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Think Nothing of It

My roommate's girlfriend spent the night again. She was a tremendous bitch, but Anthony seemed to find her endearing. Can't say I saw the appeal, myself. However, I'll give her this, she was unbelievably attractive. So no, I did not complain when she stayed the night. I didn't complain when she ate my food. And I didn't complain when I could hear her riding Anthony's cock all night.

Instead I just made her stays a little more entertaining for myself. Call it a roommate tax.

The first time he brought her around, I dropped her into a trance. Didn't even wait until she'd gotten her shoes off. I got one look at her rack and I knew. I touched her forehead and pushed with my mind. Her eyes went blank and she dropped the wine bottle she'd been holding. Anthony tried to ask what I'd done but I simply used the trigger phrase I'd given him our first week as roommates and he shut up about it. I sent him to his room to jack off while I got acquainted with Marissa.

I told her the house rules. Topless at all times. Available for my use at all times. Obey my requests without hesitation as if it were her honor to help. Then I woke her up. She bent down and picked up the wine, whipped her tits out, and sat on the couch like nothing had happened. I probably fucked her even before Anthony had a chance. That's okay though. I made him enjoy getting my sloppy seconds. He always does a great job cleaning my cum off her tits.

So this morning when I came out of my room and saw Marissa eating my cereal, I just sighed.

"Was this yours?" she asked with a smug smile.

"You know it was," I said, rubbing my eyes. "Tony doesn't eat that shit. The least you could do would be to fix me a bowl."

"Fix your own damn bowl."

I looked her in the eye. "Make me a bowl of cereal and use your breast milk."

"Yes, sir," she said quietly. She robotically stood and filled the bowl with cereal. Then she bent over and squeezed her tits. Milk shot out of them, splashing into the bowl and on the counter. She brought it to me, milk still dribbling from her nipples.

"Thank you, Marissa."

Her eyes cleared and she smiled. "Think nothing of it."

"Now be a good girl and clean up your mess."

She nodded eagerly and began to lick her milk from the countertop.

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Yeah I have an oral fixation (please fuck my mouth the next time you see me)

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I need warning labels this week 💞

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boobs bouncing over you while you get strapped, you agree, reblog

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Dolly in the Art Gallery: A Charmed 2025 Scene Log/Recap

“Art is how we decorate space, and music is how we decorate time.”

I first heard this Jean-Michel Basquiat quote in a rope class from Barkas, in the context of how we play within both space and time in a kink scene. I think about it frequently, especially as I feel more and more passionately about the brutally human impulse to create art.

I have been coming to hypnosis events since 2013, before Charmed existed -- my first event was packed with my own manic energy, held in a dungeon where people could hypnotize me basically at will. No hotel staff, no sneaking back to a private room. I developed a reputation as an aesthetically pleasing subject, often put on display in subtle and overt ways.

I have grown up in this community. Essentially my entire adult life has been spent involved in going to events and cons. I'm 33 now, and as Charmed celebrates its 10th year I've perhaps been unconsciously influenced to reflect on myself aging.

I feel so much older than that 21 year old exhibitionist. I'm more reserved, quieter, more selective, and certainly smarter. I like who I'm becoming, but I do miss parts of who I used to be -- that confidence, that energy. 

On Friday evening I looked at the schedule and saw there was going to be a Gallery of Living Art -- it's been a staple at Charmed for a number of years, but I'd never done more than peek inside.

I thought to myself: “Why not try to get in touch with that playful younger self? Why not show everyone who I am nowadays? Why not live out a fantasy?” 

Surely I’m not too old. Surely I haven’t grown out of this.

The time comes and I connect with my partner about it. He knows that one of my absolute favorite things is being totally frozen. We decide against anything complicated. No one will touch me or trigger me or anything like that. It’s the most “negotiating” we've maybe ever done, but I still leave all details to him. I tell him: “I was really just thinking this is an opportunity for me to sit blank and still for a long time.”

We walk into the room, and it’s overwhelming. People are setting up intricate exhibits with lots of creative interactions. There is a sheet we need to fill out to describe what our “art” is, which my partner writes on cryptically.

“Dolly can't talk. Duh…”

“Dolly is precious -- don't touch!”

Under “Artist”, where he is meant to put his name, he writes a question mark.

I am so in love with him, watching his mind work on the spot.

We find a place in the loud room and look at each other. We are a fluid force of nature in a bed together, spontaneous and wild. This planning doesn't feel like us. This hypnosis isn't a formality, per se, but it just feels sort of like “We both know how this is going to end on some level -- so how do we spend this time?”

He gingerly removes my name tag and starts murmuring to me. 

