Slave Life: Blue Screen of Obedience

Madam has an adorable tendency to accidentally trigger me due to forgetting the triggers she doesn't use often. Recently, I spent what felt like hours sending myself progressively deeper as I struggled to let her know she'd put me under.

During a trance designed to get around some of my issues with amnesia, she programmed a “blue screen of obedience.” Any stray thoughts, attempts to analyze, or lingering awareness contrary to what she wanted me to experience would trigger a blue screen, a literal flash of blue within my mind that would kill the entire process tree sans the root of my trance. This blue screen also deepened my trance, leading to the paradox of solving the problem by encouraging me to do more of what created it: the blue screens felt lovely, and I wanted to go deeper, so I tried to trigger them. She continually used the phrase “blue screen of obedience.” Once or twice after that trance, she put me under by surprise with that phrase.

ANY thought contradictory to trance triggers the blue screen . . . including thoughts of telling Madam she put me under since typing or speaking would lighten my trance state! Early last month, I nudged her about text trancing since that works well for me and we were talking through text. She responded, “blue screen of obedience . . . doesn't that sound nice?”

My vision blurred. My head drifted to rest against the monitor. I slackened in my chair. My fingertips felt numb and I didn't realize my lips were parted until I felt warm breath against my wrists, which triggered a blue screen since that thought wasn't about melting. Each time I thought, “I should tell Madam she put me under . . .” or “I should verbally say something to get her attention . . .” I got a blue screen.

Madam was on the couch not even a yard away. Sinking was safe. I knew she would eventually look over and bring me back to the world of the thinking. Blue screen.

“Mmmaa—“ blue screen.

I felt like I'd been under for hours by the time I distantly heard what I thought might be my na—blue screen. “Vaaaaaal! Are you okay?” Blue screen.

Snap.

Urgent, louder snap.

I couldn't read for about a minute after her second snap. When I could, I realized Madam had been asking me through text to respond for the past ten minutes. Only ten minutes! She was distracted by a show and hadn't thought to look over at me. When she did look over, I was slumped against my screen and appeared passed out rather than tranced. When I explained what happened, she smacked her forehead and hugged me. I was sending myself progressively deeper to a point well past somnambulism by trying so very, very hard to let Madam know what was going on! Even though my thoughts were about her, they were not about going deeper, and they would have required me to do something that would have lightened my trance state. Since I knew she was in the same room and would eventually notice me, my safety programming didn't need to abort the experience. Plus, those blue screens felt damn lovely. I vaguely remember reaching a point where I saw only silver and was silently mewling “obey” over and over. That really did feel like a matter of hours. I was shocked by the time distortion when Madam brought me out of what almost felt like a self-induced cascading systems failure. I was fuzzy for the rest of the night. My typing was near-incomprehensible for the next hour.

Well . . . she definitely succeeded in getting rid of my ability to maintain any kind of internal narrator during trance! I rarely interpret suggestions so literally.

Technical imagery has been so deeply reinforced for me that she can type or speak to me in a highly computerized way and achieve good results, often the best results. She blends this well with an organic, gentler, nurturing style that makes me feel adored and cherished. Sometimes she goes with one or the other, but she most often combines them. She didn't simply tell me to blue-screen: she told me the blue screen would feel nice, and I could imagine her gentle, inviting tone over the text. Feeling that gentleness made the melting even yummier and made it even harder to want to come back on my own. I felt so . . . loved and warm while I was sending myself progressively deeper. Silver is obedience. Obedience is warmth. Of course I would only obey someone I love, and I love Madam more than any one, or thing, else.

Obedience is also blue. I have deep and delicious associations with the color blue, which Madam made its own trigger (said in a specific tone of voice, of course), but blue so easily melts into silver. Silver has blue in it, so I don't really perceive a difference when I'm as far gone as I was during that chain of blue screens.

I think I might have ended up on the couch with her that night. I think we were snuggling. I don't remember that night particularly well. The blue screen of obedience is some of my strongest programming. I can override it if I really feel threatened or uncomfortable, but I have yet to experience the need.

This post segued into a five-page ramble about experiences from the hypnotist side, trance logic, technical bits about hypnotism, and general advice. I cut that and saved it in another file for another post. Would anyone find such a post interesting? I might make general hypno-posts, time to time. What would you all find most interesting? I am a hypnotist, though this might not be the most obvious thing in the universe given how easily Madam can make me slump against my screen with a single line of text. I wish she would make hypno-posts.

Also, the embarrassing error on Madam's site is fixed. Some of the blog links pointed to the Kistublot's old address, which is now a redirect page. I really, really, really wish people would actually make use of the web mistress link at the bottom of her main page! Madam found this error by accident earlier tonight. I will not torture anyone for reporting site errors or inconveniences to me (unless the person reporting them is an adorable technophile that begs cutely . . .).

