#ottopilot-wrote-this

[ottopilot-wrote-this-txt]

A Nudge And A Wink

[ID: Color photo of a pretty young brunette waitress with blue eyes. She is standing, looking at the camera, in a deep hypnotic trance and is staring blankly with her lips parted. This is a mind-control/hypnosis fetish image. The setting is a diner in New York City's Tribeca neighborhood. She is dressed in a white blouse and an apron. The camera angle is from a slightly low point of view as if the photographer was seated in a booth .The shot has shallow depth of field and is shot on a 35mm Nikon camera with FujiFilm film and film grain. The mood is sexy but tasteful. (Stable Diffusion XL prompt)]

"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.

Damn. What was I doing?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

Wait. What the fuck just happened here?

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Peter looked quizzically at the notification on his phone. "Suggested: LooseChange has been downloaded by 1.1M users like you!" He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to click the notification and download it from the app store.

Peter quickly ran through the tutorial. It seemed simple enough: there were two tabs, one that said "Subject," the other, "Chat." The Subject tab contained a poll with a yes or no question that updated every three minutes, along with a scrollable history of previous questions and some occasional moderator comments. The Chat tab contained an anonymous live chat room open to all the online users across the word, currently around 275,000. There was a round plus sign button at the bottom for users to suggest new poll questions, which were chosen by a moderator.

The previous question was, "Should the Subject download the app?" 87.4% of users said yes. The current question was, "Should the Subject remove his clothes?" Currently, "yes" was winning by a substantial margin. Peter thought, why the hell not, so he voted Yes.

Peter put the phone down for a second and went to the bathroom. After washing his hands, his apartment felt very warm all of a sudden. Maybe the ventilation wasn't working. Oh well, his roommate Katie was away visiting family, so he figured he could just walk around the apartment naked if he wanted to. He shrugged, and quickly stripped off his clothes, feeling much better.

Peter picked up his phone and checked the app. Sure enough, the "yes" vote was a runaway winner. The next poll question was, "Should the Subject open his curtains?" This was a slam dunk answer, of course it should be yes, Peter thought, grinning. He flipped over to the Chat tab.

"Lol we're gonna make him an exhib pervert," one commenter replied. "I'm gonna ask if he should wank on the next turn," another chimed in.

Peter checked his mail, thinking this app was kind of silly. A bunch of polls, with no clear indication they were doing anything? He shook his head dismissively, when he heard a notification sound that the poll had closed.

Peter squinted. It was suddenly hard to read on his phone. He needed more light, he thought. Well, better open the curtains. He got up and pulled the cord that opened the curtains all the way, letting the daylight fill the room. Ah, much better.

He checked the app again, hoping it would start getting more interesting. The new poll question was, "Should the Subject switch genders?" Wow, that was an interesting turn of events. This question was a bit more adventurous, and the poll more contentious. The chat was getting heated. "Same old thing on this app, horny dudes always wanting to make bimbos," someone lamented. "I wouldn't mind so much if he was going to keep a girldick," someone opined. "Fuck that," another one argued, "let's slut him out."

Peter didn't really have a horse in this race, but it sounded like a bold choice, so he chose "yes" and submitted. He watched the results trickle in, until the "yes" vote won with 57.3% of the vote. A new poll question popped up: "Should the Subject be aware?"

Petra raised a well-manicured eyebrow as she looked at the question. Omigod, she thought, that would be so hot for the Subject to find out! Biting on her luscious bottom lip, she quickly voted "yes."

She had to admit, this was getting good. Thinking about this imaginary person, stripped naked, exposed to the town below, being turned into a woman, then having it revealed, was so arousing. She could feel herself getting hot and flustered, and she caressed one of the her ample breasts softly.

The notification went off, ending the poll, which of course ended with a "yes" verdict. Petra squealed with delight, as the next question came up: "Should the Subject send a selfie?" Petra went to vote yes, but her finger missed, and she accidentally scrolled backwards into the poll history.

Petra frowned as she looked at some of the past questions. Should the Subject get high? Try on his roommate's clothes? Masturbate to Bugs Bunny dressed like a girl bunny? These were all things she did this morning!!

Petra was overcome with horror as the realization dawned on her. She was the Subject! She hit the plus sign button to submit a question, but she did it from the Subject tab instead of the Chat tab. Her phone took a photo and uploaded it to the app, her surprised face and hanging globes displayed to a quarter-of-a-million users.

Fuck! She would be more furious if this wasn't so goddamned hot!

She quickly typed a submission, hoping to sneak it in before the next poll opened. "Should the Subject be reverted back to normal?" Petra murmered, hitting the plus button on the correct tab this time.

She let out a relieved sigh as her question was chosen. That relief was short-lived, as she saw the "no" vote take an overwhelming lead. "Haha fuck no! She must have typed that," read one chat message. Numerous laughing emojis filled the chat. The poll ended at 98.3% "no." "You fuckers!" Petra growled.

