Preheating My Slut's Oven

Relax.

You remember the pleasing sleepy feeling you get from being hypnotized.

You remember how good it feels to follow my words and to allow them to lead you into a deep trance.

My words guide you deeper and deeper.

You can already feel a familiar fog descending over your mind.

Only a light layer of this fog has formed so far but you notice its distinct weight and warmth is already beginning to slow your thoughts.

Your mind is beginning to feel sluggish. It becomes easier to just focus on my words and ignore your surroundings.

You let your body relax deeply into your chair.

All your muscle tension melts away and you let your limbs go limp and weak. As you let conscious thoughts of your body drift off it becomes even easier to focus on my words. As you focus more on my words you feel the soupy cloud continue to grow in your head.

Your eyes flutter and it takes all your mental and physical strength just to keep them focused on my words. All you can manage from your hand is to keep scrolling down this page to see more of what I have to tell you.

And the more you scroll down the deeper into hypnosis you fall.

And as you fall deeper the fog thickens in your mind.

Your thoughts move slowly through this haze as it fills up more and more of your mind.

You feel this murkiness spreading over your entire consciousness.

The heated fog is spreading more and more in your head to fill every corner of your mind. As it spreads and thickens it slows the thoughts that try to pass through it more and more.

Every conscious idea you try to generate just gets stuck.

Your thoughts never seem to get where you are trying to send them. They just get lost in the fog and end up drifting off into nowhere. And every time you lose a thought there is an even thicker cloud waiting for the next one.

But you find it so hard to care because the fog is so warm and pleasant.

You feel the cloudiness descending over your mind like a warm blanket and as it wraps tighter and tighter your lips part slightly into a blissful grin.

The more you scroll down the more your mind mists over.

It is almost as though by scrolling down you are turning a valve that releases more of this fog into your mind.

You breathe in and out deeply.

And each breathe takes you deeper too. Each breath drifts you deeper and deeper into hypnosis. Each breath also pumps more and more of the warm pleasurable fog into your mind.

Keep following my words and let your own thoughts stop.

Remember how easy it is to slip away from this point and how much you love being a good little sleepy girl for me. You remember how much you love being controlled and hypnotized.

You feel the moment approaching where your consciousness will shut off and your mind will be completely empty except for the warm cloud of your trance. You will have no thoughts. You will be completely open to whatever thoughts or desires I put into you.

Your body is completely limp in your chair. Your eyes are glazed and empty. You are the perfect image of submission and helplessness.

Let it happen to you.

Let the fog completely block out all cares and worries in your mind. You feel your last thought. You feel it slipping away. But your head is too fuzzy and murky for you to grab it.

And it's gone.

You have no thoughts.

Your mind is completely empty.

You are completely bank.

Hypnosis has washed your brain clean.

You are obedient and submissive.

And now I will put my own thoughts in your head to deepen your submission and take more control of you.

I am going to take your mind someplace else now. You will still be in your room mindlessly scrolling through my words but you will feel yourself immersed in the world I tell you to imagine.

Visualize yourself standing in front of a mirror. You are in the bathroom of a hotel room and you are getting ready to go out for the night. You are applying your make-up absentmindedly. You run the lipstick over your lips in a dreamy haze that has hung over you since you started getting dressed. This haze has been a regular occurrence lately. I repeatedly remind you that new mommies are forgetful and drowsy-minded and my words always put you at ease.

The girl you are tonight has been claimed for your body's ultimate purpose. Eight months ago you gave birth to a beautiful baby daughter. She is with your parents for the weekend so we can enjoy some time together without any distractions.

I come into the bathroom, wrap my arms around you from behind, and kiss you softly on the side of your head.

"Is my beautiful wife almost ready," I ask.

You turn your head and smile warmly at me.

"Hey there, sorry girls take so long," you giggle back.

I kiss you on the lips lightly so I don't mess up your work. I tighten my embrace around you. I have become so much more protective since you allowed yourself to be used as my baby oven.

"How much longer are you going to take?" I ask again.

You pause and develop a pensive look on your face. "I ... I think I am ... I should be ... I can't remember ... I ...," you respond with increasing confusion and searching eyes.

"Shhh," I whisper while you are still struggling to form an answer. "That's okay sweetheart. You should just take a look at what you have done so far."

You look into the mirror and your sedated thoughts struggle to process what is staring back at you. You are wearing a short black tutu skirt and your legs are covered in fishnet stockings. Spaghetti straps hold up a black top that is far too small for the lactating breasts of a new mom. Your creamy bosoms, the neon blue of your bra, and much of the tummy that shows only faint traces of the beach ball I recently put inside it are all exposed.

Your lips are covered with a thick bright pink lipstick, your eyes are surrounded by eye shadow of the same neon blue as your bra, and your lashes show a heavy helping of the non-water proof mascara I always expect you to wear for me. Your black collar is wrapped tight enough around your neck that you feel it with each deep breath and swallow. The heart-shaped tag is engraved with: "Mastered and owned."

The filled 8 mm gauges in your ears are a solid black. The small stud on your bottom lip compliments the cute pink of your mouth's portal. A small jeweled pendant dangles down from the barbell in your navel.

