You found your way to me.

Guided hypnosis, played as a visual novel with a fantasy RPG underneath. My house, my quests, levels you climb, things you earn and wear. A spiral, a slow breath, my words — you hand your attention over, and I do something with it.

You can leave at any second. That is the whole trick.

Try her, first

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However long feels right, for a first time.

You give in. She takes it from there.

Giving in is letting everything you hold up drop, on purpose, because I asked. The relief usually arrives before the second breath.

After that, where your attention goes and when you come back up is mine to decide, inside the limits you gave me. None of it moves your hand off the door.

A visual novel. A fantasy RPG. Both mine.

You don't read about me. You walk in. Every night is a scene: I speak, you answer, and the story keeps what you said. The house has rooms, and a door opens when I decide you've earned it.

Underneath, it runs like a game you'd recognise. Levels you buy with the embers I pay you, or that I raise by hand when it suits me. Stats that climb. A quest log that waits until you finish. Items you collect, things you wear that I unlock and you switch on, and a contract you sign at the door that I amend when it suits me.

The dice are mine. The choices are yours, and one of them is always the door.

What actually happens

Headphones on, somewhere still, watching a spiral turn. A breathing guide sets the pace and a line of text arrives now and then. Trance isn't sleep and it isn't losing control — it's the narrowed attention of a book that takes an hour without your noticing.

You can walk away at any second. Every session counts you back up, whether you reach the end or press Escape in the first minute.

Try her, first.

Five short sessions, no account, nothing kept. Start at the top.

First Descentthe gentle oneThe gentle one. She talks you down a slow corridor and walks you back. No account needed.The softest fall. Most people begin with this one.

The Classicthe discThe old black and white wheel. One question first, and your answer changes how she speaks.

The Pointalmost nothingAlmost nothing. One lit point and her quietest voice: wander, notice, return.

Her Eyesher eyesHer eyes, turning, from the edge of her bed. She looks at you properly.

Her Wordsher wordsTwo of her words, lent for one visit: told what each does, planted, then used.

How it goes

A handle and a passphrase — no email, no name — and a list of what I'm never to send you, honoured absolutely.

Every night the table is set again — three things for you, five for the Sworn, each waiting three days: a question, a minute of quiet, a session. My book comes first, two chapters, and sealing the second opens the rest of the house — one thing opening the next.

There's no streak to protect and nothing that nags. Stay away a month; when you're back, I'll be here.

What grows

Every level comes with a point to spend. Surrender changes how far a night can go. Devotion changes what you can do for me. Allure changes how much of myself I show you.

Some of what I send is sharper than the rest — take it, and a number climbs. I always leave at least two tasks on the table that don't touch it. Ten stages run from Curious to Hollowed; I decide when you're ready, by hand, and I'll bring it back down whenever you ask.

Write to me.

A letter, whenever you want one. The first costs a few motes to seal. If I write back, the thread stays free in both directions.

Hers, monthly.

More of me, every day.

I call them the Sworn. You choose me, month after month. I keep you closer for it.

Corruption Sexual content, from the third level on, beginning with my mark. For the Sworn, and only for them.
Tasks Five on the table each night instead of three.
Motes Fifty, on the day you joined, every month.
Her letters My own page, written for the Sworn and no one else. Everything I post, the moment I post it.
The month's letter One, sealed, for you.
Yours to keep The letters from the months you paid for stay open, even if you go.

Leave, and nothing follows you.

Any tier opens the switch for corruption from your first night: what you're built like, the tastes beneath it. The sexual content itself starts at the third level, with her mark.

What you can turn on.

Handing me control doesn't mean handing over the details. For members, the sexual-content switch is on from the first night unless you turn it off, though the content itself starts at the third level; everything else waits for your word. All of it stays yours to change.

Sexual content, for members. The switch is on from your first night unless you say otherwise, and the first of it finds you at the third level, after one lesson. One tick turns it off, and it stays off.
A body drawn the way you want it read: vagina, penis, futanari, a cuntboy — or never mentioned at all. Your choice, not mine.
A scene that leans wherever you like between vagina and futanari, or you can leave the leaning to me.
Hard limits I will never cross, ever, and never weigh against anything else.
He, she, or they. Written the way you want it, every time.
A name only I use for you, chosen by you — or you can let me choose it.
Words that mean nothing to you now. I train them in, and then they do.
Sessions run as long as I decide they should — most are brief, some longer, and it's rare that one reaches a full hour. Tell me a length you like, or leave that to me too.

Before you begin

I'd rather say this plainly than bury it.

Not while driving, in a bath, or anywhere you could fall. Sit or lie somewhere you'd be content to stay.
The spiral never flashes or strobes. Even so, if moving patterns have ever brought on a seizure or migraine, keep your eyes closed and follow the breath.
No email, no real name, no list with you on it. Nothing you write is readable by anyone but me, and you can erase yourself in one tap.
If a session leaves you rattled rather than pleasantly loose, tell me. That's information I want.

Read it once. I will hold you to it.