Not long ago you'd had your doubts about joining this "club," but now you've never wanted anything more. The catboys radiate serenity and properness, even though they wear nothing but speedos from the waist down. Having basked in the lovely sound from the brainwashing booth, you understand why they're dressed the way they are - to show that they're not ashamed, that they couldn't feel shame if they tried. The club has left them with only the bliss of servitude. You want it for yourself. You want to be one of them.
You don't resist as the calico butler and his newly-inducted clubmate take you by the hands. They gently tug you to your feet and lead you to the waiting booth. The inside is featureless and gleaming black glass, walls and floor and ceiling. No one says a word as you're guided to the threshold of the booth; the merest touch on your back from Tom is all you need to step inside. You turn around, and the last thing you see before the door shuts are their smiling, spiral-eyed faces.
The locks click shut for a time you're in darkness, so completely black that it feels like you're floating in space. You stand obediently still, arms at your sides, as you wait for the booth to begin its work.
Then it comes. That wonderful sound, so much clearer than before and from every direction at once. It rumbles up through your feet, caresses the sides of your head, vibrates in your ribs. Like Tom's massage, but all over and with so much more intensity. Your knees almost buckle from the pleasure of it; your thoughts dissolve into foggy, pleasant mush. And then, the walls finally light up.
You are cocooned in soft and pulsing colors. Rippling patterns that ensnare you wherever you look. Even when you blink you can see them, beamed through your lids like x-rays. The floor-to-ceiling color plays across your skin, so that you're part of the color and the sound, pulled apart by it, dissolved and remade. You feel a feline purring in your marrow. Soon you realize that the purr is also coming from your own throat.
Knowledge is carried on the waves of color - knowledge of etiquette, housecleaning, the preparation of meals. All skills necessary for a good and proper servant. It's pushed into your mind and everything else is discarded. What had you wanted before this? What could you have possibly expected from life that would be better than this? It's so much easier to be a good servant, to eagerly do as you're told, behave in whatever manner will please your Master. When tawny fur begins to sprout across your skin, you barely notice. When your ears recede and and move to the top of your head, you still hear that beautiful sound. Your lip briefly tickles as whiskers emerge, your bare feet shifting to digitigrade paws, certain to carry you silently as you perform your duties. Your clothes shimmer and shift into a fitting vest and waistcoat, and your new Speedo barely conceals your erection, the overwhelming pleasure at being reborn into a good butler.
Your thoughts become orderly and calm, and then, you cease to think at all. You straighten your posture because a servant must stand straight. You will go directly to your Master because you must serve. As your eyes fill with spirals reflecting the wondrous colors of the brainwashing booth, you no longer need to think. All that matters is fulfilling your purpose.
At last, the colors and sounds fade. But that is not important. They still exist in you.
The door opens and your fellow butlers await outside, in the same positions as when you had first entered. You primly step out, place one paw on your chest, and bow.
"I am ready to serve," you say, in a gentle monotone.
The other butlers bow in return. You all straighten and leave the room, your gait identical down to the swaying of your tails.
The Hypnokitty Club's membership has grown well this year. Master will be so pleased.