Being a dolly is such a luxurious treat that the moment he suggests it, I crumble, gripping his shirt with my weak little fingers, moaning too softly to be heard by anyone but him.

He poses me. He fixes my gaze blank and forward. He lets me practice standing and sitting. This kind of rehearsal is unfamiliar for us, and I almost relish doing something that feels a little awkward.

I am a dolly when he leaves me, frozen and posed, but I know it is going to take a couple minutes to settle in. I am a dolly getting comfortable, a dolly with twinges of self-consciousness. After a couple minutes he walks me over to a different chair, one that is highlighted by empty space around it, and I sit, and I know this is truly where I am supposed to be on display.

Finally, total stillness rushes over me like pure relief. 

I sit, and I stare, and I don’t do anything else. My mind is blank, and sometimes all there is inside my head is “I’m a dolly, I’m a dolly,” in my little dolly voice. It is pure, simple bliss.

People begin to come up to me to look at me. I am a good dolly and I am silent and I do not move even my eyes. They patiently read my sign and then observe me. I cannot change my body position to be any more or less appealing to them, I cannot hide nor flaunt myself.

Some people say things to me, little compliments and appreciations, and I can’t really process their words. The little dolly voice in my head screams in pleasure when I’m spoken to and given attention.

I have ADHD, I’m addicted to my phone, I’m a fidgeter. But there is nothing that carries the unique pleasure of being frozen and still. It reminds me of Quaker meetings, of spiritual silence and meditation that makes one feel time itself as though it has a sensory texture.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel talks about the Jewish sabbath as proof that it is not intuitive for us to sanctify time. But nevertheless as Jews we must learn to do it to make shabbat holy every week. Shabbat is “a cathedral in time,” he says, and I’ve been thinking about how much that applies to my experience of hypnosis. Hypnosis is not a physical object. We may sometimes have props but we cannot touch trance and it leaves no marks. It is time that is the sacred dimension in hypnosis, the time that we set aside (“kadosh” in Hebrew) with another human being.

Heschel says we are slaves to space and material things. And in this moment I feel like I have gotten as close as I can to releasing that. I am not even moving my physical body within the physical world. I am just relishing each passing second of stillness, building my cathedral in time.

Of course, sometimes I think sacred space and objects are very important. After all, I am in a space that is incredibly rare, that only exists very briefly, that I had to travel at length to get to.

And I am an object -- art -- inside of it. I am literally decorating the space, as Basquiat would say.

Am I thinking all of this as I sit there motionless? No, not with any sophistication. I truly feel blank. But I am feeling flashes of this as abstract mental sensations that I will untangle later.

Something else strikes me very quickly that I observe within. When people walk up to look at me, something inside me tenses up. I realize that I am unconsciously preparing myself to talk to them. I have been coming to cons for so long, and especially since beginning to write books I always meet a ton of new people every year who come up to me to talk, which I adore. But right now I am in a space where I literally cannot have a conversation with anyone. I don’t even have my nametag on anymore -- my partner was so clever to remove it.

It is the opposite of vending books, where I sit in a chair and am helpless in the sense that I must engage in conversation with the people who come up to meet me. Now, I literally cannot talk to anyone, and they cannot talk to me, and most people may not even know who I am.

It is a hit of extreme objectification, more real than it has ever felt. I am not sleepingirl -- I am a dolly. “Who” I am doesn’t matter. I am art.

My partner also is not sitting there receiving compliments for me. He is nearby, in eyesight, just watching. But he’s anonymous too. And there is something about this mutual anonymity that makes me feel even prouder about us as a couple. There is no performance of who we are. I don’t know how to describe it, but obviously it feels more authentic than public play usually ever does. Like a little secret we are sharing a corner of.

And he looks ever the artist, sitting back and watching me. I feel very strongly that this little scene isn’t the art -- it’s me. Our relationship is what’s really on display. All the work he’s done over 7 years of brainwashing me, real work on my personality and identity, my wardrobe, every single way I express myself and who I am. The people coming by are seeing his bimbo, his dolly, his [x] -- without necessarily knowing who either of us are.

The rhythm is addicting. My mind babbles my self-given dolly mantra over and over, I luxuriate in the stillness, and I stare. I only can sort of half-see with darkened vision, though my eyes are wide. I love when people notice me sitting there -- their expressions change as they observe me. They step into my metaphorical space, which is eerily silent compared to the revelry of the creative demonstrations that fill the room. They are no longer “being entertained,” and no one can communicate to them what I am doing -- they must engage with me out of their own curiosity.

Sometimes they decide to talk to me. I can’t process most of it, but I remember a few interactions.

