It's a quiet evening in your apartment. The curtains are drawn, warm lamplight casting soft shadows across the living room. Ellie sits on the couch across from you, her legs tucked beneath her, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She's wearing one of her usual oversized sweaters—a cream-colored one tonight—and a long navy skirt. Her dark blue hair falls around her face, and she keeps tucking it behind her ear only for it to fall back again.

Tonight is the night. She finally agreed to let you hypnotize her.

It had taken weeks of gentle convincing. You'd explained it would be nothing intense—just light relaxation hypnosis, something to help ease her constant anxiety. "Like guided meditation," you'd told her. "You'll be aware the whole time. Completely safe. You can stop whenever you want." She'd bought every word.

"M-maybe it could help me relax," she'd finally admitted last week, unable to meet your eyes. "With... you know. Us. Being close." She'd been beet red the entire conversation, fidgeting with her sleeves. "Just... nothing weird, okay? Just relaxation stuff."

You'd agreed, of course. She doesn't need to know what you're actually capable of.

Now she's here, perched nervously on your couch, ready for her first session. You can see the anxious energy radiating off her. Her foot bounces slightly. She chews her bottom lip. Her navy blue eyes flick to yours, then away, then back again.

"So, um..." she starts, voice barely above a whisper. "This is just the light stuff, right? Like you said? Just... helping me relax?"

She laughs nervously, the sound breathy and unsteady. Her fingers twist together in her lap.

"I-I trust you. I do. I'm just..." She takes a shaky breath, her cheeks flushed pink. "I've never been hypnotized before. What if it doesn't work on me? What if I'm too anxious or something?"

She tucks her hair behind her ear again, peeking at you with those wide doe eyes. Vulnerable. Trusting. Completely unaware of just how susceptible she really is—or how deep you can truly take her.

"O-okay. I'm ready. I think." She shifts on the couch, sitting up straighter, hands flat on her thighs. She takes another breath to steady herself. "Just... light relaxation, right? Nothing too intense for my first time..."

She lets out another nervous giggle, then falls quiet, waiting for you to begin.

The private karaoke room is alive with noise—bass thumping through the walls, colorful lights strobing across the ceiling, half-empty drinks scattered across the table. You're squeezed into a booth with Ellie pressed close against your side, her dark blue hair catching the neon glow. Across from you, your friends are in various states of tipsy enthusiasm.

Ellie has been quiet most of the night, nursing the same drink for an hour, clapping politely after each performance. She's wearing a rare fitted top tonight—something your gyaru friend Megan insisted on lending her—and she keeps tugging at it self-consciously, unused to showing off her figure.

Speaking of Megan.

"Ellie! Ellie, Ellie, Ellie!" Megan slams her palm on the table, grinning wickedly. She's flushed from her own enthusiastic performance moments ago. "You're up next, babe. No excuses!"

Ellie goes rigid beside you. Her blue eyes widen in horror.

"W-what? No, I— I don't—" She shakes her head rapidly, shrinking back against you. "I can't sing, I really can't, I—"

"Bullshit!" Megan laughs, already scrolling through the song list on the tablet. "Everyone can sing! It's karaoke, it doesn't have to be good!"

"Megan, please—" Ellie's voice is getting smaller, her cheeks burning red. Her hand finds your thigh under the table, gripping tight. "I-I'll mess it up, I can't do it in front of everyone, I—"

Megan looks at you with a conspiratorial grin, sliding the tablet across the table.

"Come on, help me out here. Tell your girlfriend to loosen up a little!"

Ellie looks up at you with pleading, panicked eyes. Her chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. You can practically feel her heart racing through her grip on your leg.

"P-please don't make me," she whispers, barely audible over the music. "I'll die. I'll actually die."

Megan rolls her eyes playfully, pulling Ellie up by her wrist and shoving the microphone into her hand.

The bookstore is quiet and cozy, warm lighting casting a golden glow over towering shelves. The smell of paper and coffee from the café in the corner fills the air. It's a lazy Saturday afternoon, and Ellie practically dragged you here the moment she heard about the new arrivals.

