When Ismene invited me over for dinner and a movie night, the worst I expected to deal with was to walk away the next morning wine-drunk or hung over with a few embarrassing photos posted to my social media.

I didn’t expect the first shot to sucker punch me like it did, or for Ismene to insist on another before we’d even eaten. By the time I fumbled for the Play button on the TV remote, I was properly giggly, and she was pawing at my shoulder, clingy drunk that she was.

It didn’t occur to me to question why her eyes were so clear, nor why she kept her back to me while pouring our drinks, I was just happy when she handed me the platter of nachos she’d been baking in the oven.

I didn’t think to ask her what was in the drinks. Whatever she was mixing, it was good.

With food in my belly and my schedule for the next morning totally clear, it was trivial for Ismene to convince me to indulge myself.

“It’ll be just like old times, Arya!” she tittered, looking up at me through her fluttering eyelashes.

Feeling a little numb in the extremities, feeling floaty and uninhibited with the pound-whump of my heartbeat in my throat, my ears, my suddenly flushing clit, I smiled dumbly at her and downed the shot she’d shoved into my hand whole.

I did two more shots that evening before I started forgetting things.

Not everything. The next one had the taste of Ismene’s lips still on the rim of the glass.

The one after that, I did off her stomach.

She didn’t need more alcohol to do whatever she wanted to me after that.

I subdued Arya without difficulty or complication. She suspected nothing after receiving my overnight invitation, assuming I was only interested in sex, as was always the case before. Only half right, but I cannot fault her for it.

The first cocktail functioned as planned. Arya noticed something was unusual—a fact worth remembering for the future—but assumed it was just the alcohol. I spiked her second drink with the secondary compound, but I suspect my estimates were too conservative, as Arya required several more doses to be rendered fully docile.

Not a major setback; its effects, even when limited, were more than enjoyable. Such oversights may pose an undesirable risk of discovery if employed in the wild, however. As production of the secondary compound is of no concern, I think it would be wise to err on the side of redundancy going forward and measure dosage more liberally.

In her current, suggestible state, Arya was more than capable of following the script I provided her; I have two weeks to work on her before she faces any questions from work or family about her absence.

I expect this to prove more than sufficient, but as this is a trial run of my current methodology, I will endeavor to remain open to change.

-I

I registered warmth when I hazed back into consciousness.

It was in my arms, in my chest and in my head. It wrapped around me like a fuzzy blanket, comforting and encompassing. I wanted to bask in it and let it overtake me. Choosing not to succumb was like pulling out of a lover’s embrace, but experience had taught me time and again the consequences for not hydrating after a night of drinking.

Funny that, though. My head was normally still pounding at this hour.

I cracked my eyes open to look around, and realized that I wasn’t where I last remembered myself being, tumbling into bed with Ismene, pinning her beneath my hips and taking her bottom lip between my teeth and—

I smiled cockily.

Maybe if Ismene wasn’t too hung over, we could stage a re-enactment I would remember fully. That sounded fun.

There was a weight on my limbs, trapping them in place, and I looked down to see if Ismene was awake, but instead of her head resting on my chest and her limbs entwined with mine, I realized that I wasn’t curled up safe in her huge, satin-sheeted bed, but instead spread-eagled upon it, bare chested—bare everywhere—with my wrists and ankles bound by silken scarves to the four posts.

I opened my mouth to shout, but there was a silky, cloth gag in my mouth, secured in place with another cloth gag, damp and tasting like severe morning breath.

I tried anyways. “MMMmmm…? MMM! MMMmmph! MTHMMMEEE!”

“Oh, awake already?”

My head jerked to look at the source of the voice, and I saw her at the door.

Ismene was smirking as she sashayed into the room, sinfully bare and sporting the hickeys I marked her with the night before. It was quite the collection; evidently, there had been a lot we’d done together that I wasn’t remembering.

Which apparently included forays into bondage. I did my best to express my displeasure to her, furrowing my brow and grunting with as much eloquence as I could muster.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged at one of the scarves on my ankles. “Looks like these are holding up alright. They’re not too tight? Not cutting off circulation? I had to tighten them up once I knew you’d be conscious.”

I shook my head and glared at her pointedly.

“Oh, fine.” She leaned over and pulled my gag down, then tugged the ball of cloth from my mouth. It fell loose in her hand; they were her sexy little panties, which I had pulled off her the night before with my teeth.