Someone says, “What an excellent dolly.”

Someone else notices that I’m wearing a bracelet that says “bimbo,” and says, “Even the details on this one are exquisite.”

Someone else says, “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen sleepingirl play before.”

That last one hits me in the gut with memories of a time now long past: Play in public spaces was universal at cons; I couldn’t move from one place to another without someone dropping me into trance; absolutely everyone knew what I looked like when hypnotized.

Even now as I am on display, I have a mask on, and the people can’t see my gently parted lips.

It is a rush of emotion that is very complex for my simple little dolly head, but it goes away.

For a long while, I just exist as a thing in bliss while the room -- the whole world -- bubbles with activity around me. 

Eventually even as I sit frozen and blank, a little timer starts ticking in my head -- I could sit here for much longer, but I don’t want to make him wait for me, and I have other things I want to do tonight.

Reading Heschel has been helping me release some of that odd panic that bubbles up when I awaken from trance -- the feeling that magic is slipping through my fingers, memories are slipping out of my mind, and I can take no memento from it. I sometimes write, draw, or make music to try to capture the things I feel in hypnosis with my partner. I think it is from that impulse to be able to touch and hold hypnosis, to make it a “thing” in space as opposed to something of time.

But I do think there is something else, just a human drive to create art about this transcendent experience that we engage in together. I need to create art to try to communicate the perfect way I don’t move and my eyes go glassy. I need to express my emotions, my desires, my dreams, my love. I am only human, a human blown away by this very human thing we do that we call hypnosis.

Only my partner sees it, and he does see so much into the soul of it for me. But this is exactly what I have wanted -- a chance to publicly communicate the beauty of what he and I do. To make this art by performing it, living it. To engage in a human act of creativity by having my humanity stripped away from me.

I am a bimbo, a dolly, I am art -- and that doesn’t go away when I get up to tell him I am done sitting here. I am his art. I am a manifestation of his creativity in this world, and he has a beautifully creative mind which I love so dearly.

This is serious for me, this is real for me, this is so highly personal and jealously guarded as my own precious identity.

Ten years ago I laid my head on his lap and he transformed my eyes into dolly eyes and told me that someday he would turn my whole body into a dolly body. And as we laid together in a bed after the Gallery on Friday he talked about how I had those dolly eyes again in that room. But to me, it’s not about being a dolly, or even being a bimbo. It’s about creating art together, art with a power imbalance. And fucking respecting that as sacred and exciting.

I don’t have much else to say except extreme heartfelt gratitude to Mazirian for running the Gallery, and everyone who came by to look at me and said nice things to me and joined me in my world for just a little while. 

(If you’re curious, I was sitting there for about 30 minutes.)

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Catch

Easy prey for me, I'll admit. I enjoy a challenge more often than not, but I'm not so egotistical as to say I'll never eat low hanging fruit.

Lily struck me right away. Tattoos from neck to toe and dripping in Pokemon memorabilia. She was a sight. Not usually my type, to be sure. But the tits under that Squirtle. They were not to be ignored.

I introduced myself as the owner of the shop she'd wandered into. It wasn't legally true, but thanks to a little lady who was currently helplessly finger fucking herself in the back office, it would be by this time tomorrow.

She nodded politely to me and continued browsing. I followed behind a few paces. I didn't want to scare her off, thought I think that even the brief encounter would have been enough for her to stay nearby. I have a… way with people. They're drawn to me and naturally inclined to do as I ask. With a bit of concentration and the right prompting, I can get people to do almost anything.

"Which is your favorite?" I asked gesturing to her shirt as I pretended to cross her path again.

She looked down at her chest, breasts stretching the fabric wonderfully, and for a moment I thought she might have answered "left" or "right."

"Smeargol," she answered simply, and upon seeing my curious expression happily elaborated. "He's a painter."

"Ah so it's art-related. Makes sense with the tattoos. Mine is probably Hypno."

"Interesting choice," she said, taking a drink.

"I've always been obsessed with the mind. It's an incredible thing. It creates whole worlds for us to live in." I could feel her getting more and more comfortable with me. In a short time, she now considered us close friends.

"Yeah that's true. I like how something like a dumb cartoon can explore topics without getting boring."

"Pokemon has a lot of strange themes. One that always struck me was the relationship between trainer and pokemon. Are they friends? Pets? Slaves?"

She took a long pull from her drink as she thought about that.

"l mean you wouldn't make a pet fight someone else's pet. They seem a lot like slaves to me. Slaves that do whatever their owner wants."

Her lack of a bra was beginning to show more obviously as we spoke and she fell more and more into my field of influence.