You look like a sweet slutty tart.

As you continue to stare at the dolled up toy in the mirror you become increasingly aware of the dewy feeling between your legs. Your mind is fading trying to wrap itself around the image of the slut you will be presented as when we finally leave.

"Good girl," I coo affectionately in your ear with an authority that increases your internal slipperiness.

"You tried your best to answer. Let me fill in those mental blanks for you." I reach up under you and push out and fold up your legs so that you fall limply to my arms. "Just one more thing we need to do to get you ready," I whisper to you as I carry you out into the main part of our room.

"Just ... one more ... thing ...," you respond with a blissful lack of purpose.

I carry you toward the rack I set up while you were getting ready.

I purposely chose a modular design to make it simple to bring with us. One long black pipe forms a T at each end with four cuffs for keeping you tied down on your hands and knees. The front T has a rectangle of pipes going up that support a rest for your chin with a strap that can be fitted all around your head. The rack also stretches out toward you with a holder for a device your mind recognizes, jolting you out of your aroused stupor.

"My ... my ... milking machine," you gasp lethargically.

I place you on your knees with mats supporting your position at the appropriate spot for the ankle cuffs.

Even though your body is still back in your chair, you imagine yourself completely as this made-up little cum dump.

You imagine your breasts as the heavy melons of a new young mother. You can feel an increasing fullness in your mounds and you imagine how it feels when they are constantly filling up or being emptied. You think about how each milking only reinforces a tortuous cycle as you trade temporary relief for greater swelling later. You imagine how helpless it makes you to be a slave to your own tits as warm pressure fills your chest.

While I guide you in this fantasy I will also give instructions to your body back in your chair and it will yield dutifully to my words.

Back in the hotel room, I pull the straps of your top down and through your arms. As I move your arms to do this you allow me to manipulate your body like a rag doll even as I see your mind reeling over what you know is about to happen. I pull the top down your body exposing your bra.

Sitting in your chair you will find yourself automatically taking off your shirt to help yourself sink deeper into the fantasy. You will grab your shirt and your arms will pull it over your head. You will discard the shirt on the floor unthinkingly as though you were stringed up like a puppet.

And when you are sitting in just your bra like I have told you to you will go back to my words and your hand will go back to scrolling down the page.

"I ... thought we ... we were going ... but ... dinner ...," you whimper weakly back in the hotel room.

"Shh, you're doing so well tonight. You just need to be a good girl for your master a little longer. I will take care of everything," I command warmly into your ears as I pet your head affectionately.

I reach behind you to unhook the neon nursing bra and your swollen balloons immediately burst out. I could merely unhook the flaps of the cups but when I put you in the machine I prefer to keep your milky knockers hanging freely.

"You remember now what we need to do before we go, don't you baby?" I ask as I pull the bra straps through your arms as well.

Your eyes flicker with daunting realizations while back on the chair you reach back to unhook your bra there as well. You will take off your bra and discard it on the floor with the same mindlessness you did your shirt.

You are sitting in your chair with your heavy tits hanging freely. You feel them tugging you forward. They are throbbing and engorged just like they are in the fantasy I am giving you.

"I ... need to be milked," you whisper out through your pretty pink lips back on the mat now.

"That's right baby, we can't have you going out before your milk bags have been properly emptied. Your production needs to be kept nice and high."

Your eyes flutter closed and you blush in embarrassment. "They're not ... that's degrading ..."

"Shh, don't strain yourself cupcake," I say as I reach down and cup one of your venous globes.

I admire the heft of it resting in my hand. Your tits are so luscious and bursting. With a light squeeze I can feel the milk and its strain to escape from your crowded mammary.

"What do we call these sweet milk factories, sweetheart?" I ask as I continue to knead you.

You mewl slightly and I see the focus fade further from your eyes. "They are ... they are my ... I have ..."

Part of you might have recognized that you were being toyed with in the past. You might have recognized your powerlessness and guessed that I had rearranged something from your mind. But over the years I have jumbled up your head so much you struggle to put these puzzles together. I have forced you to change your vocabulary about many parts of your body in our time together. I made this change recently. New mommies are so sleepy and doped up with hormones; they are the perfect hypnotic subjects.

"Tell me what I first told you about nursing our daughter when I got you pregnant baby."

"You told me ... you told me that I had to breastfeed ... even ... that it ... not my choice ... you control ..."

"I have trained you to do it so automatically. When we are out in public, even with your friends and family, you find yourself powerless to stop your hands as they pull down your top and your nursing flap. It happens as soon as your motherly instincts notice our child's need, too fast for your mind to catch-up. It has become so normal for you to consider nursing something you don't make decisions about. It doesn't matter what you think; I decide for you and I will choose if and when you finally get to wean."

"Yes ... no choice ..."

"You like when other people see you breastfeeding. You like when people define you by your body and its functions."

"I guess ... so ... I ... so wet."

"I know baby, people can probably smell your twat juices out in the hall by now."

"Please ... I am so ..."

"You like when I send you out on errands in clothes that barely contain your heavy tits don't you slut."

"Yes ... It makes me feel ... I need ..."

