Please Can Someone Slide Into My DMs With Some Spirals And Make Me Their Happily Devoted Brainwashed

Put me into a deep trance, dress me in a short skirt and a tight top, then take me for a walk. Sit with me on a bench and put your hand up my skirt to fondle me. Tell me what a good boy I’m being for mummy.

Make me emotionally and financially dependent on you. Give me a very small, strictly controlled allowance. Make me desperate for your praise. Just manipulate and control me and make me absolutely adore you despite you treating me badly!

I just want to stare vacantly at a pretty pink spiral as mummy slides a strap into my ass and tells me what a good boy I’m being.

Just saw a picture of a woman in hot pants and it triggered me into ordering some French knickers for myself.

I want to be kept denied and naked and caged. And then when I’m unlocked I’m so proud of my little erection that I don’t realise I should be embarrassed at being kept naked and needy.

This morning on the train to work a woman got on and sat down next to me. She was much shorter than me with jet black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She was wearing a black suit, black tights and flats. I immediately wanted her to slip a chloroform soaked rag over my mouth, looking dispassionately into my eyes as I slip into unconsciousness. Then I’d wake up later tied up on the floor of her bedroom wearing nothing but a nappy and a (thick) mouth gag.

Then the brainwashing would begin. “You like it here.” “You’ve always lived here.” “You never want to leave here.” “Being here with mummy is all you’ll ever want.”

I want to watch a woman apply lipgloss. Her lips get thicker and wetter and shinier the more she applies. I can’t look away. I don’t want to. The motion and the shine are so wonderfully mesmerising. Those lips are so plump that they fill up my whole mind. And I realise that she’s talking. I’m watching those perfect lips mutter instructions to me that I know I’m taking in, I just don’t need to consciously hear them right now.

And now I’m asking if I can please make squirties as I look at those lips. I’m fantasising about gliding my little peeny in between those beautiful, sumptuous, plump lips and squirting. But I’m not allowed. That’s for big boys. Little boys like me are satisfied with watching that lipgloss get applied.

The idea of being made to get a tramp stamp, and it being referred to as a tramp stamp, so that a mummy can make fun of me and call me a slut and tell me no woman will ever want me, is very very hot.

Take my mind away from me and make me a good slutty boy who begs passionately and desperately to perform housework and suck mummy’s strap-on.

Fantasy idea: a performance appraisal at work. My boss tells me she’s very pleased with my work and that I’m a valued team member and she really enjoys working with me… but she’s noticing lapses in focus due to me looking at my phone too often. She suggests keeping me in chastity and authorising and-or overseeing any releases I have for “the foreseeable future.”