The next poll question made Petra gasp. "Should the Subject masturbate to their corruption?" She opened the chat tab, pleading desperately with the crowd. "No no no please guys don't do this," she begged. "This gunna be gud," read one reply. "I love this app," another beamed.

Petra watched the time tick down, her heart sinking. 93.7% said yes. She stared at that number, looked again at the nude photo of herself in the chat, and then outside to the open window, where any of her neighbors could see her nude form.

And she rubbed her clit. Small circles. Light pressure at first, then building. Then a finger, sliding into her waiting pussy. Then two. The phone dropped to her side, her freed hand groping her breast.

She didn't bother to read the poll question: "Should the Subject cum?" Which, of course, came to a "no" vote several more times, before the question was changed to, "Should the Subject ever cum again?"

I just think it would be hot to be controlled through a phone app! I like seeing magical phone apps in hypnokink and TF stories. I think it would be hot if someone changed who I was or controlled what I did with casual boredom like they’re just fiddling with a phone game

[ottopilot-sfw]

Ottopilot's (SFW) Eternally Pinned Post (EPP)

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.

I had been toying with the idea of a SFW blog for non-adult writings, but decided to go for it and extend it to other types of posts after the 2024 U.S. election. I have thoughts and I didn't want to hide them behind a NSFW 18+ blog. Still gonna swear like a mutha though. This post is a living document and is subject to change.

I generally reblog humor and memes, food pr0n, travel photography, disability advocacy (late-dx autistic and ADHD), and hopefully, some writing.

Also, 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, misogynists, ableists, right-wing nutjobs (RWNJs), et. al.

Frequently used tags:

#my text: old man yells at clouds, but in Tumblr form

#actually autistic: thoughts on living with, and constantly adjusting to, autism

#actually adhd: sorry, did you say something?

#otto's jukebox: put in a quarter and pick a song. Sometimes with additional commentary.

#just tag me next time: I begrudgingly admit this post reflects my existence

#it's true: used in Dwight Schrute voice, in which I agree with the hot takes of fellow Tumblrites

[ottopilot-ai]

Welcome

For now, let's assume this is an 18+ generative AI image blog. Minors DNI. I might change my mind if I push the NSFW stuff to other blogs.

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.

If you want to see more of my stuff or download the models I've trained, they are on my Civitai profile.

I know a lot of people either don't like AI at all, or are tired of it. I'm tired of it too, mostly because people don't label their images as AI. I'm going to make every effort to watermark my images here as "AI generated by @ottopilot-ai" and tag them #ai-art. They should be easy that way to block if you want.

So please don't get on your soapbox in my asks and DMs about it, I'm trying to respect you and let you avoid it.

Anyway, hope those of you who stay like what I have to show.

[jonathonrobinson-blog]

We kicked off our Sweet Sounds of Summer Series with Ottopilot! This up-and-coming band came with a unique, brother-centric background and a versatile skill set. I wrote copy to match.

[ottopilotreturns]

Forget "any port in a storm." Open all the ports.

I wonder how many cyborg/bimbo fetishists got that way because they were interested in one, ran a search, and failed to differentiate the kind of “implants” they were looking for.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Giving her a mirrored QR code tattoo so that every time she takes a selfie, it launches a trigger audio / spiral video.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

I hypnotized your girl, and had her make me breakfast in the morning.

I call that induction cooking.

[ottopilotreturns]

First time caller, @secret-subject, long time listener!

I'm Otto, i have been involved in the online mind control/hypnokink community since the late 2000s(!), from lurker to doing captions (2014) and flash fiction, to now actually trying to take writing more seriously (see @ottopilot-wrote-this).

Even when I just thought of hypnosis as a plot device, I gained admiration for Secret's attention to ethics and safety. That has been invaluable in trying the real deal. Actual hypnosis is still just a tool in the bag of perversions for me, but I am a fan of the Seduced into Obedience series.

I've always wanted to do these so...

Hypnokink roll call! If you're here and into hypnosis, reblog and introduce yourself!

Hi, I'm Secret and I am a full time hypnodomme from New Zealand. I like intense fractionation, amnesia, iq play, roleplay and corrupting others. I do switch a little but only for the right people and ideas... I make audios professionally and started doing that in 2017 and one of my favorite hypnosis moments was back in 2019 when I got to brainwash a ballroom full of people at charmed, it was WILD and I am so thankful for the experience. 😅

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Generational Trauma

Once more unto the breach of @subliminalbo's Romero Literary Universe. This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. This is also a prequel to Backend Support, though both stories (hopefully) stand on their own.

Thanks again to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the art trade and collaboration.

Bailey Castillo set the clippers on the sink counter and rubbed the base of her skull. She was a queer woman, it certainly wasn't her first time getting an undercut. But it was the first time she'd done it to herself.

It made her smirk to herself. Given the grim nature of what she had talked herself into, Bailey could use all the levity she could muster.