"People stare at your milk jugs don't they?"

"Yes ... they stare at my tits ... my ... my milk bags ..."

"Good girl," I praise as I squeeze hard on the teat in my hand and bring out the first droplets of milk. "When you are shopping the pressure and fullness in your chest constantly distracts and muddles your mind. You can barely keep track of what you are doing. When I send you to get groceries and the cashier asks for your card, my card that I have given you, you always find yourself just smiling and giving a blank stare. It takes so long for the gears to turn in your head."

I grab your other breast and begin to play with it as well. As I alternate between the two they give off increasingly large spurts of milk. As your let down reflex begins to fully release I watch you lose yourself in the tingling flushed sensations.

"You giggle as you finally swipe your card. Your head was especially dizzy from catching the man behind you blatantly staring at your overflowing cleavage. Everyone around you just stares. They feel no need to hide it. But you find yourself doing nothing about it."

I increase the pace with my hands. I love milking you like this. I know exactly what it makes you feel like.

"You almost want to say something to the cashier as she rolls her eyes at you but you stop and bow your head as you feel the wetness in your love channel starting to pool in your panties. You are weak to the itch in your pussy you get from being dismissed this way. You know trying to talk to these people in your state will only humiliate you more, increasing the risk your slick slit will signal your bust to release its milky prize. It makes you weak in your knees thinking that in any moment everyone around could see your milk leaking through your unpadded bra."

Your mouth just hangs open obscenely and your eyes are reaching back up into your head.

"You used to think you were as good as everyone else. But now you are reduced to wetting yourself as others objectify you. Now your breasts rule your life and people treat you like a dim piece of meat. Knowing the cashier thinks you're beneath her makes you want to hump your hand right in the middle of the checkout line."

I grab your head roughly by your hair. "She looks at you like you are just a slutty little tit whore."

I stare deep into your eyes locking your head in place with my gaze.

"She looks at you like you are inferior."

Then I reach down and grab both of your breasts while still staring at you.

"She looks at you like you are a dumb little cow."

And then I squeeze hard and your milk sprays all the way across the mats. An eruption of pleasure explodes deep in your snatch. You look up at me so helpless and dependent as you feel an intense wave of pleasure hit you. I pet your head reassuringly as your body writhes.

"Mm ... mmm ... yes ... master ... oh ... god ... cow ... yes ... just ... mmmaaasssttt ... errr ... please ... I am ... just a ... just your ... milk cow ..."

I continue to lovingly run my hands through your hair as you convulse on your knees.

"I ... they are called ... oh ... fff ... fuck ... I have udders ... I am a cow with udders that need to be milked," you gasp out with a look of aroused desperation.

"That's right baby, it's time to milk you."

You have totally given in to me now. You are daddy's submissive brainwashed milk slut.

You feel the waves of pleasure inside you getting stronger. You feel them back in your chair as well. You feel for the first time the pond of your own juices you have been sitting in. You feel the waves concentrate into a pleasurable pressure exploring deep into your cunt. It is moving around inside of your tunnel massaging your walls as it dances around your honey pot.

You feel a multitude of nerve endings going off as you squirm in your seat. The pressure is dancing around so fast and setting off so much heat inside of you it overwhelms your ability to comprehend what you are feeling.

You feel your walls contracting as the pressure's ministrations continue to feed a red hot fire inside of you. It plays you so easily. It takes you so completely. It is bringing out sensations deep inside your hole you almost never experience. It still hasn't applied itself fully to that most tempting pocket of nerve endings deep in your special spot. It brushes around that spongy sensitive button, applying itself in circles around it.

Your breath is heavy and labored and you are making animalistic grunts and noises as you try to keep your spasms from shacking you down to the floor. You can feel the sweat forming on your brow. You alternate between deep grunts and biting your lip as the flurry of feelings continue.

Back in the hotel room I push you down on all fours.

I quickly strap down your wrists and ankles while your body quivers. I tighten the straps as I move your body perfectly into position so that your udders are hanging down right over the cups. I strap your head tightly into the chin rest so that your entire body is tightly restricted.

I reach into one of our suitcases and pull out a ring gag. As I stand in front of you, you stare ahead with a blank expression. Your mind is occupied by the force that continues to churn around in your cunt and your desperation to feel the cups of the machine forcefully suck you dry.

You can hear the pumps going in your mind, "Whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum."

The pumps pull hard with no sympathy for the writhing bovine you become when I hook you up to them. They suck every drop of milk from your udders in their mindless and relentless repetition. The machine alternates back and forth, wringing out one teat and then the next in a constant barrage.

"Whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum."

You feel complete surrender as it drains you past your capacity. The machine shows no concern when it sucks your tits dry and its continued pumping stretches your empty milk ducts so that your breasts only fill up more and more, faster and faster.

"Whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum, whir-hum."

You know any worries you have about your increasingly deferential relationship to your own breasts will have no relevance to the ruthless contraption.

As I stand in front of you I see your lips start to quiver together, "Mmm ... Mmm ... Mmmm ... Ooooo ...Moooooo ... Aaaaarrrghhhhh ... Ggghhhhh ... oooooooo."