******

Adult content and non-consentual situations are in

the story below. Avoid reading if those aren’t for you.

******

The satisfaction of seeing much higher numbers in my bank account than I saw last week fades quickly. I want more. I will have more. Time to get to work.

I cast my net wide, sending chat requests to several dozen creators on DeviantArt. Some buttering up here. Some faux interest in their work there. It doesn’t take much to hook some suckers.

Ah, here’s my first catch of the day: CyrilQWellington. Who is this guy again? I put out so many feelers, I can’t remember the particulars of who’s who. Let’s see…

Fetish writer. Photo manipulater. Barefoot women. Hypnotized, brainwashed. Sometimes bound. Schlocky. Perverse. But popular, apparently. To each their own, I guess.

He’s online now, so it’s time to respond to his response.

You’re very welcome for my complimentary message and interest in your work. Your writing is so good! I just love it! Like I said before, I’d love to use some of your pieces as direct inspiration for my own work. I’d of course credit you as the author and pay you for them. And honestly, I think we should collaborate on a project. As you can see from my gallery*, I’m a skilled visual artist, and I would love to illustrate one of your prose stories.**

*which contains two blandly standard pictures that give you no indication as to how I would handle the festish material that you post

**but not for free, no, no, no. You’ll need to commission me for top dollar to do this work that I’m going to convince you is exactly what you need and want.

He’s typing his response now. He’s in! Hook, line, and sinker. Of course he is. Nothing like a few strokes of the male ego–or certain body parts–to bend a guy to my will. He’s typing more now.

Oh, he sees from my profile that we live in the same city. Would I want to meet in person to discuss our collaboration? Being a woman who looks as good as I do, and having as much experience with executing face-to-face cons as I do online ones…hell yeah! Let’s meet in person!

Date, time, and very public meeting place set. Now, back to work on my other prospects. Oh, look! Two more chat responses. I can literally hear the cha ching of more money entering my account as I reel these fools in….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cyril’s eyes light up when he sees me. Of course they do. I’m a looker. He’s excited to be in my company. And no doubt to be seen in my company. Like a puppy getting pets and treats at the same time. This should be easy.

As for him, well, he’s as nondescript as they come. Not bad looking. But certainly not handsome or hunky. Just as well. I don’t need any distractions. Not that I would let them derail me or even slow me down. I’m too savvy to jeopardize my upcoming payday.

The one thing I’ll say about him is that he has amazing eyes. They’re deep blue and absolutely stunningly gorgeous. Okay, so I do need to be just a tiny bit careful and not get distracted by those eyes. Not a problem. Just need to focus.

Focus on why I’m here. Focus on what I’m doing. Focus on the money I’m about to vacuum out of his pockets to fill mine.

I am totally focused…but not on what I need to be. I’m focused on his eyes. Dammit! I need to get my head back in the game. Snap out of it. Focus!

Maybe focus is the wrong word. Because I am focusing. On. His. Eyes. They are piercing. Penetrating. And yet also soothing. And totally enthralling. But so what? I’m not here to be enthralled. I’m here to milk a milquetoast.

But it’s not happening. I’m not fleecing him. I’m not doing anything. Except stare into those eyes. Those piercing, penetrating, soothing, gorgeous, deep blue eyes.

And there’s something else about them. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I’m seeing movement within them. Spinning. Swirling. Spiraling. I can see literal spirals in his eyes. I stare at the spirals. They draw me in. They take hold of me. I feel like I’m spinning round and round like they are.

I am dizzy. And befuddled. And sleepy. And aroused. All at the same time. I don’t know where I am or what is happening.

Is that Cyril talking? Is that me responding? I don’t know. I can’t tell. Everything is foggy. I think we’re moving. Walking? Now driving? Walking again? Entering someplace?

Do I feel lighter? Shorter? Is that air on my uncovered toes? Plush carpet under my bare soles? Where are my shoes?

Am I seated now? Am I…?

Oh. My head is clear. I can see. I can think.

I am seated on a contoured chaise. My legs are stretched out in front of me. Cyril stands before me. I glance at his eyes. Even though I don’t see any spirals in them, I quickly look away.

I demand to know what the hell is going on. Don’t I know, he asks coyly. Of course I don’t know. How the hell could I know? If I had read his stories, I’d at least have an idea, he tells me.

Really? If I had read his stupid stories? I mean, I glanced through a couple of them. I had to know at least a little bit about them and him in order to make my pitch sound convincing. What were they about again? Trying to remember…

Oh, yeah. Barefoot women. Hypnotized, brainwashed. Sometimes bound. I look out over my legs. My shoes are gone. I’m barefoot. Those spirals in his eyes from before. They were definitely hypnotic. And I did feel like I lost control of my mind. Like I was…in a trance maybe? Hypnotized?

No. No way. Except that…yes, it happened. I think I was hypnotized. I know I was. Well, at least I’m not bound–

With a tap on his phone, numerous metallic bands slide out from hidden compartments in the chair and encircle my body. In less than a second, my shoulders, arms, stomach, and legs are pinned. I can’t get up. I can barely move. I can squirm and wriggle, but that’s it.

I yell obscenities at him. I squirm and wriggle as much as I can. But it’s useless. I’m held fast.