I licked my lips, trying to work some moisture back into them where they’d cracked. They were waxy and hard. My whole mouth was incredibly dry without the gag.

Ismene offered me a glass of water from the nightstand. I had to crane my neck awkwardly, but it was pure relief. I smacked my lips noisily.

“Need more?” Ismene replaced the glass. “It’s been a bit since you had liquids orally. An oversight on my part.”

I let my skull flop back down on the pillow and ignored her question. “D’you always tie up your friends after getting them drunk, Izzy?”

I tried to tone down my ire; this reeked of last night’s bad decision-making, and at least some of that responsibility fell onto me. That said, Ismene hadn’t made any move to free me yet, so I was feeling a little vulnerable and impatient. She’d always been a minx, and I was expecting to have to pay a price for my freedom.

If skipping to the foreplay got me free sooner, I was willing to entertain her whims.

“Just you so far.” Ismene’s eyes glittered impishly. “It’s a new interest of mine. How are you feeling? Any soreness? Dizziness? It’s hard to get useable data from you while you’re impaired.”

Impaired? “You were drunk too, Izz.”

She was remarkably perky this morning, I noticed. I’d seen her morning-afters before, the ones following nights of getting smashed and taking turns holding each other’s hair over the toilet. Like anyone else, she’d wake up looking like death warmed over, and we’d moan and complain while we slammed a few bottles of water and some ibuprofen and waited out the aftershocks of mutual bad decision-making.

None of that, here. She was too aware, too awake. She wasn’t hiding a headache either; if she were, there’d be a line on her forehead, in the middle of her eyebrows. She must have done her makeup too, because there were none of the usual signs of haggardness; no purple crescents under the eyes, paleness in the cheeks, any of it.

I felt confusion swelling in me, fighting its way up a strange, glassy wall of resistance in my brain.

Why would she tidy up her appearance if she had me in bondage? Sex was messy. Getting makeup on her sheets was a terrible idea.

Why wasn’t she hung over? She’d matched me drink for drink last night, or at least she did early on. At least three shots, probably four, all hard alcohol.

I scrutinized her further, lingering on her pierced navel, the dark strip of neatly trimmed hair on her pubis, and back upwards toward her neck as I shook away my distraction.

My eyes narrowed. “What did you do to your bruises?”

They were yellow, like I’d given them to her last week, not a mere few hours before.

Ismene’s expression smoothed over. “Nothing. Why? Do they look weird? You were in a nippy mood last night. If you’re used to seeing hickeys after sucking—”

I interrupted her. “They’re yellow, Izz. Old.”

“I don’t know what you mean. They look fresh to me.”

She was lying. I could see it in her eyes, just as obvious as when she used to fib about cleaning the shower drain.

Ismene recognized my skepticism just as easily. Her lips curled downward, too severe for a pout. “Well. You’re just sharp as a little tack this morning, aren’t you?”

What? “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. To you.” I felt a spike of apprehension as her smile returned, beatific and beautiful. “I’ll just have to fix it and see where I went wrong.”

“Ismene—"

“After all, you were a very good girl for me last night. Don’t you want to be that way for me again?”

Good girl.

My body stiffened, and then relaxed all at once, my eyelids fluttering.

Good girl.

The breath I’d sucked in sharply escaped me in a long, drawn-out hiss of helpless euphoria.

Good girl good girl good girl good girl

Like a flash flood running through a well-carved canyon, I felt the Words washing through my mind: ‘goOD GIRL bE A GOod girl GOOD GIrls OBEy I HAve TO OBEY haVE TO…’

I flexed against my bonds, my hips rolling and limbs pulling the silken scarves taught as I sought... something.

‘HAVE TO BE A GOOD GIRL…!’

I made a helpless, pathetic keening sound, overloaded and overawed. It felt sooooo good to hear those words… like the warmest compliment from a close friend… the unfettered approval of a parent… the promise-laden praise of a lover… It was like those feelings of pure, emotional wellbeing had been hardwired to my clit, hooked up to a car battery, and then rerouted straight to my hindbrain.

I needed more. I needed it to never end. I needed to hear it again.

I would…

I would do anything to hear it again.