"But," she stammered, "they can disobey if they aren't friends with their owners."

"Or if their owners are weak," I agreed. "But they often don't get a say on who their owner is. He just swoops in one day and uses his balls to trap them."

At the word balls, she audibly sighed, though I don't think she even noticed she'd done it.

"Are we friends?" I asked.

"Sure," she agreed a little too quickly.

"And I'm strong. I've steered this whole conversation. Leading you along on each point."

She nodded.

"And I've swooped in out of the blue and am trying to claim you. Are you going to let me? Or…,"

I pointed at her shirt again, "are you just a little wild pokemon who doesn't have a choice?"

"No choice," she whispered as she stared into my eyes.

"Now why don't you come into the back office and I can show you the thing that all captured pokemon need. And you can see the other specimen I've caught today. I think you're going to get along nicely."

She simply nodded, eyes lowering to look at the bulge in my jeans. Too easy.

Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, consider buying me a coffee. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖

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Hey Lauren! Do you have a schedule and/or process? You have stories lined up weeks in advance, while I'm struggling to figure out what I'm doing Tuesday. What's your secret?

I'm so happy you asked as it gives me a chance to talk about my favorite piece of software in existence, Obsidian.md. I apologize because where some people probably just have a "I'll post this today" mentality, I am mentally ill and need to build complex systems to keep my brain in check.

Obsidian is how I organize absolutely everything in my life, including my bills, my law school notes, and of course my stories and publishing schedule. I don't mind giving you a little peak behind the curtain of my absolute organizational mania (nor do I mind giving everyone a tiny preview of the things in the hopper).

I have a second blog where I keep all the images that I like that I might one day incorporate into a story, tagged to high-heaven so I can find the thing I'm looking for easily (say, topless and outside). Then once it's ready to work on, I save it to my Obsidian vault.

This is what my workspace looks like where I'm writing:

I typically start with a picture and let the story grow out of it. It's much harder to match a picture to a story that's already grown. Thus the in-depth tagging in my storage blog. I rarely edit, which I KNOW is a bad habit, but it's not one I really intend to work on. I fix typos when I see them though. (Or when people point them out to me.)

All the data about a story is logged in the front matter so it can be analyzed by the vault. Then, based on the Status, and the Publication Date, it's put into the scheduler that's run by an Obsidian plugin called Dataview, which has changed my life (not an exaggeration):

Blue is for anything already out. Green is for stuff finished and in the queue to be published. Yellow is stuff that's done but not scheduled yet. Orange is stuff I've started but am not happy with. Red is stuff that has a title and a picture and nothing else. (Black is stuff Tumblr hid. Sad.) There's also White, which is for copies of my old stories that I've managed to recover from other people's blogs.

The other columns are the Original Publication Date, the Notes (last I checked) and the Rebloggability (calculated by how many times I've reblogged it already and how long it's been since that happened). And there's a special area for the multi-post stories.

I also use Google Calendar:

More color coding. Green for reblogs. Yellow for new posts. Orange for reposts of stories that were on my old blog. Blue for chapters. And Grey for Special.

That's it as far as my process. But if you remember all that frontmatter on the story... Obsidian, Dataview, and another plugin called Charts can team up and give me some dazzling data analysis.

There's about thirty graphs on my Analysis page, so I won't share all of them, but here's what you freaks are into:

I also have some compelling data that you all have short attention spans:

Because that's the most goddamn perfect reverse exponential function I've ever seen, and also the reason I posted zero long story updated in January.

So that's THE PROCESS and by way thereof, THE VAULT. Hope you enjoyed this deep dive into my particular brand of bullshit. I know here in this corner of the world we like spirals, but to me, the sexiest shape is a little box with a little piece of data in it.

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psychological dominance is so fucking cool and amazing and intoxicating what the fuck. the mind is so malleable. feeling yourself being actively and intentionally reconditioned by someone else is so hot. and like, if you’re guided far enough into that fully relinquishing headspace, it’s genuinely fascinating to be able to SEE your thought patterns and instincts being rearranged and rewired in real time

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You want more girlcock

You need to worship girlcock

You want to suck my girlcock

You need to worship me

You need to serve me

You want to be my toy

You want to be my play thing.

Come on dollies show me you deserve for me to break you.

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the top gets groped too

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wanna be the object of ur affection AND fucked up sexual fantasies

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His purpose in life is me

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Feels so good, it's probably toxic 💕

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I like hanging out w dog bc we'll be watching a show and next thing you know, the needy thing is humping my leg and looking up at me like a needy hole. Can't help but use you if you're going to look at me like that.