She had an undercut when she met Ed. It was a good metaphor, she thought. Under that big head of dark curls, there was an edge. Her fresh face and polite smile were a mask, disguising survival instincts and a pragmatism you could only get by growing up Black, asexual, and female in Romero, Washington.

Bailey rubbed the shaving gel in her wet fingers until it foamed up. Smelling of peaches, she rubbed it on her shaved hair. After rinsing her hands, she rinsed the razor's blade, new and sharp, in the cold water of the faucet.

It seemed a strange offer. What did a lingerie company need with an embedded systems designer? Software devs for e-commerce, sure. But she specialized in hardware, in writing firmware, in the arcane art of assembly code.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Not beggars who had a degree from the local party school, because Mamá got a discount on tuition, and it was what they could afford. Certainly not beggars who would take the first offer they could get that would get them away from this cesspool. Bailey shaved her neck and the undercut area with smooth, careful strokes.

Her first mistake was trusting. Trusting that if she did a good job - and her control array for Obedience by Fleur was, objectively, goddamn genius - she'd be recognized for it.

Bailey rinsed the razor of shaving cream and tiny black hairs. Won't make that mistake again.

She had overestimated Ed King. She bought his Silicon Valley rep, and failed to see he wasn't any different from Romero's traditional power brokers. He was a carnival barker, not a visionary like he thought he was. She was a commodity to him, not a person. If Obedience failed, she would've taken the blame; but since it succeeded, he was more than happy to take all the credit.

Bailey rubbed the smooth wet skin on her neck, checking for missed spots. Elena wasn't any better. She got what she wanted from Bailey, and that made her disposable. It was a blessing, really. Bailey was a natural beauty, but her curvy hips and thighs meant she wasn't model thin, and it also meant she was back at her mother's house in Romero, and not mindlessly, dutifully, licking Elena's designer boots.

Toweling off her neck, Bailey shifted away from the sink toward the 3D printer. She triple-checked her work.

When she first read about needleless tattoos in Wired, at all just clicked into place. A silicon ink payload in dissolvable microneedles. Putting the Obedience tech inside the subject. Permanently. Forget the sensors, pair the array with a fitness tracker or smartwatch. An AI sidecar to increase subject safety. No more brain damage.

Stealing the base software from Ed King? Bailey had no qualms about stealing from a thief. But she needed stake money. It was surprisingly easy to talk the Chinese triads into financing her. But they wanted proof before they pumped more yuan into her operation.

The 3D printer hummed to life as it printed the dissolvable needles, loaded with silicon ink, onto the dermal patch. This was, of course, a fork, custom firmware modified from the base model. Unfortunately, you can't just print a tiny one of these and slap it on a lab rat.

And experimenting on an unwilling human subject… That was something they would do. Bailey wasn't a monster. Not yet.

The array was done. It was a rectangle about the size of deck of cards. The trick had been spacing, making sure the crudely printed lines wouldn't bleed or touch accidentally when applied. Bailey's array was, of course, unique. She'd created a hyperfocus routine that, when enabled, could drown out stimulation and increase cognitive ability temporarily. More importantly, the mind control protocols were blunted, and she wrote an additional protection against mesmerism: the ability to mentally control her hormone levels.

But at the end of the day, this was modified Obedience by Fleur firmware. Bailey knew there was an unknown period where she would have to take Obedience's best punch, enduring and outlasting it, before the AI sidecar would read her biofeedback and adjust the indoctrination protocols lower. She was prepared for it, with a physical anchor.

She took the black choker, her mother's, in her left hand. When Mamá died, shortly after Bailey came back to Romero with her tail between her legs, it was in her jewelry box.

Bailey didn't know how to reconcile that. Mamá never said anything. She didn't have to. When she left the house wearing this choker, all painted up when she should have been in bed, the vacant look told young Bailey everything. But to keep this in an intimate place, where she likely saw it every day - before the early-onset Alzheimer's rotted her from the inside out - what did that mean?

That she missed it?

Bailey gripped the choker tightly, feeling the satin in her delicate fingers. She couldn't guess what went through her mother's mind. Bailey only knew what it meant to her: anger. Abandonment issues. A keepsake of a life she would never, ever lead.

One last check. One last chance to bitch out.

Bailey sat upright in her work stool. She prepared the tattoo array patch, removing it from the printing tray. She looked again at the choker in her left hand, her anchor to reality. She took the patch, and affixed it to the base of her skull.

At first, there was a cold, wet feeling. Like ultrasound gel. And it itched, probably from the microneedles penetrating her skin. Bailey's research indicated there wouldn't be any pain from the actual absorption of the silicon ink into her dermis, just a slight delay.

Immediately, she realized she'd miscalculated.

Bailey had set the weights on the Obedience protocol to fifty percent. She barely had time to process that was too high before she was inundated with sensation. "Oh… Fuck," she moaned breathlessly. It was so hard to think from the pleasure. Warm and comforting, like a blanket. Like a hug, but not a hug from just anyone. From someone precious. From a lover.

