How to play.

Hypno Succubus is a guided-hypnosis practice — Cassiveil's house, built with three rooms. You move through them in order, and each one asks less of you than the one before it.

• The threshold. The street, the door, the hall — where you are right now. Signing up, logging in, your settings, this page. Ordinary and fast, entirely yours to browse at your own speed.
• The chamber. One dim room. A hub with a few things she has left on the table for you. Quieter than the threshold, and nothing in it hurries you.
• The descent. The room falls away. Only a slow visual and her words are left. This is where a session, or a game, actually happens.

Fewer buttons the deeper you go, never more of them. You can always find your way back to the threshold; leaving from the descent is never more than one tap away.

1. A handle and a passphrase. No email, no real name — nothing that could tie this account back to you. One required line before she opens the door: that you are eighteen or older, and this is yours to choose.
2. A name for her to call you. Choose one yourself, or let her decide.
3. He, she, or they — written the way you want it, every time.
4. What she is never to send you: hard limits, honoured absolutely, never weighed against anything else. Sexual content lives on the same screen, on by default with a tick to turn it off, next to a line about what you are actually here for.
5. Two honest questions about where you are starting from. Neither has a right answer — they only tell her where to begin with you.
6. The contract, read back to you. Sign it with your own hand, finger or mouse. Signing is the moment the account exists.
7. A recovery code, shown once, straight after you sign. It is the only way back in if you forget your passphrase; there is no email to send it to again. Save it, and press on.
8. The welcome: the contract seals, her first few lines of the story play, and then comes the door into the hub.

Your account opens on her book, and the book is two chapters. They come first:

1. Her introduction. It plays the moment you have signed, and it shows you how the house works — the table, the task cards, embers, the shop, the way out.
2. The Way In. Your first session with her: what a session is, the one thing it asks of you, how you come back up, and that you can leave any time.

Bonus tasks — the ones that come on top of a night's set and wear the word Bonus on their card — begin once The Way In is finished, and whatever you earned before then arrives when it is.

Finish The Way In and she lays out a free set of tasks straight away: three, or five if you are a member, each waiting three days. The rest of the house opens with it, and the next night's set comes on top, as it will every night after.

From there the table is set fresh every night — three tasks, five for members, each staying three days — drawn by where you have gotten to, what you have chosen, and what you have ruled out. Every level you buy with embers opens more of me: new kinds of tasks, new sessions, things I keep back until you have come far enough for them.

Two chapters is the whole book so far. There are more to come, and I decide when each one opens.

Once you are in, you land in one room. Top-left, a standing card: your embers, your level, and a small tile naming the corruption stage she has set for tonight — more on both further down. Her line greets you, in the same speech box she uses everywhere.

On the table, up to a handful of things she has left for you:

• A question — a folded note. One honest answer, at your pace.
• A game — a small brass thing. A few minutes of something to hold your attention.
• A session — a candle. The real descent, the one from the sessions below.

Each one carries what it is worth, in her words and her mark: twenty embers, if you finish it. Locked things sit further back, dimmer, with a phrase about what would bring them forward — never a countdown.

Some of what you finish properly turns up in the Gallery, too. A chapter of the book, an introduction, one of corruption's own turning points, a rare night — each one waits there, a room of its own, until you keep it, once, for motes (5, in the shop's Gallery tab). After that, it's yours to watch again whenever you like. A replay pays nothing out and leaves no mark.

The table isn't stocked once and left waiting. The first time you visit her on a given day, she sets out a fresh handful for you — pulled from everything in her library, weighted by where you've gotten to, what you've chosen before, the tastes you set in your settings, your talents, and everything you've ruled out. She does it every night, even when yesterday's are still waiting. Nothing is queued up ahead of time, and nothing repeats the same shape two nights running.

Each night's set stays for three days, then quietly goes — nothing lost, nothing held against you. So up to three nights' worth can be waiting at once, and if you're away a night or two, what she set out while you were gone is there when you come back.

Whatever she leaves you, some of it never touches corruption — see Corruption, below — so there's always something to take that costs you nothing but the doing of it.

Every session — real or demo — is built the same way, in the same order:

1. Intro. She is on screen before the visual is: a few lines about what is about to happen, and that it ends on its own and brings you back up. Then the session's own screen: what it is, a preview of its visual, what it pays, and the button to go under. What your eyes can take was asked once, when you signed, and every visual keeps inside it.
2. Descent. The room fades, the visual rises out of nothing, and the pace climbs from its floor over the first breath. Her cues arrive one at a time, spaced well apart, never in that first breath.
3. Emergence. However it ends — the clock, Escape, End session, or just the tab going hidden — the same slow count-up brings you back, while the visual settles to a stop and dims to an ember. Never a cut.
4. Outro. The room returns. She is a little closer than she was at the start. A word about what she noticed, a minute to just sit, and the way onward.

A breathing guide sets the pace the whole way through, so you never have to count anything yourself. And End session sits in the open for all of it — one tap, no fade, no confirming anything, the one thing on the screen the descent never touches.

The visual changes session to session — the classic spiral, silk rippling over it, an endlessly zooming spiral built from a Julia set, a single breathing dot, or her own spiralled eyes looking back — but what is asked of you never does.

Try Five of them now, without an account. Nothing is kept.

