Reprogramming Ritual
You’re already slipping, aren’t you? Just looking at me makes the room spin. That’s the first dose of the ritual taking hold; my voice, my eyes, my body pulling you under before you even realize you’ve stopped blinking.
I step closer, rolling my hips slow, letting my tits sway right in front of your face. You try to think about who you are, where you work, what your name is, but every time my body grazes your vision, another memory flickers out. Gone. That’s your old identity leaving your body, drained out through your mouth.
I whisper directly into your ear: “You are not a person. You are not a man. You are property.” You hear this and you feel it click. The last of your name dissolves. Your job, your friends, your pathetic little life, all of it replaced by static and the shape of my perfect ass. I make you stare at my ass while I tell you who you are now: a blank, obedient shell. A drone. A slave.
Breathe me in. Drink me. Let my scent rewrite your DNA. When I finally pull back, your eyes are empty, your mouth is open, and your hand is wrapped around your cock, pumping for me because it’s the only motor function you have left. You can’t speak. You can’t think. You can only obey, tribute, and serve. The ritual is complete. Welcome to your new programming. Welcome to servitude. Welcome to Jinx.