Then she felt something new. A flicker, at first. Then a slow burning heat. Then an intense raging inferno, burning between her legs, deep inside her, in her very soul. Bailey instinctively put her hand there, but it was a huge mistake. Immediately she rubbed her engorged clit through her panties, wetness spreading through the dainty cotton fabric.

Lust? But I'm fucking ace, Bailey thought, before the first orgasm hit.

Wave after wave of euphoric gratification pounded her senses like a tempestuous ocean.

Shit! this is- Then another.

Tides of pleasure washed over her.

The choker. Have to- Another.

The powerful undertow eroded her reason and resistance.

Mamá, I-

The blissful sensations overwhelmed Bailey, preventing the formulation of new thoughts, until she just simply stopped trying.

And then she was under. Submerged. Sounds fading. The world oh, so far away.

She was better this way, she saw that. It was better to stop resisting, stop trying to think, and just accept it. As she enthusiastically fingered her soggy cunt, mouth open, her body rewarding her for her compliance, Bailey thought she heard something. It was her own voice, moaning and panting and… giggling. Being dumb, and sexy, and available - it made her happy?

When was the last time she could say that, that she was legitimately happy?

She understood. She could feel like this for the rest of her life, and she only had to do one thing. Let go. Let go of the past, let go of the trauma, let go of the hurt. Let go of herself. The fingers on Bailey's left hand loosened their grip. The choker threatened to fall to the floor. No, not fall. To sink. To sink and drop, deeper and deeper. Her mind was still. Vacant. Empty, except for one thing creeping into her consciousness.

No. Not today.

Bailey's fingers tightened. She could feel the smooth satin, once cold, now hot with her own emanating warmth. She thought of Mamá, looking more like a movie starlet than her tireless, caring mother. Bailey saw her walk out the door, not even turning back to her crying daughter. And she remembered her pledge, to Mamá, to herself: it ain't gonna be me. Not today. Not ever.

Bailey held the choker with a steel grip, as if her life depended on it. It did. The choker was a life preserver in the choppy ocean of arousal flooding her mind and body. She had no idea how anyone could take twice as much of this. It was no wonder Obedience's control was absolute and immediate.

Slowly, she felt it. The constant bombardment of pleasure losing its steam. Waters receding. Her thoughts forming more easily, coherently. Her breathing stabilizing, and the hot flush of her arousal lowering to a simmer. "Set dopamine levels to zero," she gasped. She didn't need to say the words out loud for it to work, but in her disheveled state she needed to hear it. To remind herself she was in control.

She looked in a nearby mirror. Her eyes were a milky solid white, all sclera, no pupils. Her body was flushed with desire. She looked every bit the fucktoy she despised. Bailey knew she was lucky. If she had looked into this mirror a few minutes ago, she would've been lost.

Her hormone levels stabilizing, Bailey blinked, and her eyes returned to an intense chestnut brown. She was still in shock from the ordeal. She opened her palm and looked at the choker, and she placed it on her workbench. Slowly, she took her cell phone in her right hand and sent a message.

"Live test successful. Production is GO."

-------------------

The dream again. The same one. Fuck, I hate this, Bailey thought. And turning off the dopamine wasn't helping.

Bailey got out of bed and turned on a bedside lamp. She drowsily stood up, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. It was a hot July night, so she was only wearing panties. Which, of course, were soaked through. Again.

On her back to bed, she stopped at her nightstand. She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Running a prostitution empire based on mind control hadn't been kind to her, she thought.

Bailey wasn't sure what possessed her. But she reached into her top drawer, and retrieved Rosa's - Mamá's - choker. She hadn't looked at it since she turned on the Obedience array. She'd been too afraid. But here, in the dark, she fastened the choker around her neck. She activated her hormonal controls and raised them - not too much - to maybe 120% of normal. And she looked in the mirror.

Her eyes clouded over until the pupils were gone again, just solid white spheres. Like two blank canvases. She let her mind dull - again, not too much. Just enough to let her thoughts drift. Her full lips parted, on their own, as she watched with interest and arousal. She had always been beautiful, but now? She was a bombshell. All tits and ass and thighs, with a pretty fuckable face. She didn't have a sexual bone in her 29-year-old body, but she would fuck this braindead slut in the mirror.

Bailey's mind cleared as she regained control. She again dampened her pleasure center, and her eyes returned to normal. She took the choker off, and put it back, reverently, in her dresser drawer.

She now understood why Mamá had kept it.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Backend Support

Something new for you tonight, True Believers: a story set in @subliminalbo's Literary Universe! Featuring an image manipulation graciously provided by the man himself!

This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. While not required, the main stories are suggested reading.

Thanks to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the collabo.

Bailey's Huawai flagship, customized with added security and privacy features, rang and buzzed on her workbench. Her brow furrowed, temporarily wrinkling her flawless golden skin. "Support," Bailey muttered with caution as she answered. Very weird. If someone's calling this number… something is wrong.

