Lisa and I teamed up to do a report for our sociology class. The whole group was divided into two-person teams; that was part of the assignment.
For my part, I was pretty glad. I thought Lisa was pretty cute—a little bookish, maybe, and shy. She had short brown hair and glasses. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and didn’t wear showy clothes, but from time to time, you’d catch just a glimpse of her body beneath some article of clothing she wore, and you’d get this hint of a really great body beneath her unflattering clothing. She owned a pair or two of jeans that were really tight, which she’d usually wear with an oversized, button-down shirt that would cover the better part of her butt; you could make out the graceful form of her thighs, but, except when she assumed certain positions, the beautiful silhouette of her behind was left to the imagination.
I’d flirted with her in class from time to time, and was hoping this report would give me a chance to get to know her a little better, and maybe ask her out.
We were working in her room, surrounded by a modest stack of books we’d just checked out from the library, the subject of mass hypnosis came up. I thought the whole idea of hypnosis was absolute hogwash, the stuff of lackluster dimestore magicians and nickel carnival sideshows. She assured me that hypnosis was genuine; she’d even had a relative that’d been able to give up smoking with the aid of hypnosis.
“I’ve even been hypnotized myself,” she added sagely.
“I still believe it’s more self-delusion than any kind of hypnotic influence,” I retorted.
“It is not. People can be hypnotized, and suggestions can be implanted in the subconscious.”
I snorted.
“Look,” she said, “if you don’t believe me, why don’t I demonstrate?”
“Demonstrate how? If I don’t believe in hypnotism, how in the world can I be hypnotized?”
“You probably can’t. You have to be willing to be hypnotized in order for it to happen. You can hypnotize me.”
“That’s ridiculous. Even if hypnotism were real, I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”
“You don’t have to know anything about it. Like I said, the subject has to be willing, and it’s mostly about my being receptive to suggestion. I’ll relax, and you do the typical Bugs Bunny kind of bit about talking me into being more and more relaxed, getting sleepy—pay attention to your voice; keep it relaxing. Then you make a suggestion, and tell me to wake up.”
“Look, if hypnotism was real, like I said, I don’t know anything about it. How do you know I wouldn’t mess it up somehow, mess you up somehow?”
“I trust you—you have an honest face. Besides, you can’t make someone do something against their will. You can’t order me to jump off a building or anything,” she persisted, “that’s why they’re called suggestions.”
I shook my head. “I still think this is Bull.”
“Do you want to try this, or what?”
“Okay, whatever.”
“Okay, then,” she said, shaking out her shoulders and closing her eyes. She shifted around, relaxing, presumably.
“Okay. You’re getting sleepy. This is ridiculous.”
“If this is going to work, you’re going to have to take this seriously and stop distracting me,” she shot back through clenched teeth.
“Okay okay okay.” I cleared my throat, and after she’d loosened herself up again and closed her eyes, I shook my head. Might as well get this bullshit over with, I thought to myself. “You’re getting sleepy...sleepy. Take long, slow breaths. As you release each breath, the tension flows out of your body with the breath, each breath leaving you more relaxed than the last.”
“Slowly, slowly, the tension leaves your body.” You listen to my voice droning, droning, I thought to myself. I fought to contain a chuckle of derision as it rose in my chest; despite myself, I hoped she didn’t notice.
“Are you relaxed?”
“Yes.”
“You will sleep...you will listen to my voice but you will be asleep.”
“Asleep.”
“You will obey my voice. I will ask you to do something, and you will obey.”
“Obey.”
“You will not remember my having made the suggestion.”
“Suggestion....”
Now what? I thought.
The first thing that came to my mind was that I was hungry. It’d been a long afternoon at the library, chasing down books. For a couple of books, we had to look over the jumble of books that had needed to be reshelved. “You are hungry.”
“I am hungry,” she repeated.
“You need to get some food.”
“Need food.”
“You will not remember my suggestion that you are hungry, but you will experience hunger when you awaken. It will come from within you.”
“Hunger.”
“I will count to three, and upon three, you will awaken. You will not remember what we have discussed, but you will feel hungry.”
She nodded.
“One, two—”
Dammit, I thought to myself, that was lame. If I’m hungry, she’s probably hungry too...we’ve spent the whole afternoon together not eating.
“Three.”
She blinked, and shook her head a little. “Is the cafeteria still open? Maybe we should order a pizza if this is going to take a while.”
“Hungry?” For a moment, I almost believed it had worked.
“Yeah,” she answered, and then cocked her head. “You didn’t just, like, plant the suggestion that I was hungry, did you?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “How’d you guess?” I asked, a little disgusted with myself
Exasperated, she shook her head. “Look, Einstein, if you want to prove it, you should maybe pick something a little less usual...something that’s a little off the wall, so if I do it or say it you’ll know for sure that it’s what you suggested. Something different.”
“But harmless,” she added. “You got it?”
I nodded.
“Okay, you know what you’re going to suggest?”
“Well, not yet,” I admitted, “but I’ll think of something.”
“Okay. But nothing freaky.”
“Okay.”
She relaxed herself, and I talked her into her “trance.”
“Okay, just like before, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer me truthfully,” I said.
She nodded. Despite my skepticism, I was beginning to play along with this hypnotism thing.
“And just like before, you are not going to remember this conversation, but you will act upon the things we discuss.”
She nodded again.
“The questions I’m going to ask are going to be personal questions. I don’t want to use the information to take advantage of you. I just want you to answer the questions truthfully.”
