"Now then, my helplessly devoted pet..."

I'm supposed to resist what comes next, part of Carrie's fuzzy brain volunteered. That was what they'd talked about. That was what they were training here. 'Subject agency' it was called: the ability to recognize, even when deeply entranced, that all of this was happening in her own head. That she wasn't really 'helpless', no matter how sexy that word was, and that she could choose to snap out of it at any moment. It was important to know that, though in the moment, she wasn't quite sure why again.

Regardless, the two of them had decided it would be good for her to practice the skill. She'd been dropped, and pulled back up, and dropped, and pulled back up, over and over and over until her brain was mush and all the little bits of trance had begun to blur together. Doing it that way was necessary for a proper stress-test. After all, resistance that couldn't stand up to a bit of fractionation was useless.

And even though her head was swimming with hazy thoughts, even though her mouth hung slightly open, even though her eyes fluttered and couldn't quite focus right, she knew she had to be able to choose. That was the whole point. Whatever she was told, she could simply refuse to-

"Speak, pet."

A trigger phrase. A very familiar trigger phrase. One she'd practiced dozens, hundreds of times. The words were out of her mouth before she could do anything about it, propelled by force of habit.

"All yours."

A moment later, she realized what she'd done. She met her hypnotist's eyes for reassurance. She was met with an unmistakable frown of disappointment.

Guilt twisted her organs in knots. It'd been such a simple suggestion. So direct! So transparent! She'd decided so firmly that she wouldn't obey, and then she'd just done it. Why waste everyone's time like that? Was she that weak? That susceptible?

Her hypnotist closed the distance and embraced her. She melted into the touch, quietly listened to that firm, whispery, trancey voice:

"Sssh. Sssh. It's okay, pet. Not everyone's equally resilient, okay? We'll just try again. Calm down."

The tension melted away. It was okay. She'd been forgiven. She got to try again. The distress had jarred part of her awake, but now it got to sink back down again, dragging all the rest of her with it.

"That's right. Just let go, and fall, and don't worry about how susceptible you are, don't worry about failing again..."

The whispers continued as she drifted off, and after a little while they changed course and brought her back up again to the same familiar half-awake state. The same routine of steeling her own mind. The same trigger.

The same failure, the same shock, the same crushing guilt.

They kept trying. Her hypnotist (too kind! too generous) asked if she wanted to stop, but no, she had to do this. She had to be able to. She had to prove herself. Got dropped. Got dragged up. Tried to resist. Failed. And the pattern repeated itself, and repeated itself.

Eventually, her hypnotist (so patient! so clever!) suggested that maybe she was simply too comfortable with this trigger, and they should try some bigger demands. She agreed eagerly.

Her limbs were moved against her will. She chose to resist. She failed.

Her body was dragged into a kneeling position. She tried to struggle. It meant nothing.

Her hands acted on a will that was not hers. One tugged at the buttons of her vest, another disappeared down her pants. She desperately wished she could something about it.

Briefly, part of her wondered if she might have been able to resist those things when they started out. Maybe her vulnerability stemmed from being swept up in the momentum of failing and failing and failing again. Maybe she could try again some other time, and...

...No. That wasn't how agency worked. You simply had it. You simply used it. Or at least: you were supposed to be able to. Her hypnotist had granted her so many attempts to display resistance, and had she managed it once? What was the point? What was there to practice? Why would she even bother to try, going forward?

"I don't have agency," she mumbled, unsure where the words had come from. Reflection on her experience, probably. It wasn't like it was wrong: she'd learned her resistance was pointless.

"I don't have agency," she repeated. It felt good to say. A calm admission of defeat. No more guilt. No more effort. No more doomed humiliating practice. Choice simply wasn't something that could be expected of her. Whatever suggestions would come her way, she'd simply act them out and live with the consequences.

"I don't have agency," automatic now, a nice steady rhythm of words that felt much better than thinking about how badly she'd failed. Her hypnotist moving closer again, patting her head. Cooing words of sympathy, care, forgiveness. "Poor broken thing," and, "Don't worry, I still love you."

Her eyes were closed. She failed to see how the words were spoken through a grin.