He tells me that I’m not going anywhere for a while. So maybe just relax and not hurt myself. I tell him where and how he can shove it. Still, he isn’t wrong. I’m stuck. Keeping at it won’t help. And might end up hurting. So I stop struggling and wait to see what game he’s playing.

Revenge, he tells me. Revenge for what? For trying to scam him and successfully scamming countless others. I balk at that. No way I’m admitting anything to him. He can guess and accuse all he wants. Innocent until proven guilty.

He is persistent. He wants to hear my confession. He can want to, but he won’t. Screw that. Screw him.

Another tap on his phone. I hear a soft mechanical whine above me. I look up into the dark, concave opening of…something. An oversized helmet maybe? I’m not sure.

Don’t worry, he says. He won’t harm me. But he will get what he wants. Which is the truth, to start.

Whatever. He’s bluffing. Playing some sick game. Trying to scare me. I mean, I’m a little scared. But just a little. Sure, he hypnotized me. Okay, so he’s a hypnotist. That’s fine. But this whole scenario? It’s just theatrics. Props with which he hopes to scare me straight. It’s laughable. Sad, really. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

I will say that they’re good props. Well made. Effective. But sill just props. Fake. And ultimately lame.

The helmet-thing lowers over the top of my head. I hear a droning, staccato buzz coming from it. Pale green light starts pulsing in time with the sound.

Oddly enough, I feel a little bit like I did wen I was staring into his eyes. I don’t totally lose myself. I can still think. I’m certainly not hypnotized or anything. But, I am a bit drowsy and light-headed.

He says again that he wants to hear my confession. He wants me to tell him if I’m a scammer. If I was going to steal money from him. Give me a break. I’m not telling him any such thing.

Except that…I do tell him. I tell him the truth. I’m a scammer. A con artist. I was going to bleed him dry. Just like I’ve done to dozens of others and will do to many, many more.

Why the hell did I say that? Who cares if it’s true, there’s no way I would ever admit it! But I just did. I couldn’t help myself.

Wait, am I hypnotized? Is that why I said it? I want to know. I need to know!

I ask him. Something like that, he says with a sly grin. Just wait, he says. There’s more to come. Much more.

No. No, no, no. This is too much. I start struggling again. I wrench and kick and shake. It’s useless. He just laughs. 

Now that he knows the truth, he says it’s time to make some changes. What changes? He doesn’t say. He just taps on his phone again. The buzzing from the helmet-thing grows louder and faster. The lights shine brighter and match that rhythm.

Suddenly, I feel very dizzy. And incredibly sleepy. And increasingly aroused. Almost exactly like I did when he hypnotized me. Is that what is happening now? Is this machine doing it to me instead of his eyes? Yes, I think so. It must be.

All I want to do is close my eyes. And sleep. But if I do, I’ll be completely hypnotized. What will happen to me then? What will he make me do? Say? Think? Forget?

I can’t help it. I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m going to fall asleep. I’m going be hypnotized. I’m going to be under his control.

Changes, I hear him say. He is going to make some very important changes.

And then, my eyes close. I spiral down into a warm, cozy place. I vaguely hear him talking. I kind of hear myself talking, too. But I don’t know what we’re saying.

All I know is that I do whatever he says. I am honest. I am obedient. I am his to mold. I am his to command. I am his in all ways and for all things.

He is done. He says no more. Now, I forget. I forget everything. And spiral down again. Into deep, dark nothingness....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There. I finished one of the messages I need to write. I’m sorry, friend, but no I won’t take your money to poorly illustrate a story for you. I’m not sure why you* think that I’m the one to commission for such work. But hopefully you find someone else here on DeviantArt, or wherever else, with the skill and talent to do it for you.

*or a dozen others like you

I mean, it’s flattering that this guy thinks I’m that good an artist. But, jeez, I’m really not. Imagine if I was less scrupulous about it. With him and all the others that have contacted me out of the blue, I could make some serious money.

Thankfully, I’m not like that. I do have scruples. Morals. A good heart. I’m not going to lie, cheat, or steal to make a buck. It’s sad that some folks will.

Oh. Oh, my. Here it comes again. It’s so weird. It happens every time I think about scammers and con artists and what if I was one. That feeling. That overwhelming feeling.

I’m no prude. I know what that feeling is. I’m horny. Horny as all hell. Horny to the nth degree. So horny I need to stop whatever I’m doing and take care of business now. Now!

So that’s what I do. Go into my bedroom. Close the door. Rip off my clothes. Jump into bed. Reach for my favorite items. Spread wide. And start.

I used to fantastize about other things. Honestly, I can’t remember what. But now, I fantasize about the same thing every time:

I’m bound. Barefoot. Hypnotized. Brainwashed. Converted into a submissive, obedient slave to my master. His name is Cyril. He’s a real person. We’re friends on DeviantArt. I imagine he has gorgeous blue eyes that I never want to look away from. Sometimes he hypnotizes me with those eyes. Other times, he brainwashes me with a machine. This time, I imagine he’s using the machine on me.

Before I know it, I climax. Ahhh. I lay here for a while, sated and spent.

I get up and get dressed. Except for my shoes. It feels good to be barefoot for some reason.

Back online, I respond to another message from a DeviantArt user. No, sorry, I won’t take your money. That’s not me and never was….