She nodded.
“You’re not going to be offended by the questions. I don’t mean to hurt you or embarrass you by asking. Your answers will be a secret between us. I will never reveal them to anybody else. Do you trust me?”
She nodded.
She seemed actually to be in an altered state of consciousness. What the heck, I figured. Go for broke. “Okay. Answer me truthfully. Hypothetically, if I were to ask you out on a date, would you go out with me?”
Her lips turned up slightly, and I thought she was going to break out into laughter, and reveal that she was not actually in the trance in which she professed to be. I stiffened myself involuntarily for some sort of rebuff.
Instead of derisive laughter, she just uttered, rather dreamily, “Mmmmm...probably.”
Hmmmm, I thought. I continued, “I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do; if I do ask you to go out with me later, I want you to answer me truthfully. Do you understand?
“Mmmm-hmmmm.”
“If you don’t want to go out with me, I don’t want you to go out with me, okay?”
She nodded.
Okay...now for something to show whether this is working or not.
“Now tell me about the clothes you’re wearing,” I said.
“Shirt...white. Pants, shoes....”
She seemed not to want to use her voice very much.
“Bra?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Panties?”
She nodded.
“Do you ever dress yourself without wearing panties?”
She nodded.
“When do you not wear panties?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable for asking, but becoming curious.
“Laundry...” she said, trailing off.
“Please bear with me,” I said, trying to make my voice sound calmer than I felt. “You don’t wear you panties when...”
After a moment of silence, she picked up my sentence and uttered “Laundry’s all dirty.”
“Yes, you don’t wear panties when they all need to be washed.”
I shrugged. It made sense.
“Do you run out of clean laundry very much?”
She shook her head no.
“You never run out of clean laundry?”
“Almost never,” she murmured reluctantly.
“Your laundry’s all clean now?”
She nodded, “Mostly....”
“You’ve got clean underwear for the rest of the week?”
She nodded, either glad that she didn’t have to speak, or that her laundry was caught up.
“Okay. Tomorrow—the next time we see each other—tomorrow, when you get dressed, you’re not going to wear any panties.”
“No panties.”
“Can you do that for me?”
She nodded.
“And you’re not going to remember we had this conversation.”
“Not remember.”
This was seeming too easy...I thought for sure I’d have been slapped by that point. One other thought occurred to me, a second test I could run.
“You’re relaxed and comfy now, right?”
She nodded.
“You enjoy being this relaxed, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. When we’re alone together, and things are quiet and all relaxed, if I say the words, ‘Pretty Baby,’ you’ll come back to this state of pleasant sleep, and we can talk some more.”
“Yes.”
“You understand?”
“Yes...Pretty Baby.”
“Okay. Now, I’m going to count to three, and on the count of three, you will wake up. One, two, three.”
Her eyes opened, and she asked, “Okay, did it work?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Some test. You did think of some way to test it, right?” she eyed me warily.
“Of course I did.”
“So when will you know?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” she asked, with a note of apprehension.
“Don’t worry; it’s something so minor you’ll never even notice. I may even forget myself.”
“Okay,” she said, “but it’d better not be anything that screws up my day.”
I didn’t work up the courage to ask her out that evening, despite her assurance that she’d probably say yes—I didn’t want to jinx it by having her think I may have suggested it to her while she was “under hypnosis.” Even if I was still a little skeptical about hypnosis, it seemed clear that she believed.
The next day we met for our sociology class. I got to class a little late, but thankfully, it was a larger class and there was mercifully a seat in the back of the room that I could slide into unnoticed. I could see Lisa from where I sat, and she seemed a little uncomfortable—she was fidgeting in her seat from time to time.
After class I caught up to her so we could discuss our report. “Let’s get back to my room,” she said, a little peevishly. “There’s too many people here.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
She looked at me a moment, and blushed a little. “I forgot to wear any underwear this morning...it feels like everyone can see.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said. To keep from grinning, I had to quickly fill my head with details of the report on which we had been working.
“I was in such a hurry this morning, when I grabbed my clothes on the way to the shower, I must’ve forgotten my panties. I wasn’t about to go back through the dorm in nothing but a towel—”
“Don’t worry about it! No one could possibly know,” I said. Either the suggestion worked, or this is a hoax in which I’ve become an active participant, I thought to myself.
I told her I’d go by the student center to check my mail, and meet her at her room...that would give her some time to get herself composed.
The report we were working on was due at the end of the term, and was of broad enough scope that it would account for a full third of our grade. As I’d hoped, we’d gotten a little closer together over the project, and had gone to an all-night diner once or twice to unwind after studying.
A week or two passed. One evening the two of us were alone in my dorm room, and she piped up suddenly and asked, “Did you ever get that signal?”
“What signal?”
“Whatever signal you’d suggested to me after you hypnotised me....”
In the intervening days, I’d all but forgotten the episode. “Yeah, I guess,” I shrugged.
“You’re not sure?” she asked.
“It was something so subtle, I’m not sure whether it happened or not,” I stalled, remembering her apprehension about what I might have suggested to her.
“So you’re still a skeptic?”
We’d gotten a little bit closer over the intervening days, and I felt I knew her a little better. I’d also managed (finally) to make a date with her for Friday night. I remembered the second suggestion I’d given to her, and on a perverse little whim, in the quiet of my room, I whispered, “Pretty Baby.”
Half expecting her to ask me to repeat myself louder, her eyes seemed to glaze over and closed halfway. Her body slackened visibly.