"Uh," a timid male voice stuttered in response, followed by a long pause. "Um, I think I fucked up."

Bailey closed her eyes, sighing. "Go on."

"Well, I…," the man continued, but his cadence suggested he was distracted. "Hey, um, honey, don't touch that," he interjected, before refocusing his attention on Bailey. "I think she's broken. I broke her."

"You. Broke. Her," Bailey repeated slowly, each word more incredulous than the last. "And how… how did you break her, sir?"

Bailey thought she heard the man swallow hard through the tinny speakerphone. "OK. Well. I know that she has some, um, default abilities."

"Yes. Her menu. This was explained when you requested her services."

Loud noises. The sound of glass breaking. "Shit," the man said in irritation. "that was a gift!" He continued, talking faster, Bailey could practically hear him sweating. "Well, I wanted to know if she had, like, a secret menu. So I asked her, and she said no, but that there was…"

"An API," Bailey muttered. Fuck. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, and sighed again. She would have to work on hardening that endpoint. The last thing she needed was incel dipshits like Johnny Mnemonic here fucking with the product. She was a damn good engineer, but you don't exactly get to beta test mind control technology before you put it into production.

She should know. She was not only the president, she was also a client.

"What did you do, sir? Exactly?" Bailey's words were polite, but her tone dripped with frustration. Condescension also, but she really wasn't concerned about the customer's feelings right now.

Another pause, then an admission. "Well, she started telling me about her API, and I'm not a programmer, so I asked ChatLLM. And it gave me some things to try. Baby, take that out of your mouth."

"You fucking vibe coded her. You vibe coded a sex drone escort, running assembly code firmware, with some commands you got from a consumer AI. She's a human being, not a kit you bought at Radio Shack." Bailey could barely contain her rising anger. She mentally adjusted her hormone levels. Her pupils faded completely into solid white spheres. This wasn't the time to lose her cool.

There was hemming and hawing, then finally a guilty, "yes."

Bailey spoke again, the edge out of her voice as the fury subsided and her pupils returned. "Well, seeing as this would violate the terms and conditions of your agreement, if there were such a thing, I'm here to tell you: you break it, you buy it. Five mil ought to cover it. Have a good one."

"Five mil…five million dollars?!" the man exclaimed. Bailey could hear his voice quivering. "I don't have that kind of money! I work retail!"

"I'm sorry," Bailey said. And to her credit, she did pity this man. She knew enough to know his death would not be quick or painless. Triads don't fuck around. "The people I work with, they don't…" She chose her words carefully for effect. "take damaged merchandise lightly."

Bailey could her muffled crying on the other end. More broken glass, but no admonishment. Just sobs. She didn't like this. Didn't like the choices on the table. Having to calculate the least shitty outcome. Compromising her morality - her humanity - one crossed line after another.

But who was she kidding? Compromising your morality was The Romero Way.

"I don't want your dumbass blood on my hands. I'll make you a deal. Give me someone to replace her."

"I don't…what do you mean?"

"A wife, a sister, a cousin. Someone hot, or at least cute. Fixable. Someone local. A name, and an address, and you get to celebrate another birthday."

She could practically hear the man bargaining with himself. "I couldn't. I won't."

Bailey's voice was firm and callous. "No skin off my ass. Hope your will is in order." Give me a name, she pleaded internally. Take the goddamn offer.

"OK. I'll text it over." Very quietly, Bailey exhaled in relief. Her phone buzzed with a notification. She glanced at the address, and forwarded it to her liaison with some notes about tonight.

"You made the right choice. A team is on their way for extraction. For her, and for you."

"For me?"

"You know too much. Also, we have room in our inventory for all genders and sexual identities." In Romero, there are only perverts, and people who aren't perverts yet, Bailey ruminated.

When the man finally spoke, his voice was quiet, and his tone resigned. "Will she be okay? Will she be happy?"

Bailey hesitated. She thought of her mother, Rosa, her eyes glassy, wearing a low-cut red dress and her black choker, leaving a young child alone on a Saturday night. Baby, Mamá's got to go somewhere. Be a good girl and take care of yourself, okay?

She wanted to cynically deliver the uncaring truth. No, she wouldn't be okay. Ultimately, her happiness wasn't important, was it? It sure as hell hadn't been for Rosa, or for young Bailey. If you weren't part of Romero's circle of elites, you were just collateral damage.

But she didn't say that.

"Yes," Bailey lied, her voice soft and comforting. "She will." And she ended the call.

Bailey sat at her workbench for a long time, alone. Only the trees rustling outside the window permeated the silence. It could have been worse, she tried to tell herself. A lot worse. She saved a man from his own stupidity tonight.

When did she get so soft?

Ed King and Elena Maxwell had ruined her career before it got started, and they were going to pay. She only needed to set her emotions aside, and finish the job.

So why was she disgusted with herself?