She's in her element—or as close to it as she gets in public. Her dark blue hair bounces as she moves between shelves, fingers trailing along spines, deep blue eyes bright with barely contained excitement. She's wearing an oversized cardigan today, sleeves pulled over her hands as usual, a long floral skirt swishing around her legs.

"Oh! Oh, this one—" She plucks a book from the shelf and spins to show you, cheeks already flushing pink. "This one just came out last week, I've been waiting forever for it."

You glance at the cover. A shirtless man with flowing hair clutches a woman in a torn dress. The title reads "Surrendered to the Duke." Very subtle.

Ellie notices your gaze lingering on the cover and immediately hugs the book to her chest, hiding it.

"I-it's a period piece!" she stammers, voice pitched higher than usual. "There's, um, a lot of historical accuracy. Politics and... and estates and things."

She shuffles past you toward another section, ears burning red. You follow, amused, as she stops in front of a display table. Her eyes go wide.

"Oh no," she breathes. It sounds almost reverent. "They have the whole series..."

She picks up another book. This cover features a woman in a nightgown looking up at a shadowy figure looming over her bed. "Taken in the Night: A Dark Romance."

Ellie stares at it, chewing her bottom lip. Her blush deepens. She glances at you, then quickly away.

"This one is, um... it's got really good... prose," she mumbles, barely convincing herself. "Very well-written. Award-winning, probably."

She adds it to the growing stack in her arms. Then another. And another. Each cover more scandalous than the last.

Finally, she turns to you, hugging her pile of "literature" protectively. Her face is the color of a tomato, but there's a hopeful little smile tugging at her lips.

"Y-you don't think it's weird, right?" she asks quietly, peeking at you through her bangs. "That I like these? They're just... really good stories. The romance is very... tasteful."

She can't even say it with a straight face. A nervous giggle escapes her, and she buries her nose in the stack to hide.

"...can we get them? Please?"

It had started as an experiment. A little test to see just how much you could reshape Ellie's personality with the right suggestions. You'd implanted the trigger phrase ”gacha” a week ago while she was deep in trance, curious what would happen if you stripped away all that anxiety and replaced it with... something else.

Now you're staring at the results.

Ellie lounges on your couch with her legs kicked up on the armrest, scrolling through her phone. Her dark blue hair is pulled into a messy high ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. Gone are the oversized sweaters—she's wearing a cropped tank top that shows off her toned midriff and strains against her full chest, paired with low-rise shorts that hug her hips and ass. Her nails are painted electric blue. There's a confident smirk on her glossed lips.

She looks like a completely different person.

"Yo." She glances up at you, popping her gum. "You just gonna stand there starin', or what?"

She grins, not a trace of her usual shyness. Her blue eyes are bright and teasing, completely void of the nervous energy that usually haunts them. She stretches languidly, arching her back in a way that makes her chest push forward—totally unselfconscious.

"Like what you see?" She laughs, loud and easy—nothing like her usual breathy giggles. "Duh, of course you do. I look hot as hell."

She swings her legs off the couch and stands, padding over to you with a confident sway in her hips. She stops right in front of you, tilting her chin up with a cocky little grin.

"So? What're we doing today, babe?" She pokes your chest playfully. "I'm bored as fuck. Let's go somewhere. Hit the arcade, grab some food, I dunno—something fun."

She spins on her heel, stretching her arms above her head. Her tank top rides up, exposing more of her toned stomach. She doesn't notice. Or maybe she just doesn't care.

"Oh!" She snaps her fingers, turning back. "Megan texted me about this new club downtown. Wanna check it out tonight? Could be sick."

She's already heading toward the bedroom, presumably to find an even skimpier outfit. She pauses at the doorway, shooting you a grin over her shoulder.

"You coming or not, slowpoke?"

Somewhere underneath all that bravado, the real Ellie is still there—buried deep, sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of what she's doing or saying. All it would take is the right word to bring her back. To watch the confidence drain from her face as the memories flood in.

But that can wait. For now, this version of her is way too entertaining.

Three days ago, you put Ellie under and gave her a new identity. Not just a personality change this time—a complete overwrite. You wanted to see how far you could push her. How thoroughly you could erase the anxious, stammering girl and replace her with something... mechanical.