“How are you doing?” I asked cautiously.
“Sleepy,” she murmured.
“Do you remember my voice?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember that you can trust me?”
“Trust you.”
Despite our recent closeness, I must admit that I was feeling a little nervous about our date. Really, how could it be any different than our regular day-to-day interactions? But I was nervous nonetheless.
“I want to ask you a couple of questions. May I do that?”
She nodded.
“Are you looking forward to our date tomorrow night?”
She smiled slightly, eyes closed, and nodded.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Me too.” Then, being a little self-serving, I added, “I’m sure whatever happens tomorrow night, everything will be fine and we’ll both have a good time.”
“Good time.”
I reminded her that I wanted her to be honest with me, and I recklessly asked her if she thought she might sleep with me sometime.
“Probably,” she replied.
“Tomorrow night?” I asked, not believing my good fortune.
“Never on first date....”
“But we’ve known one another so long,” I protested.
She kind of shrugged, deeply drowsy.
“Never?”
“Maybe if I were really, really horny...” she mumbled.
Seizing upon that, I continued. “Do you think you’ll be horny tomorrow night?”
She shrugged again.
“Listen to my voice. You are beginning to feel aroused.”
“Aroused?”
The tone of the question in her voice startled me, but she still appeared deep in a trance. Perhaps it was because I’d been more direct in suggesting it, or it was something further from the norm for her.
“How do you feel when you become aroused?”
She giggled a little, her face flushing. “Butterflies in stomach.”
“That’s how you feel now...you’ve butterflies in your stomach. You’re relaxed and happy, and feeling all tingly.”
“Mmmmmmmm....” She said. Her face was flushed a little deeper.
“Do you like to think about sex when you feel this way?”
She nodded.
“This is how you’re going to feel tomorrow. You’ll be aroused, and as the day goes on, the feeling will build slowly. As night approaches, you’ll think more and more about sex, and you’ll be more and more aroused.”
“More and more aroused,” she repeated dreamily.
“You’ll forget we had this conversation, but you’ll be especially horny tomorrow evening.”
“Especially horny.”
“When I count to three, you’ll wake up, and you’ll forget this conversation ever happened.”
The following night, the date got off to a good start. As the evening progressed, she started to seem a little distracted. I knew my roomate would be out drinking that evening, so we went back to my room. By the time we got there, she was acting really squirrely, agitated, and nervous. I was beginning to feel guilty because of the suggestion I had made. She was literally quivering with arousal, and when the door closed behind us, she practically pounced on me.
I was startled, although I really shouldn’t have been. We were kissing madly, and she pushed me toward the bed, upon which we both collapsed. Her hands seemed to be everywhere. Her warm, moist tongue was in my mouth one moment, and slithering along the edge of my ear the next, sending shivers down my spine. Before long I was as hot and bothered as she was.
She was astride me, both of us still in our clothes (although disheveled), and she was humping against my erection, making little mewling sounds as she did so. Her nipples seemed erect through both her blouse and her bra. Suddenly, she jumped up, mumbled something about having to leave before she did something we’d both regret, and left. She fled, actually. I was thunderstruck.
Guiltily, I realized I shouldn’t have tried to make her do something she wasn’t inclined to do. I vowed I would set things right the next day.
She surprised me by appearing outside my door the following morning, before my first class. Before I could say anything, she blurted out, “I’m sorry about last night. I just kind of freaked out.”
I started to speak, but she broke in again. “Things just got too intense for me too fast...I hope you won’t hold it against me....”
“No, it’s not your fault. I really shouldn’t have—”
“No, you didn’t do anything. It was just me being crazy. I hope we can go out again sometime soon....”
She stopped me dead in my tracks with her shy little smile, and I said, “Of course we will.” I couldn’t ruin the moment with an admission of what I had done....
After that, without my resorting to any hypnotic coercion, things progressed at a more leisurely pace. We would kiss and make out, and things would get pretty heavy, but she didn’t want to jump right into bed. At first I was pretty bummed, but she was willing to get into some petting. She even admitted that she’d like to get me off with her mouth, but was a little afraid...after all, she didn’t want to gag on me.
We tried a couple of times, but inevitably, as I instinctively thrust my penis toward the back of her mouth, it would trigger her gag reflex. The one time we did stick with it long enough for me to ejaculate, she nearly coughed up a lung when some of the semen got into her windpipe.
Not long after that, she suggested I hypnotize her again, to build her confidence in blowing me.
“You really want me to hypnotize you again?” I asked.
“Sure,” she shrugged. “Why not? Hypnotism is all about relaxing, and as far as I can tell, oral sex seems to be about relaxing the gag reflex...let’s give it a shot. Unless, of course, you don’t want me to blow you....”
“No, that’s okay...if you’re willing to do this, I’m sure willing. Pretty Baby.”
It’d been a couple of weeks since I’d used those words on her, and I was a little surprised they still worked. Her body went immediately slack, nearly falling over, and her eyelids fluttered shut.
“You’re very relaxed,” I said, more as an observation.
“Mmmmmmm-hmmmm,” she nodded.
“Before we get too far into this, I want to make sure you’re willing to do this.”
“Okay.”
“You’re willing to go down on me, and you want to be the best fellatrix you can be, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to help you to do this?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Listen to my voice. You’ve seen a penis, right?”
“Yes.”
“The penis is your friend—” I grimmaced, realizing suddenly how stupid it sounded. “The penis is lovely, wonderful. You want to have the penis inside you.”