Ismene eyed me shrewdly. “That’s right. A good girl. And you would be a bad girl for thinking about… Well anything.” She smirked. “Bad girls think too much, and good girls obey. Do you want to be a good girl, Arya, or a bad girl?”

Every utterance of those hateful words rang in my ears like a klaxon, like babies on airplanes, like cold steel nails on ceramic and hatred and pain and fear. Too loud, too horrible, too awful for words: ‘BAd girl bAD GIRL Bad giRL DON’T WANNA BE A—’

I knew with utter certainty; I couldn’t be a bad girl.

I wasn’t allowed to think.

But… But I was thinking.

I clenched my jaw tight, rocking my head back and forth. Bad girl. Bad girl. Bad girl.

But…

I groaned.

The bruises… they… they meant… something…

It didn’t add up. ‘Why am I like this? What did Ismene do to me?’

Bad girl. Bad girl. Bad girl.

I mewled my distress, too insensate for words. The cognitive dissonance of needing to not think clashing with the innate desire to reason my way through the conundrum I faced was resurrecting the throbbing headache I had avoided up to this point.

There were fingers stroking through my hair, which felt greasy and lank. Ismene was cooing over me, saying words that I couldn’t, wouldn’t process.

I let my head fall back into the comforting touch, and tried to leech what comfort I could from it while the echoes of those fucking words faded from my thoughts.

The hand withdrew.

Dimly, I registered Ismene’s commentary as she puttered around something on my left side. I felt an uncomfortable pinch and stinging sensation on the back of my hand, but it quickly receded.

There was a sudden coldness in my wrist.

Then warmth.

I felt pleasantly dizzy.

Two large, warm shapes closed over my ears, blocking out all sound but for a strange, distant hissing. Ismene sat down on my bedside and began stroking my hair again.

My vision began to blur, but before I let my eyes fall shut, I looked at Ismene and saw her lips moving, mouthing good girl at me.

A visceral shiver ran through me, and as I felt myself falling into a euphoric stupor, I felt a beatific smile pulling at my cheeks.

I pulled Arya off of sedatives today to evaluate her progress. She was lucid and coherent upon awakening, and, disappointingly, capable of critical thinking.

As she was fully responsive to trance while under sedatives, I can only speculate as to the reason(s) responsible for this state of affairs. My primary suspicion is that her initial intoxication may have played a significant role, making Arya more susceptible to the initial induction, and thus skewing my methodology for the following week.

Whether alcohol interacts unfavorably with the secondary compound within an active subject is a current unknown, but worth investigating in the future.

It may simply be the case that it is harder to rewire a human being inside of a week than I thought, no matter the method, however I am skeptical of drawing such a conclusion so early, and eager to prove it false.

Nonetheless, Arya responded to her triggers favorably, though not totally effectively, showing overt signs of resistance despite repeated applications.

Re-administration of the secondary compound has induced trance as desired. I have refrained from administering sedatives. I believe that, at this juncture, unconsciousness will pose more of a barrier than an aide to the learning process, and that Arya’s response to positive reinforcement should be sufficient to guarantee her cooperation in the process going forward.

Should my suspicion prove untenable, I will revert my methodology.

-I

I was such a good girl for Mistress.

Time was meaningless. The silken ties that bound me to the bed had been removed some time ago while I drifted in the warm haze. A part of me mourned the loss of my bonds, but the better part glowed with pride and satisfaction.

Mistress trusted me to take my medicine. Mistress trusted me to stay still and stay in bed. I had earned the right to remain awake for my lessons.

I was such a good girl for Mistress.

It felt so good to be a good girl. Fighting was futile. Struggling made me tired. Resistance was for bad girls. I could not be a bad girl.

I blinked languidly, eyes on the projection screen set up in front of my bed. My eyelids hung low, resting. They would open wide once I was instructed to focus. I could see the patterns now. My mind was open to my lessons.

The headphones hummed in my ears. It was a throbby, bassy rhythm right now, the kind that made my vision go blurry. Thinking correctly used to be hard, but I had learned. I had to focus to think correct thoughts through the pulsing sound, and distraction was impossible.

It made it so much easier to recite my lessons. It was like resistance training, but for my mind.

I was such a good girl for Mistress.