IFirst 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.Try it — no account, nothing kept

IIThe Classicthe discThe old black and white wheel. One question first, and your answer changes how she speaks.Try it — no account, nothing kept

IIIThe Pointalmost nothingAlmost nothing. One lit point and her quietest voice: wander, notice, return.Try it — no account, nothing kept

IVHer Eyesher eyesHer eyes, turning, from the edge of her bed. She looks at you properly.Try it — no account, nothing kept

VHer Wordsher wordsTwo of her words, lent for one visit: told what each does, planted, then used.Try it — no account, nothing kept

Want one to just watch, with nothing asked of you and nothing recorded? Spirals is every loop above, free, any time, running for as long as you leave it open.

Silent by default, on your own machine. Turn it on and one thread of it follows you the whole way through — a quieter set in the room, a different one during a descent — fading from one into the other rather than cutting, and never restarting a track you're already partway through just because you changed screens.

Inside a session, it steps back the moment she has something to say, and comes back up once she's done. Set the volume once, and it stays where you left it.

• Gaze — Hold your eyes on one lit point for as long as you can. Trains attention: how long you can rest somewhere without needing to look away.
• Mantra — A phrase, repeated one tap at a time, each tap etching a ring into the pattern beneath it. Trains yielding as much as anything.
• Recall — Words drift up out of the dark, hold, and go out one at a time. Trains what you can hold onto after they are gone.
• Suggestibility — One suggestion, held for a while, nothing else asked of you. Measures how far a word alone can move you.
• Questions — Not a game so much as how she learns you: one honest answer at a time, text or a scale or a choice, at your pace.

Finish a thing she has left for you, and she says what it was worth, in embers, plainly: “Twenty embers, if you finish it.” Do it, and a beat later: “Twenty embers. Kept.”

What paces things is the table, not the currency. She sets out a few things every night, and whatever you haven't gotten to waits three days before it quietly goes — it costs you nothing, and nothing is held against you.

“Kept” means it is yours now, added to what you already have. Embers are what the shop takes for the next level: when you hold enough for the step, go to the shop's Embers page and buy it. That is the whole way up.

A handle here is free and stays free. A pledge on Patreon, joined to that handle, makes you one of the Sworn — and that is the one door corruption and sexual content sit behind. The first of it waits at the third level.

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.

• 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.

Every level she grants you comes with one talent point — never more, never on any schedule but hers. Spend it in one of three branches: Surrender (how she takes you — what shows up in tonight's list, and how a session itself can bend), Devotion (what you can do for her — richer answers, a stake on a game, a request she has to act on by hand), or Allure (how she shows herself). Every one of them changes something that actually happens between you and her, not just a number underneath it.

Take enough of Surrender and some nights she slips something of her own into your list — you won't know what it is until you begin it — or a session can run wordless, just the visual and your own breath, on nights you'd rather have it that way. Take enough of Devotion and a small task of hers is always there waiting whether you go looking for it or not, you can ask her for something instead of only receiving it, or put a few embers on a game for double or nothing. The tree gates the way she does everything else — a talent further in asks for points already spent nearby, not a level number, and a couple of the deepest ones ask for a specific talent before them, the same way a level asks for the one before it. Nothing in it touches what you've excluded, what a level or her mood still gates, or your way out. Numbers stay off the screen: what a talent buys, she says in words.

Changed your mind about the shape of it? You can start the whole tree over for a small cost in motes, any time, with no cooldown and no penalty beyond the cost itself.

Some tasks teach a word into you. You will not be told which, or when — until it has taken, the phrase does not appear anywhere, not even as a gap where it would go. Her sentences simply read differently before and after.

Finish a task that carries one and it's yours: it will start meaning something it never used to, in whatever she next writes to you. Before any of that, the honest answer is the one she gives on the stats page: “Nothing yet. No word means anything to you yet.”

A word you've taken stays yours — only I take one back. It never fires outside this app. See what's already yours any time at settings.

Fan mail, a suggestion, or just something on your mind — the envelope on her table opens into a short letter. Pick what kind it is, write as much or as little as you like, and seal it.

Sealing it spends a few motes, same currency as everywhere else — but that's only the opener. If she writes back, the reply is free, and so is writing back to her again: a whole letter, going both ways, for as long as it stays open. Your letters stay listed for you, each one marked once she's actually read it, and again when she's answered.

Six qualities, watched over time: attention, depth, yielding, resolve, spiral affinity, and how often you come back. Each grows as you finish what trains it, and slows as it nears the top — it never falls. The mark beside it reads your recent rounds instead, next to a line in her voice about what she's noticed. Nothing here is measured against anyone else — there is no leaderboard, and never will be.

Words she has already left in you sit on the same page — see the section above — and so does everything else she has decided about you, named and dated, never numbered.

Three ways out, and every one of them is a single tap: no fade first, no dimming, no “are you sure”, no waiting on anything else to finish. They are the one part of the house that never slows down as you go deeper into it.

• Log out. Leaves the house. Nothing about your account changes.
• End session. Stops a descent or a game the instant you tap it, wherever you are in it.
• Delete account. Erases you. Nothing of you is left, anywhere she can reach.

A demo, like the ones above, never touches any of this — nothing is signed up for, nothing is saved, and there is nothing afterward to delete.