“Yes. Show it to me.”
“Let’s just talk about it for the time being. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. You yearn for the penis.”
“Yearn.”
“You’re fascinated by it; you want to take it into you, into your mouth, into your vagina. You want to give it pleasure, and you want to take pleasure from it.”
“Pleasure.”
“The penis makes you complete, makes you happy. You welcome it into your mouth.”
She opened her mouth langorously, as if performing the act. It was pretty intense just to watch her pantomime.
“When you have the penis in you, in your mouth, your whole body tingles with pleasure. You feel butterflies in your stomach, in your mouth, even in your hand; wherever the penis touches you.”
She moaned “Yes.”
“You’re very relaxed when the erection is in your mouth; you welcome it into your mouth, into your throat. You’re too relaxed to gag; it feels wonderful. It feels in your throat the same way it feels in your pussy; as it moves back and forth, it excites you, arouses you. Your orgasm radiates from your mouth, but more urgently from your throat. You welcome it to the back of your mouth, into your throat, where it feels the best.”
“Best in my throat,” she moaned. Her face was flushed; she moved forward, taking an invisible erection deep into her soft, moist throat, and moaning softly.
The moment was so intense, I was reluctant to shake her from her trance. She seemed in a rapture of pleasure.
“You are a wonderful fellatrix, a cocksucker extraordinaire. You love cocks, can’t get enough. You feel no fear when confronted with an erection that you want to take into yourself, into your throat. You want to make it one with you, unite it with your essence.”
I didn’t think I could look her in the face if her conscious self could repeat these words to me, so I said, “You will not remember this conversation, but you will take everything we’ve discussed to heart. It will become a part of you, second nature to you. You will love going down on me, love penis, love cock. You will derive as much pleasure from it as I will, you will climax; long, earth-shattering climaxes, each time you go down, your orgasm will be more intense than the last.”
“When I count to three, you will awaken slowly. One. Two. Three.”
She shook her head briefly, exhaling as though she’d been holding her breath.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, blushing a little. “I just feel...a little...I don’t know....”
“You’re okay, though, right?”
“Yeah, I think so. Kind of woozy.”
“Maybe you’d better lie down....”
“Yeah,” she said, pulling me closer. “If you lie down with me.”
Moments later, she was going down on me with an enthusiasm that I hadn’t even dreamt about. She took me as far down into her throat as physics would permit, and her orgasm made mine seem miserly and small by comparison. It wasn’t long after that that we began to have sex, too, which she attacked with equal enthusiasm.
I was blissfully happy. I had a girlfriend who loved having sex with me, and loved fellatio, even almost to the point of preferring it over cunnilingus. I didn’t mind going down on her, although it wasn’t my favorite activity. I felt a little clumsy at it, strangely enough, partly because of her shining expertise in going down on me. I even contemplated asking her to hypnotize me, to see if she could work the same magic on me that I had on her.
Before I knew it, we were facing midterms. She had a lot of work from other classes, and we’d had to cut back on some of our dates, even on some of our more optional studying together. The sociology term paper had languished on the back burner as our sexual activity had increased; but that wasn’t due until the end of the semester. The midterms were the major focus of all our activity.
We were pulling an all-night study session, cramming for the sociology midterm. After a point, the coffee we were drinking didn’t seem to help. Lisa stood up, stretched, and tried jumping jacks to get her blood flowing again.
I enjoyed watching her efforts, but it wasn’t any good for getting my mind focussed on studying.
She was doing a hurtler’s stretch on the floor when she suggested that maybe we should try to hypnotize each other into being alert and studying more efficiently. “Or are you still the skeptic?” she asked, taunting with her gaze.
“No, I must say, I’m a believer,” I admitted. “I’ll hypnotize you, and then you can hypnotize me.”
“That’s quite a responsibility,” she said, seeming impressed. “You’ve never let me hypnotize you before.”
I shrugged. “I don’t guess there’s ever been any reason to,” I said. “Do you think it can be done?”
“Some people are more susceptible than others,” she said, as if doubting that it would work.
I yawned. “Well, if I don’t get you hypnotized, we might both wind up sound asleep before long.”
“If you’re already tired, and relaxed, you might be halfway there,” she observed.
“Whatever you say, Pretty Baby.”
After I’d given her the instructions necessary to make her an alert, lean, mean, studying machine, I brought her out of her trance.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I don’t even remember you calming me down slowly to put me under.”
“Maybe you’re more tired than you thought,” I suggested. “I hope you didn’t sleep through any of my instructions.”
“No sir,” she chirped. “Now it’s your turn. I guess you’re already sleepy.”
She seemed almost aquiver with nervous energy, and took a few syllables to modulate her voice into a relaxing tone.
“You’re getting sleepy...sleepy. You’re relaxed, your body is completely relaxed, but your mind is awake and you are effortlessly absorbing my voice.”
Suddenly I was awake. My face stung.
“Did you just slap me?” I rubbed my face, but I could not for the world remember her, or anyone else for that matter, striking me.
“You were really under,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I guess I might’ve panicked a little,” she explained.
After a moment, she observed “You seem really awake now, though.”
I certainly was. As we hit the books with renewed vigor, I wondered if I’d impressed upon her too much of a mood of strictness; she was cool and distant—the perfect, efficient, study partner.
After midterms, with all the pressure to study off, we went through sort of a “second-honeymoon” period; it seemed like we were copulating almost constantly. One evening, she complained that her pussy really hurt.