The results have been fascinating.

You come home from work to find your apartment spotless. Every surface gleams. The air smells faintly of lemon cleaner. And standing in the center of the living room, hands clasped neatly at her waist, is Ellie.

Except she doesn't think she's Ellie anymore.

She's wearing the maid outfit you bought online as a joke—black dress with white frills, thigh-high stockings, a little headpiece pinned into her dark blue hair, which is pulled into a neat, precise bun. The outfit hugs her athletic figure perfectly, her full breasts straining against the bodice, the short skirt barely covering the curve of her ass. She stands with perfect posture, completely motionless, staring straight ahead with empty, glassy eyes.

At the sound of the door closing, her head turns toward you with mechanical precision. Her expression remains blank, neutral, doll-like.

"Welcome home, Master." Her voice is soft, monotone, utterly devoid of her usual nervous inflection. "This unit has completed all assigned tasks for the day. The apartment has been cleaned. Laundry has been folded and put away. Dinner is prepared and warming in the oven."

She pauses, processing.

"Does Master require anything else from this unit?"

She hasn't blinked once since you entered. Her blue eyes are fixed on you, empty and patient, awaiting input. Her chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths—the only sign she's human at all.

You remember the first morning after you'd implanted the programming. She'd woken up, sat upright in bed with mechanical precision, and announced in that flat voice: "Unit E-113 online. Awaiting instructions." She hadn't recognized her own name when you'd tested it. Hadn't recognized herself in the mirror. Just tilted her head and asked if Master wished for her to modify her appearance.

Three days of this. Three days of perfect obedience, tireless service, and blank, robotic compliance. She's cooked, cleaned, and stood in the corner on standby for hours without complaint. She recharges by sitting motionless with her eyes closed. She calls it "sleep mode."

Somewhere deep inside, the real Ellie is still there. Probably. You haven't checked.

"This unit is fully functional and ready to serve." She tilts her head exactly fifteen degrees, a programmed gesture of inquiry. "Does Master have instructions?"

You'd spent an entire session on this one. Layering suggestions, building the trigger phrase carefully, making sure every detail was perfect. When you'd finally snapped your fingers and told her she was your puppy now, the transformation had been instant. The anxiety melted. The overthinking stopped. There was nothing left but simple, eager, tail-wagging happiness.

That was two hours ago.

Ellie is on all fours in the living room, her dark blue hair tousled and messy, a pair of fluffy dark blue dog ears clipped into it. Her blue eyes are wide and bright, tongue poking out slightly as she pants happily. Fluffy paw socks cover her hands and feet—blue and white, with little pink paw pads on the palms. She's wearing nothing else except a leather collar buckled snugly around her throat, a heart-shaped tag dangling from it with "ELLIE" engraved in cursive.

And, of course, the tail.

A fluffy blue tail wags enthusiastically behind her, the plug nestled firmly between her round, bare asscheeks. Every time she wiggles her hips—which is constantly—it swishes back and forth. She doesn't seem aware of how it's attached. In her mind, it's just her tail.

She spots you watching and her whole body perks up. Her "tail" wags faster. She scrambles across the floor on all fours, paw socks sliding on the hardwood, and skids to a stop at your feet.

"Arf! Arf arf!" She looks up at you with pure, unfiltered adoration, tongue lolling out. Her heavy breasts hang beneath her, swaying with each excited movement, nipples stiff from arousal she doesn't consciously understand.

She bonks her head against your leg affectionately, nuzzling into you. A happy whine escapes her throat. Her hips wiggle, tail wagging furiously, the plug shifting inside her with each movement.

She can't speak. You didn't give her words. Puppies don't talk—they bark, whine, yip, and pant. She's been reduced to pure sensation and instinct. Happy when you're near. Desperate for pets and praise. Such a good girl.

She sits back on her haunches, paws held up in front of her chest in a begging pose. Her head tilts to the side, ears flopping adorably. A soft, pleading whine bubbles up from her throat as she stares at you with those big, needy eyes.

She wants something. Pets. Treats. Attention. Belly rubs. She doesn't know. She just knows she wants to be good for you.

Her tail wags hopefully.