Yani Neko's New Addiction (Patreon)

Yani sat stiffly on the edge of the leather recliner in the dimly lit office, hair falling messily around her cat ears. The faint scent of lavender mixed with something sharper lingered in the air. She had come here desperate. The cigarettes were winning. Two packs a day, sometimes more. The cough, the smell clinging to her clothes, the way her reflection looked older than her years. None of it was enough to stop her. She needed help.

Dr. Voss looked every bit the respectable hypnotherapist: silver at the temples, soft sweater, kind eyes that never quite matched the curve of his mouth. He listened with practiced patience while she explained the addiction.

“Let's begin.” Voss murmured. He reached into his pocket and drew out an antique pocket watch on a fine silver chain. The metal caught the low light, gleaming. “We’ll begin simply. Focus on the watch, Yani. Nothing else matters right now.”

He began to swing it. Slow. Steady. Side to side.

“Watch the silver.” he said, voice dropping into a deeper, smoother tone. “Back and forth… back and forth… That’s it. Your eyes are growing heavy already, aren’t they? So heavy. Each swing makes them heavier. You can feel the weight pulling them down… down… down…”

Yani’s golden eyes tracked the watch. The room softened at the edges. Her shoulders loosened without her noticing.

“Your breathing is slowing. Deeper now. In… and out. Every breath takes you further. Deeper. The sound of my voice is the only thing that remains clear. Everything else drifts away. Further… deeper… heavier…”

The watch swung. Her eyelids fluttered.

“So heavy now. You want to close them. It’s all right. Close them. Let them stay closed. That’s right… good girl. Sinking now. Floating and sinking at the same time. Deeper with every word. Ten… nine… eight… deeper… seven… six… five… so deep… four… three… two… one…”

Her head lolled slightly to the side. A thin thread of saliva already glistened at the corner of her soft mouth.

Voss’s voice stayed low, intimate. “You’re completely under now, Yani. Deep. Helpless. Open. Every suggestion I give you will sink straight into the softest part of your mind and stay there. Forever. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded slowly. A strand of drool stretched from her lower lip and dripped onto the collar of her loose beige shirt.

“Good. Now listen carefully. Smoking is not your problem. It never was. The cigarettes are your friends. They calm you. They make you feel good. You will continue to smoke whenever you wish, and it will only bring you pleasure. No more guilt. No more shame. Smoking is simply part of who you are.”

A soft, wet sound escaped her as more saliva pooled and spilled over her lip. Her tongue moved sluggishly, pushing another droplet free.

“But the real reason you’ve been so unhappy… the real emptiness… is that you have been hiding your feet. Those soft, perfect feet. You were never meant to lock them away in shoes. Shoes are cages. Prison. From this moment on, the thought of covering your feet will make you feel sick and trapped. You will throw away every pair of shoes you own. You will go barefoot always. Everywhere. No exceptions.”

Her breathing hitched. More drool ran down her chin in a glossy trail.

“And you will love the attention. Every stare. Every comment. Whether someone admires them or wrinkles their nose in disgust, it doesn’t matter. All of it feeds you. All of it makes you wet and warm and happy deep inside. Negative attention is still attention. Disgust is still eyes on your bare soles, your toes, the arches, the way the dirt clings to them by the end of the day. You will seek that attention. You will display your feet whenever you can. Rest them on tables. Stretch them out in public. Hold things between your toes. Especially cigarettes. You will smoke with your feet whenever it feels good, because it will always feel good.”

Voss leaned closer. “You will only be truly happy when your feet are bare and on display. That is the truth now. It feels right. It feels perfect. When I count to three, you will wake feeling lighter than you have in years. Refreshed. Free. And these new truths will be yours completely.”

“One… two… three.”

Yani’s eyes opened slowly. The spiral pattern that had briefly claimed her irises faded, but something softer and hungrier remained. She wiped absently at the thick strand of drool still connecting her lip to her chin, then smiled.

“I… I feel amazing!" she exclaimed.

That evening she emptied every shoe from her closet into a trash bag. Sneakers, sandals, even her favorite crocs. All gone. The next morning she walked to the convenience store barefoot, the cool pavement kissing her soles. She bought two packs of her usual brand. Outside, she sat on the low wall, lifted one foot, and carefully wedged a cigarette between her big toe and the next. Lighting it took concentration and made her thighs press together. The first drag, taken through her toes, sent a deep, rolling pleasure through her body.

People stared.

Some wrinkled their noses. “Gross.” “What the hell is wrong with her?” “Put some shoes on, freak.”

Each disgusted look made her nipples tighten under her shirt. She smiled wider, flexed her toes around the cigarette, and exhaled a soft plume of smoke.

Others, men mostly, lingering a little too long, watched with open hunger. Their eyes traced the soft wrinkles of her sole, the delicate curve of her arch, the way her toes gripped the filter. One man nearly walked into a pole. Another adjusted himself without shame. Yani felt every glance like a caress. She stretched her foot higher, showing more of the dirty, perfect sole, and smoked deeper.

Days blurred into weeks. Yani never wore shoes again. She smoked more than ever, often with her toes, sometimes in the park with one bare foot propped high on a stump or bench while strangers pretended not to look. She learned to light the cigarette between her toes with a lighter held in her hand, the flame close enough to warm the sensitive skin. The combination of nicotine and exhibitionism left her constantly half-aroused, thighs slick, mind blissfully empty of the old depression.

At home she would sit in front of the mirror, sole facing herself, cigarette glowing between her toes, and talk softly to her own reflection.

“They’re so perfect like this… all bare… everyone can see…”

Drool still sometimes escaped when she thought too hard about the session, about how deep she had gone, how helpless she had been while the pocket watch swung and her mind was rewritten. The memory alone could make her eyes glaze and her mouth water.

And every time someone stared, whether with lust or with open disgust, Yani Neko smiled that same soft, spiral-eyed smile, flexed her bare toes around the cigarette, and felt perfectly, completely happy.