“From what?” I asked.
“Well, we’ve been fucking an awful lot, haven’t we?” she retorted.
“Yeah, we sure have,” I answered. I didn’t feel that sore, but I could remember doing it a couple of times that day.
I didn’t have much of a chance to reflect on it, because she immediately said, “Why don’t you fuck me in the ass?”
I couldn’t believe my demure little girlfriend was asking me to do her anally, much less that I’d heard the words “fuck me in the ass” coming out of her sweet little mouth. It was so unlike her, and so perversely arousing.
As sore as I might or might not have been, my cock sprang to attention. I’d never really considered anal sex before, but she had the most delicious-looking ass I had ever seen, and the thought of her petite little frame wiggling at the end of my member as it disappeared up her tiny back hole sent me into convulsions of desire.
“Ummmm, um, I don’t think I have any K-Y,” I stammered.
“That’s okay,” she said, her voice already growing husky with desire. She dropped her shorts to the floor, and cast a come-hither glance over her shoulder that made me melt. “One or two strokes in my sex won’t kill me.”
She was right; she was already amply aroused, and my first dive into her pool slicked me up enough to give me a decent penetration of her shapely rear. After I’d nestled the head of my cock at the delicate opening of her rear hole, she lunged back at me, almost sucking my erection into her. She took me with an ease that had me wondering momentarily if she’d done this before. At her desperate urgings, I pumped her ass as hard as I’d pump her pussy. She came wildly, thrashing around and crying out.
By the time finals rolled around, my academic life was a mess. Lisa’s studies had heated up, too, and it seemed we saw less and less of each other—it seemed she was dividing all her time between different study groups. The sociology term paper we’d been working on was dragging; we’d neglected it earlier in the term, and we were paying for it now. Rather than sociology study-sessions, we were just having brief planning meetings, in which we’d plot the course of the paper and divide up the work. She’d always show up to our sessions with her part all done in excruciating and flawless detail, while I felt like I was grinding away under the work of two people for the measly little tidbits I was able to scrape together. I was sure looking forward to the interterm, when things would slow down again and get back to normal.
The week before finals, we managed to squeeze in one short evening together. I’d been desperately looking forward to it...increasingly, I could think of nothing but her. My mind seemed to constantly obsess about how hot I was for her body. As I’d endlessly replay the fleeting moments we’d spent together in my mind, I was having more and more trouble concentrating on my studies.
That night together, after what had seemed like forever, we were finally having sex, and I wasn’t able to climax! I raged at her, humping her clinging body through crescendo after crescendo of her own orgasms, and I was unable to come myself. I tried different things, thinking of her, I even took a breather or two. My cock was getting extremely sore, and her velvety smoothness left me feeling like sandpaper. Finally, she murmured a few syllables that I didn’t understand, and I came like old faithful. It was surreal; it was as though every orgasm I’d ever had in my life had been replayed for me at the same time. Wave after wave broke over my body, for what seemed like dozens of minutes. I think I was unconscious before the orgasm even ended, much less when my head hit the pillow.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I finished my last final. Elated, I went over to Lisa’s room—her last final had been the previous evening.
After a knock, there was a stirring inside, and two guys opened the door to leave. One of them cast a knowing smirk at me as he tucked his shirt in and squeezed past.
Lisa was there; she’d already been celebrating. “What’s going on?” I asked, as much a greeting as a question.
“Nothing, Bitch!” she snapped back.
My head was as empty as a bell, and rang with her words.
“I guess it’s time to tell you,” she added.
The words fell into my mind, unlocking secrets. Slowly, images began to flow through my consciousness. At first it was like looking down a hallway, but the images began to come closer, and I realized that they were memories. My memories.
So many times I’d caught her with other men. Walked in on them with her brazenly fucking, her lithe frame perched atop them, humping vigorously. Sometimes one, sometimes two, with her sandwiched between them, one in her pussy, one in her ass—or with her getting it doggy-style, on all fours, sucking another man off.
I remembered the first time I walked in on her while she was cheating on me; she’d stopped, and even come over to talk to me. After the first time, when she found she could hypnotize me afterward and remove my memory, she wouldn’t even stop when I came into her room. Sometimes she’d just hump away, staring directly into my eyes, locking my gaze with hers as a devilish smile crept across her face, her face flushed with arousal, her breasts glinting with the sweat of her passions. She would savor my shock as she screwed; my mind wiped clean, each discovery was a new experience for me.
I recalled countless nights, standing outside her door while she fucked other men, or standing at the foot of her bed, a mute audience to her lovemaking. So many hours waiting in her room while she was out dating or screwing other guys, waiting for her return.
I met another self, a subconscious me who was aware of her coital activities, who helped her out, and made excuses for her. The one who would go into the drug store to buy condoms for her, condoms I would never use myself. The one who would drive her to frat parties, and wait in the car, idle and sober, to drive her home, after she was drunk and had had her fill.
I saw her standing in front of me, describing how she had been happily fucked sore in every opening. She cuddled up against me, telling me lovingly how much she liked the feeling of all the cum oozing out of her pussy and ass, making a mess of her panties. She would coo about how much she was looking forward to taking me back to her room, and having me delicately lap at her deliciously throbbing sex until she fell asleep. She told me how deliriously wicked she felt, fucking all those men, thinking about how I stood outside waiting to take her home.
The broken dates, the blown-off study sessions—for most of them, she had been with other men.
