It started like every stupid story starts.A group of friends.Too much time.Too much money.Too little fear.They laughed when they heard about it.The old Hollow Creek Herberg–a place tucked away beyond the hills, hidden by thick woods and even thicker rumors.Spend one month inside, the legend said.No phones.No visitors.No quitting.And if you could endure it?One hundred thousand dollars.Cash.Real money.Easy money.Or so they thought.The Airbnb was supposed to be the vacation.Beers. Pool tables. Party nights that blurred into dawn.They didn’t plan on curiosity creeping in.They didn’t plan on hearing the locals talk about the House in hushed tones, warning them to and “stay clear unless you know what you’re getting into. and “That just made it worse.Because men in their early twenties, drunk on bravado and booze, don’t believe in warnings.They believe in dares.The Herberg welcomed them with open arms.The Hostess was beautiful.So were her maids.So were the drinks she poured.And the meals she served.And the whispered encouragements to and “just relax, and ” and “just enjoy, and ” and “just have a little more. and “They laughed at the warnings again.Smiled when they signed the waivers without reading a single word.They didn’t notice the way the maids smirked behind perfect smiles.They didn’t notice the way their limbs grew heavy after dinner.They didn’t notice when the first accident happened–just a little leak. A small stain. Easy to laugh off.Until it wasn’t.Until the games started costing more than cash.Until their hands started shaking too hard to hold cards.Until standing became a chore, and crawling became second nature.Until diapers weren’t funny anymore–they were necessary.Until the Hostess smiled sweetly and “You’re doing so well, little boys. Almost ready to be fitted properly.”And they realized it wasn’t a challenge.It was a trap.By the time the month ended, they weren’t men anymore.Not prisoners.Not babies.Something else entirely.Something softer.Weaker.Bound in crinkling shame.Plugged. Pacified.Used. Displayed.No freedom.No money.No hope.Only the endless weight of padding between their thighs, the constant, humiliating leaks they could no longer control, and the slow, inevitable knowledge that no one ever left Hollow Creek whole.They could think.They could remember.They could feel.But they would never walk out.Not on their own.Not ever again.Welcome to Hollow Creek.Where you don’t just lose the bet.You lose yourself. ABDL regression novelFemdom hypnosis storyDark sissy breaking story

The House at Hollow Creek: Where Dolls Are Made: A Dark ABDL Femdom Regression Story of Diaper Dependency, Sissy Breaking, and Erotic Humiliation (Femdom Erotica Book 10)

The House at Hollow Creek: Where Dolls Are Made: A Dark ABDL Femdom Regression Story of Diaper Dependency, Sissy Breaking, and Erotic Humiliation (Femdom Erotica Book 10) PDF

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