I don’t think Sir bought a whole new sofa just to prank me. But honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

“Come feel how soft it is!” he said excitedly, as I admired the cyan couch, which did indeed look appealingly plush and pliable. Crossing his living room, I bent over and put my hands on the seat, and sure enough, the cushions felt as fluffy as clouds. This was a sofa you wouldn’t mind sleeping on - which was lucky, as I was already anticipating being put to sleep on it pretty often.

I had no more than a second to freely enjoy the velvety sensations before he said, “Hands bound.”

Although I haven’t had much experience of hypnotic bondage, it seems it works pretty fucking well on me. (Most suggestions do, to be fair - I’m an excellent subject, it turns out.) My palms were glued so firmly to the cushions, it was as if they’d merged together. Try as I might (and I tried, mightily), I couldn’t get them free. I was totally stuck to the sofa, in a rather compromising position.

Naturally, Sir wasted no time taking advantage, pulling my shorts and knickers down to my ankles. He began to fondle my bare bum, ignoring my indignant protests - but evidently enjoying my obvious arousal.

“Mm, yes,” he chuckled. “Wonderful cushions. So soft. I chose well.”

Mewling incoherently, I tried to squirm away from him - as much as I could with my hands fused to the sofa. Tutting, he stooped down, took hold of my lower legs, and spread them apart as far as they’d go, my shorts still wrapped around my left ankle. Then he pressed my soles into the carpet and told me, “Feet bound.”

Unable to look far enough over my shoulder to see him clearly, I glowered down at the couch cushions, barely suppressing my shudders as he kept running his palm over my buttocks. My meagre composure crumbled as he dealt me a series of stinging slaps to each cheek - I couldn’t stop myself yelping and whimpering, writhing powerlessly beneath the assertive blows. My feeble struggles against the hypnotic force holding me in place only succeeded in wiggling my rear at him, which probably only served to further entice him. I wasn’t getting away from him - I was just making myself a more inviting target.

It wasn’t long before he was reaching between my spread legs, running his fingers along my slit. “My my, you’re soaked,” he sniggered as he stroked up and down. “You haven’t even been stuck like this for very long, y’know! You must just be really enjoying yourself, huh?” I didn’t dignify that with a response, partly because I couldn’t - I’d gone non-verbal from fluster. “Such a little bondage slut,” he murmured, still rubbing me - far too delicately for my liking. His tantalising touch was driving me even more wild. I wanted more than these gentle, teasing caresses. I wanted him to thrust his fingers into me. I wanted to ride his digits to climax, even if I had to stay stuck at a right-angle with my hands and feet glued down as I did so.

I’d barely been humping his hand for five seconds before it drew away, a desperate whine escaping me as he left me feeling hollow and unsatisfied. But then he took me by the waist and straightened me up, telling me my hands would come free of the sofa but would remain wherever he put them. As I was lifted upright, I found my arms stiffly stretching out in front of me, fixed in mid-air in the exact spot where the couch had been when I was bent over.

“This is so weird,” I giggled weakly as Sir raised my rigid arms above me, fixing my hands in place as high up as they would go, affixed to the air over my head. I struggled vainly, dangling from my invisible, inescapable bonds like a fish on a line. He rolled up my shirt, baring my boobs, and began to grope them possessively, rolling my nipples between his fingers and thumbs. Needy moans flowing freely from my mouth, I stared beseechingly at him, pressing my body against his, rolling my hips and rubbing my bum against his trousers.

I was so busy trying to work him up, to get him as desperate for me as I was for him, I didn’t notice him lift one hand from my chest to my head until it was too late. “Aah,” I groaned softly, my eyes inexorably drawn to his fingertip as it stroked in spirals on the centre of my forehead, sucking all my focus into that spot.

His voice, as velvety as his comfy new couch, purred in my ear, “Is Rain falling for me?”

“Rain is falling all the way down for you, Sir,” came my automatic response, my own voice thick and slurred, as if I had a heavy cold.

“Is Rain wet for me?”

“Rain is soaking wet for you, Sir.”