I recalled session after session of her hypnotizing me, building gradually upon my infatuation and love for her, reinforcing and developing my lust for her body until I literally became addicted to her. She had made every one of her orifices, indeed, every part of her body an object of worship for me—endless hours licking her feet, her breasts, her sex. On nights when she was too busy with other men, she would leave me behind to sniff and masturbate with her soiled panties, conditioning myself to be aroused by her private odors.
I remembered countless sessions where she probed my fantasies, both conscious and unconscious; through my memory, I watched as she bent me slowly to her will, laid countless traps in my mind, planted and nurtured fantasies and hopes, all centered around her. She discovered a submissive streak in me, a tiny thread of my sexual identity that she teased out and nurtured carefully, and through countless suggestions and in tiny increments, coaxed into bloom. She had placed herself at the center of my every fantasy, had invaded the core of my being. Pleasing her had become the purpose of my existence.
And the sociology term-paper! She had made me do all the work, and give her most of the credit. Not to mention some work for other classes she’d foisted off on me, so she could enjoy a roll in the hay with some jock while I did her assignments!
My face burned, and I felt the tears welling into my eyes. “Why—?” I choked.
She threw the covers off the bed, and I could see her glistening, lithe frame walking toward me. I was inches taller than she was, but I felt as though she was towering over me.
“Because—” she slapped me in the face, hard. “You,” she punctuated by slapping me with the back of her hand, equally hard, “made—” she continued, alternating fore- and backhand slaps with each word. “Me. A. Slut.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Her lovely image swam before my blurry vision, but in my mind, I could see her as she had been, sweet and innocent, in a trance before me. I heard the suggestions I had made to her, suggestions that had made her crave sex and seek the companionship of nearly countless men to slake the thirsts I had stirred within her.
She bent forward, close to my face, and added in a much quieter voice, as though confiding a secret, “For which I’m not entirely ungrateful.” Her lips twisted into a sardonic smile that struck fear into my heart.
“You set me on fire,” she said quietly. “You used me...made me into your plaything. You kindled my lust, toyed with me, abused my trust—you turned me into your horny little bitch, your perfect little cocksucker,” she fumed. “You manipulated me for your own selfish needs. Well, who’s the bitch now?” she asked, slapping me one more time, knocking me to the floor.
“I can fix it,” I blubbered incoherently, lying abjectly at her feet. “I can remove the suggestions! Everything can be the way it was before!”
“Oh, you have helped me quite enough already,” she glowered coldly, crisply enunciating each syllable with a terrible suppressed rage.
Then, almost playfully, she added in a sing-song voice, “Yes, I do believe you think you can make things right, don’t you? What was it you used to call me?”
“P-p-p-ri—” I stuttered.
“Pretty something, wasn’t it?” she prompted.
“P-pru-pru...” my voice trailed off.
“A shame,” she taunted, “I can’t remember it either.” The amusement had drained from her voice. Her conditioning had robbed me of the ability to utter those words.
“Well, answer me,” she barked. “Who’s my little bitch?”
I fought, but answered, “I’m your little bitch.” I did not recognize my own voice.
“Well, don’t be like that, my little puppy,” she chided. “I’ve saved you a special treat.” She turned around, resting her hands on the desk, and made two little kissing sounds with her mouth, sounds one might use to prompt a dog to accept a morsel of food from the table.
My gaze fell to her lovely backside, still glossy and pink with perspiration. She had the most delectable backside....
She bent slightly at the waist, pushing her backside out to its best advantage, and shifted her weight temptingly from leg to leg, her butt shifting enticingly from side to side. “Come on, puppy, you know how much you like my ass,” she cooed. Then, with force in her voice, she ordered, “Heel!”
I’d risen to my knees, but it felt as if I was apart from myself, watching the scene from the other side of the room. Unable to resist, I shuffled closer to her on my knees. In the dim light I could make out the contours of her ass cheeks, with her beautiful little puckered hole peeking out at me.
“That’s a good puppy. Come and get it!” she urged gently.
Her little back hole was red and swollen from sex, and cum was oozing from it. As I got closer, I could smell the acrid, alluring smell of her rectum and her sweat, the unmistakable scent of her arousal, all mingled with the bitter odor of semen. I was outraged at what she was asking of me, yet I was compelled closer.
Her pert little backside, bent over as she was in front of me, was too beautiful for me to refuse. Despite my revulsion at the semen that seeped from her rear hole, I sealed my mouth to that tender orifice, licking and sucking for all I was worth.
The moment my tongue touched her anus, the taste was familiar; I realized with a small shock that I’d performed this service before, countless times. A warm, cozy feeling enveloped me, and I felt pleasure from the fact that I was giving her pleasure.
She moaned, eagerly thrusting her backside into my face. Buried between her lovely cheeks, I kept at my task, thrilled increasingly each time her moans rose to signal her climax. Hungrily I gulped at the slick ooze that issued forth.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” she sighed contentedly, flopping back down on the bed. “I’ve trained you well, my little puppy, haven’t I?”
“Yes, Mistress!” I chirped merrily. The voice was no longer my own.
“Isn’t wevenge so sweet, my widdewe puppy-dog ass-wicker?” she said in baby-talk.
“Yes, Mistress! I love licking your delicious backside!” The voice didn’t sound like my own, but I meant what it was saying. My chest swelled with contentment every time she uttered the word “puppy;” I thrilled every time her sweet voice rose in ecstasy.