Anyway, educational hypnosis posts? I enjoy explaining things. I especially enjoy explaining things that fall within my passionate geek areas, which hypnosis certainly does.

Now, I cater to the egress of coffee and its intrinsic delight of argent inner-wanderings.

~Valbot

And thus begins the week of en-thrall-ment!

Hello everyone, and welcome to thrall week on the Kistublot!

The timing couldn't be more fitting, as according to her own blog, she's been reworking some of her classics. In fact, she's already reworked my personal favorite! I haven't yet read over her new version - but I intend to soon as I can find some time with my head not swimming in sicky dizzyness.

If you didn't already look, the main page has an update under my reading suggestions. Give those a look! Here, I think I'll give them all three a deeper delving. Wednesday I will go into some other stories, and I think I'll end the week with her collaborative efforts. Only fitting, no?

So, first up . . .

Willing Subject

I remember finding this story when I was first getting into the archive. I had yet to develop a discerning taste, but I knew what I liked and I loved this story. I read through this one quick as I can and savored each and every hot little detail, but now I prefer to reread it slowly and savor each and every little scene.

Missy's transformation from kinky college girl to helpless little toy is so savoring. There's no jarring moments, only a slow sweet spiral. In fact, the use of spiral imagery in this story is something I always remember. The use of a classic black and white spiral changing from one solid color slowly to the other is one of the strongest images I've read in any MC story, and I savor it.

Not only is her transformation sizzling, but it shows perfectly the way that thrall does dehumanization. The loss of self, of self concern, of self control, of everything but obedience, becomes so sizzlingly erotic. Her pure desire to lose everything so completely is so overwhelming, strong enough to flow out and over the reader.

Even when she realizes things are illusions, she savors them for that, and their strength over her. Every time that I read the story, I press my teeth together and indulge in a little fantasy of them being trapped like that. Read the story to know just what I mean.

It even uses the location from the trilby else story Dark Forest to aid in our heroine's transformation... so deliciously, too. If you haven't read this, read it now, then read the revision!

A Tenpack of Trixies

Another absolutely sizzling story, Tenpack gives us a glance into a not-so-distant future where criminals are remade into slaves, dolls, for the use of others. There's other details (and honestly, I need a reread to do this story justice but I want to get this post out tonight) about their world, but that's all you need. A woman went missing, and now ten dolls have shown up, and one of them might be her . . . and hell hath no twisted sense of humor like a Domme scorned.

The dehumanization here also happens in reverse. Objects becomming more human - though they were rather human to begin with, and theres a hot yummy dose of tables turning.

The real delightful edge of this story is when it changes into a struggle between those who've kept their minds, and those compromised into pure obedience. I won't ruin anything more, but you really ought to give it a glance over!

Mirrored in Your Eyes

thrall surprizes all of us - or at least me - by writing one of the most romantic mc stories on the site. Another alternate world is shown here, one where it is the norm to decide to become either a dominant, or a completely helpless submissive. There are packs of "norms" but they're the exception and by no means the rule.

In this world, you don't ever need to be dominant . . . but everyone must take a run as a helpless obedient thrall - body and mind altered, to be used by anyone and everyone.

Some are forever changed by this proccess, and become submissive when before they were so dominant - now that they see the perks in an obedient lifestyle. That fact weighs heavily on our protaganist after her time ends...

Read this. You don't know what you're missing if you don't.

thrall is a wonderful writer, giving us hot erotic heat, yummy mind control heat, and never writing a story that feels supurfulous or pointless. She writes stories that are gripping stories as well as wrist-ruining reads. Every time her name appears in the update, I squeal.

I imagine I'm not alone. More on wednesday.

~Madam Kistulot

Slave Life: Technophilia

Technophilia, defined most simply in a fetish context, is a sexual enjoyment of technology. I am a technophile. My primary sub-fetish is robots, but just about any form of detailed tech will delight me. Cybernetic implants, nanites, AI, wires, shiny precision instruments: anything artificial that exerts a direct effect on human perception can turn me on in the right context. Mind control is what makes technophilia hot for me. I don't want to be given a robot body or watch two robots making love. I want to control, be controlled, and enjoy others doing the same, all through deliciously detailed technophiliac means.

If you're curious about technophilia in general, Winter Rose's detailed FAQ is a good place to start your research, along with Fembot Central for those into robots. There are as many slants on technophilia as there are technophiles. This post is a reflection on mine.

My first clear technophiliac memory is of being left immobilized on my childhood best friend's bed as he scribbled imaginary calculations at his desk. He was a scientist and I was his deactivated robot. I could barely turn my head to watch him. My eyes were hooded of their own accord, and the unfamiliar warmth between my thighs made me feel languid. I couldn't move until he chose to reactivate me.