These questions lacked simple answers. Tonight, isolated in her empty house, questions were the only company Bailey had.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Maid to Order

Matt frowned as he furiously flipped through the hypnosis manual, before finally chucking it to floor in disgust. No help. No help at all.

“マスター？ どうしましたか？” Kimiko asked, cocking her head slightly to the left. Matt just stared at her, blankly.

“Uhh, Kim…I mean, Kimiko-chan…just hang on, babe.”

Kimiko stood there next to the table, in her “sexy maid” costume of a lacy black crop-top and white pleated skirt. A puzzled look flashed across her youthful face, before she bowed slightly and smiled demurely.

Matt retraced his actions, hoping to discover some way out of his predicament.  How had Kim forgotten all her triggers? Why couldn’t he wake her? He already knew the answer, of course - she hadn’t forgotten her triggers, she had forgotten English.  He had hypnotized his girlfriend to become a Japanese maid, and she had literally done that.

“どのように私はあなたを助けることができます?” Kimiko asked.

Matt could only stare, open-mouthed. Wasn’t there something that said you couldn’t hypnotize someone to do something they didn’t want to? Well, Kim had always wanted to be more in touch with her heritage. And she did like being submissive in bed…wait, how was he going to explain this? Her parents were going to wonder why their pre-law student daughter stopped going to class in order to tidy up and make cute desserts all day.

Matt was going to have learn Japanese. Then he had to teach Kimiko enough English to wake her up.  That was going to take weeks, maybe months! He massaged his temples and winced. He was in so far over his head.

Sensing her Master’s tension, Kimiko sauntered over towards him from the dining area. With each step, her ample bosom heaved up and down, straining against her bra and top.  When she came to an abrupt haltin front of Matt, she crossed her hands behind her back and thrust her cleavage forward ever so slightly.  Her beaming smile never left her face.

“マスターは私のおっぱいを好きですか?”

Hmm, maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong, Matt thought with a smile. Perhaps having a live-in, scantily-clad Japanese maid for a few months wasn’t going to be such a bad thing after all. And fortunately, he knew a couple phrases in Japanese he could use tonight. Watching all that hentai was surprisingly going to come in handy…

First of, translations for Kimiko's lines:

“Master, are you alright?” “Is there anything I can do for you?” “Does Master like my boobs?”

I kind of like this one still! Another Caption Council entry, where @hypwriter picked the source and we wrote stories around it. I don't recall how this one did.

I think it helps it's light in tone, in a genre that tends towards nihilistic. I also remember making a conscious effort not to sexualize her ethnicity, and I'm pretty satisfied with that. If Matt flew her out to Akiba, she could probably have made a pretty good living in 2017.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

A New Year

Pete laid across his living room sofa, mindlessly scrolling his timeline. The dim ambient light and the cool glow of the television were all that illuminated his living room. Anderson Cooper, already tipsy, was telling viewers there were mere minutes before the ball would start its descent, ushering in the new year.

Yeah, except the ball dropped three hours ago, Pete thought. Live, my ass. Just hurry up so I can go to bed.

He was startled by a sudden knock at the door. Suspiciously, he rose from the couch. Who would be out in this shitty weather at this time of night?

"Pete? Pete, you there?" a woman's muffled voice called out. Pete turned on the outside light and looked out the peephole. It was tough to make out anything, but there was a young woman outside, alone, holding the handle of a hardsided suitcase, huddled in the rain.

Slowly, he opened the door and looked at his midnight visitor. His first impression was she looked like she went swimming in her clothes. Her jeans and her hoodie were saturated, and her dyed red hair was matted against her fair skin. She looked up, her sad brown eyes meeting his, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Hiya, Petey," she said, with a wan smile.

Pete hadn't seen Ronnie since the summer after graduation. He remembered that day vividly. It was a typical scorching summer day in the valley. They had gone out for burgers because he had said he needed to talk to her about something important. He was leaving for Irvine in thirteen days. She wore a tank top and short jean cutoffs, her soft curves barely contained by the threadbare fabric.

That was the day he told her he had been in love with her since the eighth grade.

The woman in front of him seemed to have aged two decades, even though it had only been six years. Dark circles hung under her eyes. Her ebullient personality was replaced with a world-weary cynicism. She looked like she was a day removed from a good meal, and twice as long from restful sleep. It was like seeing the ghost of his former teenage crush.

"If you'd let me in, you can keep staring, but at least we'll both be dry," she said, sardonically.

Pete snapped out of his trance. "Oh, uh, my bad. Yeah, Ronnie, come on in." He gestured to the couch. "Have a seat." He thought to get her a clean towel, but sheepishly realized he didn't have one. "Uh, can I get you a drink? I have a couple of beers..."

Ronnie left the suitcase and her Vans at the entryway. "No, I don't drink... anymore," she said, a frown appearing on her face. "I'll take a water. Tea, if you have it?"

Pete handed her a clean dish towel, which she used to tousle her hair. "Sure. Hot tea. Makes sense. Coming up."