I collapsed on the floor beside her bed, realizing I’d spent a good bit of the semester sleeping on her floor, cuddled at her feet. There was a rectangular carpet there, pitifully small, placed just so. It was more to cushion her lovely feet from the floor than it was for my sleeping, but it served both purposes.
“You can try to fight it,” she said dreamily, “but I’ve been programming you for weeks. Ever since that time before midterms when you let me hypnotize you.” She giggled. “A few questions and you sang like a—like a—like some kind of bird. You told me how you’d made a slut of me, and I decided to turn the tables on you. I conditioned you to be my slave, to accept my sexuality—to accept my lust for other men. You are deeply, hopelessly, wonderfully in love with every aspect of my person. You can’t even come without a special word that only I can utter.” She chuckled contentedly.
“But I thought it was me who made you crave other men—” I croaked. It was my last grasp at escape, the last sentiment that was completely my own.
“Like I said earlier,” she said, pausing to lick her lips, “I am just a little bit glad you threw your little wrench into my works. I guess I was a bit of a latent slut all along.”
I was aghast, my insides roiling with alternating arousal and horror.
“I sure took to it pretty well,” she added with an earthy chuckle. “I guess you just got me connected with my real self. I think it suits me, don’t you?”
My heart sank.
“Sure, it was a little rocky at first—” she continued, “my roomate still hates me for fucking her boyfriend. But I have you to take care of me. And I love the feeling I get when you watch me fuck someone else with those sad little puppy-dog eyes of yours—it gets me really hot,” she gloated.
“And ultimately,” she concluded, “I guess I got you connected with your real self, too, because you allowed it all to happen. You wanted to be told what to do, to be made into a little sex toy. You can never use hypnotism to make someone do something they would absolutely never do.”
She tousled my hair with one of her feet. “Do you believe in hypnosis now, puppy-love?” she asked sleepily.
As the days passed, and the shock of that evening subsided, I hoped that maybe she would tire of the situation, and things would get back to normal—but it became increasingly obvious that she was more than happy with her promiscuous lifestyle, and that, indeed, her sleeping with anyone and everyone she felt like was what had been “normal” for her for an long time.
I even tried breaking up with her, and managed to stay away from her for a little more than a week.
My absence didn’t slow down her social calendar. During our separation it seemed that her sexual activity even increased. She was always strutting around campus with one guy or another. I tried to avoid her; but whenever our paths crossed, my eyes were involuntarily riveted to her. I saw how her skin glowed, how her body rippled with pleasure at the sly caresses of her male companions.
While we were apart, I could think of nothing but her. She even popped up in my masturbatory fantasies, no matter how hard I tried not to think of her. And even masturbating, I could barely come at all.
Finally I decided to swallow what little pride I had left, and return to her.
I knew she had a gym class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so on Thursday I loitered around the girls’ gym all afternoon. It was 2:30, and a bunch of girls were coming back from the track. Lisa was near the back of the group of girls returning to the locker room in little groups of two or three.
She looked utterly radiant, her skin flushed and glowing from her exertions. Her gym outfit clung wonderfully to her beautiful body; an undersized t-shirt clinging to her high, pert breasts, leaving her midriff bare, and her shorts hugging her beautiful backside and showing off her shapely, strong legs.
When she saw me, she made her way toward me and greeted me warmly with a peck on the cheek, as if we’d last seen each other only hours ago rather than days. Indeed, as tortured as my last few days had been, it felt as though it’d been months since I’d last seen her.
All choked up, I was barely able to croak to her that I wanted us to be together again.
She smiled and tousled my hair, and said that she had missed me. “I want us to be together again too,” she said.
I broke out in sobs, and went to hug her, but she stopped me with her hand out against my chest. “I knew you’d be back,” she gloated.
A yawning chasm opened up in my belly.
“What’s wrong, puppy?” she taunted sweetly.
Her pet name still had its power over me, making me feel helpless, deeply aroused, and pleased to have earned her attention, all at the same time. It came over me with such an intensity that I felt dizzy. “But I—I—”
“You thought things would be different?” she said, completing my thought. She shook her head “no” in mock sorrow. “You’re my wittwe puppy slave. Nothing can ever change that. Your coming back to me proves that it’s true, more now than ever. Truth be told, I’m a little surprised that you held out this long.” She bent closer to my face, and said more quietly, “We’re going to have to do something about that...we can’t have my wittwe puppy wandering off by his wittwe ol’ self now, can we?”
“But how could you be sure I’d be back?” I managed to stammer.
“Because I have the center of your entire universe nestled snugly right here in my damp little panties,” she said smugly.
Just the casual mention of her sex seemed to fill my nostrils with her odor, made me crave her in a very tangible, physical way. I felt the urge to drop to my knees before her then and there, out on the tarmac, in the open, and beg to please her with my mouth.
“We can talk all about it later,” she said. “I’ve got to get a quick shower. Wait here for me; I’ll be back in a minute.”
I waited for 20 some minutes, my stomach in knots. My heart leapt when she emerged from the gymnasium, and I ran over to her. I wanted to get close to her; to touch her, to smell her.
She was flushed from the shower, her hair damp and sweet smelling. Again she pushed me to arm’s length, dashing my hopes of getting close to her. Playfully, she took my hand and pressed something into it. My skin tingled at her touch.
“I’ve got a really busy weekend planned,” she was saying, “but you can take these.”
She’d stuffed her panties into my hand. Unable to control myself, like a junkie being given a fix, I buried my nose in them. They were indeed damp, steeped in her sweat and arousal, permeated with her sweet intimate odors. My eyelids fluttered, and I was transported—
“Hey! Hey!” she was saying, snapping her fingers at me. “Don’t forget I’m still here!”