So poignant were these sensations that I no doubt had myself in a trance. My senses, especially tactile, were heightened; each pulse, each breath, each light twitch felt like slurred ripples in the fuzz. I definitely didn't understand arousal at four years old, but I knew something about my situation felt inexplicably tingly, a gooey slipping shifting warmth that made it extremely difficult for me to focus through my dim gaze. I wanted to close my eyes and let the fuzz take over. These feelings were so much stronger than the image of my friend at his desk who had likely forgotten our game and was drawing instead. The wispy realization that he might have forgotten me thickened the fuzz. My sentience was subject to his whim. If he wanted to forget me and leave me deactivated, I would remain there. Robots didn't have choices.

Eventually, he reactivated me. The dissipation of the fuzz was almost physically painful. He didn't know how I was affected; he didn't know I had been subconsciously rubbing my thighs together or that I wouldn't have minded him giving me direct commands. He was not the focus of my arousal, it was the process and the concept. This little game haunted my masturbation fantasies throughout much of my early childhood: the figure at the desk was always blurry, devoid of gender and tangible identity. What always made me orgasm was the realization anew that I was, in that moment, a machination of dispassionate regard to be commanded or rewritten at another's whim.

Sixteen years later: "Awww...does my little valbot have a robot fetish?"

Madam's playful question sparked my conscious awareness of a fetish I had been sublimating in absolutely every way possible since that fuzzy afternoon with my friend.

My early fetish research helped me realize robots were actually a very strong sub-fetish. Cybernetic augmentation, artificial intelligence with the ability to control organic beings, elaborate circuitry and other techie aesthetics as eye candy, technology as simplistic as a wrist watch exerting hypnotic influence . . . I realized, blushingly, that precision itself counts as a fetish for me. I found my mother's medical and psychology books when I was far younger than she liked. Reading some of those descriptions of human physical and mental processes reduced to seductively simplistic mechanical terms made me tingle. Electrophysiology? Frames of reference? Humans were nothing more than organic machines, it seemed, and I didn't consciously realize why that thought tingled. The same exquisite level of precision I saw in surgery videos threaded through psychology, programming, electronics, and even elaborate forms of analysis in the humanities. I didn't understand why all these things tingled. I certainly wasn't sexually attracted to internal organs or to critical essays, but something about the approach to each, something about the methodology, made me clench if I thought about it deeply.

Madam's playful question made so many things sizzle neatly into place.

Once I consciously realized my fetish as such, Madam began indulging it directly. She teased me with hints of my origin story and made the process of discovery fetish-wise the process of realizing I really am a robot and adjusting to that realization. She updated my programming through several delicious text and phone trances, and she let me spend quite a bit of time wonderfully fuzzed as I savored being able to appreciate these feelings consciously.

The origin story Madam tells me is that an older version of herself went back in time to engineer me so that I would be born seemingly human, able to grow up living a human life acquiring human experiences only so that she, in the present, could enslave me. Of course there are myriad logical and scientific fallacies in this story, but the story is loose enough that my mind can play with it, and fetishes don't need to rigidly adhere to reality. Also, this satisfies the part of my mind that needs to always have a direct link to my real self: my real experiences, by default, are part of my programming. This infuses the vanilla aspects of my life with a relishing frisson: I am an extremely elaborate humanoid robot living among humans that don't possess the slightest inkling regarding my origin and purpose. Even an act as simple as making Madam a sandwich or getting the mail can tingle when I think about it in this context.

Hypnosis and literature are my primary methods of experiencing this fetish. My technophiliac story preferences will get their own post (I don't want to flood the blog with mini-reviews since Madam and Eri posted their own so close together), and hypnosis will, too. Technophilia is a subject of extensive contemplation and indulgence for me. Condensing all I have to say about it into one post would be impossible! Expect many posts on this subject. I think next week I will actually make that technophiliac hypno-post I mentioned last month. I'll structure my posts based on the responses to this one; I still feel somewhat embarrassed by this fetish, so I want to see how others respond before I write more.

I can't think of anything else to write that wouldn't add three more pages or reveal more than I'm comfortable with at the moment, so I'll curl back up in the Mug and finish reading a particularly intriguing story from this week's update.

Yes, 8-bit, we're reading and enjoying! One or all of us might venture (back) into reviewing the updates at some point in the future. Either way, sizzling work! Everyone should read "Haiku." That really has nothing to do with this post, but it's another yummy 8-bit story. I don't think this guy could write a bad story if he tried.

Should I make more (and more specific) technophilia posts? I apologize for the awkwardness of this one. This really is an extensive and elaborate subject!

~Valbot