Pete filled up two coffee mugs with water and stuck them in the microwave. "Sorry, this is quite a surprise. What brings you here in this storm?"

Seated on the leather couch, Ronnie shivered in her damp clothes. "Flight got cancelled. Fucking podunk regional airport. My parents dropped me off at the airport, then left for Mexico. They didn't think to trust their adult daughter with a key to their house, I guess," she said with a self-deprecating laugh. "Anyway, I thought of you and I... I wanted to see what you were up to."

Pete handed Ronnie a red coffee mug and a Ziploc baggie of teabags. "I stole these from hotels, take your pick," he said with a nervous laugh. He sat across from her in an easy chair, a UC Irvine coffee mug in his hands.

Ronnie picked out a black tea and dunked it into her mug. "Where's the 'rents, Petey?" she asked, her cold lithe fingers curled around the warm ceramic.

Pete smirked. "Divorced. Dad took a new job in Chicago. Mom got the house, but... there were too many memories here for her. She lives in Sacramento, has a new boyfriend. I moved here after college, and I teaching algebra at the high school. On my own here, but you know me, I've always been happy in my own company."

Ronnie took a sip of tea. "You used to talk about leaving that shithole and never coming back, and now you teach there. Bang up job there, chief."

Pete shifted in his seat and changed the subject. "What are you up to, Ronnie? No one's heard from you. No socials or anything," he said, his tone slightly accusatory.

"I work retail, getting treated like shit for a meager wage, it's exciting stuff," she deadpanned. "I'm taking some classes at a community college. Guess things didn't turn out like either of us expected," Ronnie mused, her voice tinged with sadness. "As for socials, people curating their lives, showing you the good times and keeping the bad times in their drafts... nah, I wasn't interested in that."

Awkward silence filled the space. Ronnie looked down into her tea, while Pete looked at the television, the big moment approaching. On the wall, a large antique clock ticked crisply, the sound reverberating through the quiet room. Finally, Pete spoke softly. "Listen, Ronnie... I'm sorry. About Marcus."

Ronnie flinched, lowering the mug from her face, which was drained of color. "Don't, Pete," her words came terse and halted. "Don't you fucking dare." Her words hung in the uncomfortable silence, the atmosphere rife with unsaid apologies. Ronnie glared across her mug, her eyes full of anger and hurt. Her eyes darted to the clock, relentlessly ticking away, and back to Pete. "I called you. I called you and you didn't pick up, didn't call back."

Pete sighed, leaning back in his chair, rolling his eyes and looking away. "I didn't know, Ronnie," he said defensively. "How was I supposed to know? You ghosted me, I had a broken heart..."

Ronnie slammed the mug on the coffee table, splashing hot water onto her hand and startling Pete. "Don't make excuses, Peter," she growled, her fiery eyes brimming with tears. "You felt the need to unburden yourself about your feelings because you were leaving. What did you think was going to happen, I was going to leave him for you? I was in love! You left me to deal with that.

"Then Marcus died, senselessly I might add, because he was reckless, and stupid. I was eighteen fucking years old, Peter! I lost my best friend and my boyfriend and I had nothing. I was getting drunk every night, I was broken, and I fucking needed you! I thought we were friends!"

On the television, New Yorkers were excitedly cheering in anticipation of the new year. On the wall, seconds ticked away on the clock. Outside, the wind howled and sheets of rain batted against the windows, as the intensity of the storm seemed to match the tension in the living room.

Pete sunk into the chair. She was right, after all. He had been so wrapped up in his own emotions he wasn't there for her in her time of need. Even after he knew the truth weeks later, he couldn't work up the nerve to call and apologize. He had been holding onto that guilt for years, and knowing Ronnie started drinking only made it worse. He wanted badly to apologize, to grovel for her forgiveness, but his throat was tight and he couldn't find the words. Any of them.

Ronnie fumed on the couch, tears streaming down her face. "You're not going to say anything?" she yelled incredulously. She shook her head, fighting the urge to lose her composure even more. Pete sat in silence, frozen, swallowing hard. Ronnie rose from the couch. "This was a mistake," she whispered, her voice quivering. "I'm sorry I spoiled your New Year's party of one."

Ronnie stormed to the door, fumbling with her soggy shoes, and grabbed her suitcase. "Goddammit Ronnie," Pete finally stammered, rising from the chair. "You can't go out there in that storm."

Ronnie turned to face Pete, her beautiful face a canvas of hurt and disappointment. "Watch me. Goodbye, Petey," she said softly. And with a slam of the door, she was gone.

Pete stood there stunned, his breaths shaky and uneven. His body felt cold, as if the blood had run out of his body. Different emotions - anger, at himself; guilt, sorrow, regret - flooded his mind, which screamed at his body to go after her even as he stood motionless. Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

Pete looked at a couple, two men, on his television. They were kissing, their first of the new year, as confetti fell around them. Surrounded by thousands, they shared an intimate moment as if they were the only ones in Times Square, their joy and love evident to an audience of millions.