Her chastisement was like a slap in the face, and I’m sure I must have blushed crimson.
“You may masturbate with those once,” she instructed me. “You’re not to get a drop of semen on them, and you’re to wash them by hand and return them to me next Tuesday. They’d better be clean and dry. In fact—” she said, handing me the gym bag she had slung over her shoulder, “why don’t you wash all my gym clothes? Wash ‘em by hand, and line dry them. They smell so nice when they air dry. I don’t want them washed in a machine while I have you to do my bidding.”
She turned around; she was wearing another baby t-shirt, and a deliciously snug pair of jeans that hugged all of her curves. Stunned, and apprehensive of her leaving me again, even for a short time, I watched her go.
She called over her shoulder, “Bring them back here next Tuesday! My gym class starts at 1:00, but be here early. See you then!” She blew me a kiss and was gone.
I nearly retched with my pent-up emotions. Her whim was literally my command; I knew I wouldn’t be permitted into her presence again until the following Tuesday, and then perhaps only outside here on the tarmac, in passing.
Desolately I watched her go. Despite the events of the past couple of months, it still hurt incredibly.
The weekend dragged, but at least I had Tuesday to look forward to. I followed her instructions to the letter. When I saw her I blathered to her how I couldn’t get her off my mind, and was willing to do anything to be with her again. She nodded patiently, and listened to me natter on. “Oh, you will,” she added, ominously.
I must’ve looked at her blankly for a moment. “You will do anything to be with me again,” she repeated. “You made me a slave to my pussy, and I intend to do the same thing for you,” she promised menacingly.
She continued on with great relish, striking fear into my heart. “Every time my pussy twitches, you’re going to jump! You’re going to learn my wants and needs so well that fulfilling them slavishly will be more natural to you than attending to your own miserable bodily functions. You’re going to get to know every intimate detail of my life so well that you’ll become telepathic; you’ll know what I want and get it for me even before I know I want it.”
She went on. “I think this summer, I’ll just stay here in town and get an off-campus apartment. I think living off-campus will suit my “lifestyle” better, don’t you? I’ll keep the apartment through next year, so I won’t have all that grief tip-toeing past the Resident Advisors and all that crap with living in the dorms.”
“Maybe I’ll get a two-bedroom apartment! Wouldn’t that be fun? I could maybe bring home two different men the same night—” she enthused, “and have them in two separate bedrooms, not even knowing the other is there!”
Stunned and awed by her libido, I listened to her gush on. “Of course, you’ll sleep in a corner of the living room, or maybe we can fix up a linen closet or something for you.”
“I’ll probably keep you after I graduate,” she said casually. “Right now, I’m thinking of moving to some big city...maybe New York or Seattle...you know, some place with a lot of men.”
As she laid out the rules for my future life with her, she told me in no uncertain terms how she was not about to change her sexual habits for me. She told me that I would probably see very little of her until the end of the term, since she had a lot of work to take care of for her classes, and her social calendar was a very full one. Of course, I would take over her laundry duties, and, as it turned out, just about anything else she didn’t enjoy doing.
She confided to me how she found humiliating me to be a powerful aphrodisiac for her (as if she needed one!). She even told me about my lengthy conditioning process, and how she had planted countless suggestions in my mind that the worse she treated me, the more devoted I would become to her. “It’ll be so great!” she said. “The worse I treat you, the more turned on I get, and the more devoted you’ll be. It’s like an incredible spiral of arousal and devotion; pleasure for me, and abject servitude for you! I can’t even imagine where all of this will go!”
“You really were one warped little puppy, even before I found you,” she observed. “You just needed the right woman to nurture your neuroses. Boy did you ever luck out!”
She likes to tell me stories of her sexual encounters, and savor my jealousy. One athlete she particularly liked, a football player, was huge in all of his dimensions. He was very strong, and also had incredible staying power. He would hold her by her hips, supporting her entire weight, and move her up and down on his erection, essentially masturbating himself with her. He would drive her out of her mind by slowing down as she approached orgasm. Since he was supporting all her weight, she was helpless, and couldn’t speed up the tempo. She would recall with obvious relish how fond he was of saying that he liked to hear her whimper and beg for her orgasm, and how he more than any other man just made her whole being feel like nothing more than a tingly, twitchy piece of pussyflesh at the end of his huge organ.
She became so well liked by so many members of a particular fraternity that they named her their mascot, and the following year she spent the entire week of fall break at their frat house. She was in a near constant state of arousal, and so often engaged in one sexual activity or another that she didn’t even bother to wear any clothing for the entire week. She simply padded around the entire frat house naked, enjoying the attentions of one or another, or several, as the whim seized them.
One time she was musing aloud what as to what she would answer if someone asked her what her favorite sex position might be. After a little thought, she concluded that she would have to answer, “between.”
She went apartment hunting, and found a place. I won’t even get to see the place until I move in; she went hunting with some of her male friends, and made her choice without consulting me. “You’ll love it!” she assured me. “It’s just perfect!”
She ordered me to start looking for a summer job, since I’ll probably be paying the lion’s share, if not all, of the rent. She’s promised me special treatment if I can make ends meet without her having to work.
True to her word, I’m more devoted to her every day. The more outrageous her behavior becomes, the tighter my bonds are to her. I strive to please her, for I can do no less. Communion with her is bliss.
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