locked you in place, and keep you from freaking out after you were immobilized and before you succumbed to the forced induction.

Obviously, it had been totally worth the effort. Once you went under, my machine brainwashed you into a willing and obedient slave--not the mindless drone kind, but rather the unknowingly doing what I want and thinking it's what you want kind.

And now, seeing that my implanted reinduction trigger still works, it continues to be worth it. You are currently in mindless slave mode, which isn't my preference, but it's a temporary necessity for what I have planned. Now, it's time to mold your thoughts and memories, so that we can get on with enjoying the rest of the evening.

I give you several commands and have you repeat them back to me in your own words, to ensure you understand them. I also reinforce your previous conditioning and implant new suggestions, as well. When I am satisfied that you will behave as desired, I say the trigger word that will wake you up once you repeat it.

"Brainwashed. Huh? What was I saying?"

Clarity returns to your eyes, as the fogginess of trance leaves your mind. You nod, remembering a previous train of thought.

"Oh, yeah...it's great to see you, Cyril, but if you could ever show up 10 or 15 minutes late, instead of right on time, I'd be a happy woman. As you can see, I'm not ready yet..."

You indicate your shoes and stockings, as if you had not yet put them on, rather than having just removed them under hypnotic compulsion.

"Honestly, though, I don't even want to get ready. Look, I know we've both been wanting to go to this place for over a year. But, I'm just not feeling it tonight. I'd much rather have a mellow evening at home. Would that be okay with you?"

I tell you that would be fine with me.

"Really? Great! The thought of cramming my feet into those heels was kind of making me cringe."

You wiggle your adorable toes, grin your gorgeous grin, and sigh contentedly at the thought of staying barefoot all night.

"Speaking of my feet, I know you're already doing me a favor by agreeing to stay in, but...I could really use a foot massage. And you give the best ones! Would you give me one? Please!"

Nonchalantly, I agree to your request. You squeal with giddy excitement.

"Thank you so much! Let me just grab some oil, a washcloth, and a towel. Be right back."

You jump up and head off to procure the supplies. A moment later you return. I'm sitting on your sofa, and you plop down on a chair catty corner to it. Then you lift up your legs and place your feet in my lap.

As I begin applying oil to your soles, you sink back into the cushions and close your eyes. I then begin my slow, methodical, and extremely thorough massage. Starting on your toes, I work my way down to the balls of your feet, then further down to your arches, then on to your heels. Then, I go all the way back up to your toes. All the while, you moan and sigh with pleasure.

After many minutes, I finally give each foot a gentle pinch to indicate I am done. You open your eyes and smile gratefully at me. Then, you notice something.

"Oh, shoot. We spilled lotion. Let me clean that up before it gets everywhere."

You take a washcloth and mop up the spill.

"All right, good, got it all."

Sure enough, everything is now spotless.

But everything isn't as I have just said. In fact, almost nothing is.

Of course, all that you know and remember is exactly as I have described it. But that is because I have brainwashed you to believe what I want you to believe, rather than the actual truth.

Starting from when you joined me on the sofa, this is what really happened:

You oiled up your own feet in preparation for the massage. Then, you prepared me, too, baring the area that you needed access to. And then, you went to work on me--slowly, methodically, and extremely thoroughly.

You used all parts of your feet--toes, balls, arches, and heels. And you kept going for many minutes, until, finally, I couldn't last any longer. Then, when I was done, you cleaned up the mess I had made.

Now, here we both are. We're sated and spent. You've laid back against the cushions again, and your feet are back in my lap. I gently trace random patterns across and around your soles with my fingertip. Sometimes, I do so less gently with the edge of my nail. Then, you squirm and giggle.

"No tickling, please!"

But you don't pull away. I haven't given you any suggestion or command that precludes you from doing that if you want. So, you must not mind the tickling. Or, at least, you like the caresses enough to put up with it.

I think about the rest of the evening. What shall we do? The thing is, even though I've gotten what I wanted, I still want more. It's ridiculously fun having a brainwashed slave do my bidding, and when she is as beautiful and sexy as you are, well...what else needs to be said?

 Only one word needs to be said, and I say it. You repeat it.  

"Barefoot."

As before, your eyes glaze over after you speak the trigger.

This time I implant suggestions that will, when activated, heighten your ticklishness, render you immobilized, make you act out a roleplaying scenario, and do a few other choice things that will entertain me through the night.

Then, I wake you up again by having you say the appropriate word.

"Brainwashed. Wait, what? Oh, I thought you said something. Hey, no tickling, please!"

Your request is denied, my lovely brainwashed slave. But you will fulfill all of my requests from this point forward....