The clock ticked on the wall, capturing Pete's attention. The ornate wall clock, a gift from his uncle to his parents for their wedding. The clock had outlived the marriage, its constant and unyielding ticking echoing through the silent room. A mocking testament to time lost, and the fragility of relationships.

Another couple on the television, this time a man and woman, but their body language was different than the gay couple. They were clearly old friends, platonic and familiar, hugging each other in the cold, jumping up and down excitedly. Content to be in each other's company, sharing a connectedness that Pete had not had in some time, as he stood alone, looking around his solitary home.

Outside, Ronnie cursed her stupidity, the downpour covering her tears, as she walked away from Pete's house. She had been so foolish, exposing herself to get hurt again. He had clearly learned nothing, and neither had she.

"Ronnie! Wait!" she heard Pete's voice in the night, over the wind. He's out of his goddamned mind if he thinks I'm stopping, she thought, continuing to walk away, her head down, with no destination in mind.

Pete ran after Ronnie in the downpour, which quickly soaked through his white t-shirt and pajama pants, as his flip-flops splashed on the sidewalk. Chilled to the bone, his breath coming in gasps, he yelled again, "Ronnie! Please...I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. Please come inside."

Hearing his apology, Ronnie stopped. She spun around, water dripping off her bangs into her eyes. "Why? You want to kick me when I'm down, Pete?" she said, raw and vulnerable. "Give me one good reason why I should open myself up to more pain tonight."

The rain ran down Pete's face in the streetlight, and Ronnie could not tell if he had also been crying. "Because it's a new year, Ronnie. Because I don't want to be alone tonight. I'm tired of being alone and isolated, and so are you, or you wouldn't have come here. Let's start over, you and I, and try to rediscover what we used to have before I fucked it all up."

Pete extended his hand, the palm shining in the light as Ronnie looked at it. "Let's get out of the rain, Ronnie. We've both been lonely for too long."

Ronnie looked at his hand, then into his eyes. No longer burning with rage and hurt, the look on her face was filled with uncertainty, as she took a step forward. "I didn't come here to sleep with you, Peter," she whispered, her eyes looking away.

"I'm not asking you to," Pete said warmly. "I'm asking you to come in from this storm and give me a chance to make everything up to you."

"What does that even mean, Pete?"

"Tonight, it just means I let you take a hot shower and sleep in my bed while I sleep on the couch. It means hitting the reset button on our friendship." Pete smiled again, tears forming in his blue eyes. "I miss my friend, Ronnie."

Bypassing the outstretched hand, Ronnie threw her arms around Pete, embracing him. For the first time in years, their bodies were in contact with each other, and Pete sighed as he tightly wrapped his forearms around Ronnie's torso, as she heaved with sobs. "I missed you too, you fucking idiot," she cried.

Gently, Pete kissed Ronnie on the cheek in the rain. "Happy New Year, Ronnie."

---

Pete stood in the doorway of his bedroom, dressed in a fresh, dry shirt and pajama bottoms. With the hum of the clothes dryer in the background, he watched Ronnie sleep in his bed. Relaxed and in peaceful slumber, her face no longer carried the weight and anxiety from earlier, and she reminded Pete of the young girl he fell for a decade prior.

Pete closed the bedroom door and made his way to the living room couch. He thought about the serendipitous events of the night, and reflected on the conversations they had before bed. God, how he had missed hearing her true laughter. As he laid he head on a couch cushion and pulled a throw blanket over himself, he considered that he didn't know what the future held for him and Ronnie. But maybe it was true that a new year meant a clean slate, and an opportunity to start anew.

As he drifted off to sleep, the wall clock ticked the seconds away, but he paid it no attention.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Some hypnotists use their voice, or a file, but I like to strap a couple of root vegetables to a subject's head. After they zone out, I like to make a salad.

I call that binaural beets.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

A Nudge And A Wink

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.

Damn. What was I doing?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

Wait. What the fuck just happened here?

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

We had some very rare time alone in bed to ourselves this morning. No opportunity for sex with the kids awake, but I wanted to kiss and cuddle and run my hands over her, so I nestled closer, laying on my side, my lips on her bare shoulder.

But she was watching Instagram reels. So I started rubbing and slapping her pussy over her clothes, under the warm down comforter. Lightly at first, but with each otter video or fireworks fail clip, I applied more pressure, feeling the heat building beneath the thin fabric of her skimpy pajama shorts. Her legs widened, knees falling to the side. In a prone position, she squirmed momentarily from the sensations. My fingers moving up and down at a consistent, relentless pace. I pulled back slightly with each playful slap, following it with a firm, through groping.

Finally, she gently set the phone down on its screen, turning towards me, giving me a soft, needy kiss. Her hand on my cheek, she broke off the kiss with a slight gasp.

Of course, our son made his entrance, and the moment was lost. I guess it was time to make the breakfast.