The IV line drip, drip, dripped. Its cadence felt more real to me than my heartbeat. I was never thirsty. Never hungry. When my mouth and throat became too dry to croak my mantras, Mistress would return to the room and hold the glass of water to my lips.

Being cared for in such a way—being served by hand by Mistress—felt obscenely intimate. Such a privilege. I would serve her with a thousand-fold dedication in recompense. I would serve her forever. I would do anything for her. I reminded myself of this each and every time she leaned over me, with a fervor stronger than a zealot’s.

I remembered a time before when I fought back. Mistress was still fine-tuning her process, and I remembered the confusion and rage that presaged the certainty and security of obedience.

The drugs made my body so heavy though. They made my waking mind dull and idle. They made me euphoric, warm, and so, so sensitive.

The better to teach me the rewards for obedience.

The drugs made me sleep, where my open, unconscious mind could dream and absorb my instructions without conscious resistance. Every time I would wake, I would be a little more aware, and every cycle softened my mind to further instruction. It was how Mistress eroded my will, how she broke me down, and how once I broke, she began to build me back up into something better.

These memories did not bother me. I had learned to be grateful to Mistress, who had taken the bad girl I used to be, and taught her how to be a Good Girl capable and worthy of serving her.

I was such a good girl for Mistress.

The lesson playing in my ears instructed me to open my eyes and focus. Immediately, the whole of my attention shifted, focusing on the screen, focusing on the patterns, focusing and allowing the motion and color to soften my mind, to make me better clay for Mistress’s lessons to mold into the shape of her liking.

I sighed, helpless and needy, and let the instruction direct my thoughts as needed. The drug made me warm and open and suggestible. It was easy to slip deeper into trance, to listen to the drip, drip, drip and silently bask in thoughts of obedience.

It felt so good. I loved it. I loved my lessons.

I was such a good girl for Mistress.

It turns out that partial sedation was the way to go. In tandem with a strategic regimen of the secondary compound, Arya has proven herself incapable of resistance, and after careful monitoring now requires no restraints to remain docile and receptive to instruction.

I suspect she is already ready to serve, but in this, too, I would prefer to approach with caution. Three more days unless other complications present themselves.

Arya’s phone has been receiving text messages the last few days. Her boss, sister, and a mutual friend of ours. Though I am skeptical of her ability to respond to a call without giving a hint of her altered state, I suspect I will have to broach this eventuality with her boss soon. Perhaps it will be for the best, the long-term plan was to have her submit her resignation regardless.

Her sister was deterred by a few choice text messages. I will return to her later. Her friend, on the other hand, I provided my own contact information and an invitation. I think a second trial will provide a great deal of insight as to the merits of my updated methodology.

And, after browsing Arya’s photo gallery, I think the two of them would look excellent on their knees together. It’s been too long since I had a threesome.

-I

It had been a week since the completion of my training.

I had made every arrangement necessary. Mistress had prepared a room for my use, here in her home. Her income was more than enough to support both of us, especially now that I would be available to manage the house and any other extraneous needs while she worked. The lease on my apartment would expire in two months, and there was more than enough room for those items Mistress permitted me to keep in my new space.

There was no need to return to work to await the fulfillment of a two-week resignation; it was easy enough to provoke a termination after so long an absence. Once, the cold judgement in my supervisor’s voice would have chilled me to the bone, filling me with shame with how badly I had fucked something up, but that authority meant nothing to me now.

I knew real authority now.

My family and friends, I managed at Mistress’s discretion. Some connections, useless for her purposes, would be cut, while others would be allowed to simply decay, lest my sudden and total withdrawal arouse suspicion.

Others still would be leveraged.

I smiled as I ushered my friend Daniella inside. She had been bemused when I announced my new relationship, never figuring me the type for commitment, but a few calls assured her that I was in love—it was true, after all—and a few further hints assured her that there was room for further experimentation.

She, after all, wasn’t one for commitment either, but was eager to take what opportunities presented themselves. The former could be amended. The latter, Mistress understood all too well.

My smile remained, fixed in place, as I mixed the drinks, and widened as I watched my friend slam the empty glass down on the counter. She reeled as the headrush of the chemical cocktail hit her immediately.

We laughed and I began to mix her another, melting a little inside as Mistress turned a knowing, pleased smile onto me. I beamed back.

I was a very good girl for Mistress.

And, as I had been taught, good girls made more good girls.