“Well let’s make sure, shall we...?” The forehead caresses ceased, but my crossed eyes remained fixed on that point, unable to stop staring through my own skull at the enthralling finger that was no longer there. It soon started stroking me elsewhere instead, confirming my profound wetness.

“Good girl.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I gurgled.

“Do you want me to let you go?”

“No, Sir,” I answered honestly, unable to fake any defiance in my mindless state.

“How are your arms?”

“They’re getting tired, Sir,” I admitted, though the discomfort wasn’t enough to disturb me from my deliciously deep trance. In fact, I hadn’t even really noticed the growing ache until he’d asked.

“No, they’re not,” he told me confidently. “You can’t feel it any more.”

“Yes, Sir.” And I didn’t. Just like that, the ache had evaporated... and with it had gone all sensation in my arms. I could no longer feel them at all. It was as if they weren’t even there.

He continued to praise me and play with me, squeezing my tits and rubbing my pussy, while I moaned and drooled and sank even further under his power. Every so often he’d ask those same questions again, and I’d respond with the answers that he’d conditioned into me so thoroughly even in the short time he’d been controlling me:

“Is Rain falling for me?”

“Rain is falling all the way down for you, Sir.”

“Is Rain wet for me?”

“Rain is soaking wet for you, Sir.”

And, of course, the simple mantra I’d mutter over and over again after hearing him say it only once: “Rain drops. Rain drops, rain drops. Rain drops, rain drops, rain drops. Rain drops. Rain drops. Rain drops, rain drops. Rain drops, rain drops...”

I’ve no idea how many times I chanted those two words, dropping deeper and deeper with every repetition, before he said, “Rain stops,” and I fell silent, swinging gently from my mid-air bonds.

“Rain is clear, Sir,” I announced, my way of conveying that my mind was as empty as it could be.

“How are your arms, Rain?”

For the first time since he’d dropped me, there was a flicker of expression on my face, as my brow creased slightly. “Arms?” I mumbled, confused.

As deep as I was, as blank as I’d become, the loss of sensation in my arms had had an unexpected effect - I’d forgotten I even had them. As far as I knew at that moment, I didn’t have arms, and never had.

Judging by Sir’s uproarious laughter, he hadn’t planned this - but he certainly wasn’t mad about it. In fact, he took it and ran with it.

I awoke to find my feet free, to my relief - but I was still unbearably wet, and there wasn’t much I could do about it myself. Sir was sitting on his new sofa, idly playing on his phone - probably messaging his friends to tell them what fun he was having tormenting me, judging by the barely-hidden smirk on his face.

My eyes lingered on the arms of the couch for a minute, but I dismissed the first thought to cross my fragmented mind. I didn’t want to mess up his new furniture. So I swallowed my pride and said, “Sir?” My own needy, pleading tone made me blush even harder than I already was - I hadn’t intended to sound quite that pathetic.

He looked up, licking his lips as he looked over my mostly-nude body. “Yeah?” he grinned.

I wished I could hide my face as I whimpered, “Please can you... help me? Can you, um... touch me, please?”

“Touch you how, exactly?” He raised his eyebrows. “Be clear, Rain. Tell me what you want from me, specifically.”

Quivering like a jelly, unable to meet his eyes, I murmured, “Please can you rub my pussy, Sir? Please can you make me cum?”

He left a silence long enough for me to let out a weak little whine, before he said with a benign smile, “Of course, my love.” He beckoned me over with one hand, the other patting his thigh, and I swiftly scurried over to him, obliviously trailing my numb, forgotten arms in the air above me. Perching on his lap, I spread my legs and let him reach for my cunt once again, his nimble fingers quickly bringing me to the brink.

It was so humiliating, having to ask for his help to masturbate. But I had to, because I obviously couldn’t do it by myself. Mortifying as the situation was, I couldn’t help feeling grateful to him for being kind enough to get me off.

That gratitude faded later, when he let me remember that I did, in fact, have arms - which had, in the interim, sunk down to hang uselessly at my sides, impotent and ignored. He’s already hinted at a repeat performance at some point. So if you ever see me post something that looks like I typed it with my face, mind your business.