The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1.

You’ve done this, been here, before. Standing in the back of the mall bookstore, back by the magazines. Took you half an hour by bicycle to get here—it’s far enough from the college you attend that you won’t see anyone you know. Near closing time, too, late enough nearly everyone has gone home already; you’re already going to get back to the dorm after lights-out and you’ll catch hell if you’re caught sneaking in late again.

But there they are on the back row of the magazine racks. Behind the music mags and the teen rags on the bottom. Behind the lifestyle publications directly in front of you. Behind the muscle magazines just over your head and even behind the straight porn. On the back row: cellophane-wrapped gay porno mags. At nineteen and a half, you’re old enough to buy; at this mall, you’re far away from campus to buy in privacy.

You’ve already chosen the one you want, based on the visible parts of the smiling guy on the cover. You know the plan: as soon as that kid by the comics and that guy down by the hot-rod magazines go away, you’ll reach up and grab it, maybe a skateboarding mag to put over it on the counter too, and head to the register. You’ll stash it in your backpack the minute you’re out of the store, pedal back to your dorm room like mad. Wait until after your roommate has gone the next morning to take it out and jerk off, and then hide it up in the ceiling tiles where he won’t find it.

In the meantime, waiting until no one will see, you pretend interest in the headlines about new rock groups and new ways to work your upper deltoids, whatever those are.

The kid by the comics makes a selection and disappears. Two yards to your right, hot-rodder boy is taking his time, thumbing through the pages like it’s the most important decision he’ll ever make. Getting impatient, you run a fingernail against your tooth in distraction. You’re so excited; nervous fidgets are the least of your problems—any second now you’re going to spring a boner.

Your peripheral vision picks up the new guy as he walks up to the magazine rack to your left, five feet away. He looks at you like he recognizes you. You feign disinterest and don’t look his way. He’s looking at you, though; you can feel his eyes on you. Would he turn and run if you turned to him and yelled, “Get lost, faggot”?

Keep staring at the magazines. He says something to you—he says hello. Ignore him. His voice sounds familiar. You recognize it: that guy you, Steve, Gino, and Grant saw at a fraternity keg party you went to the other day, the hypnotist they brought in for entertainment. Maybe it’s him. He got the four of you to come up on stage. You don’t exactly remember what happened after you went onstage, but all four of you agree it was pretty cool. Now, though, he’s delaying your agenda, so you try to ignore him.

He says hello again. Glance up. Yeah, it’s the same guy—the Amazing Whatever-His-Name-Was. He seems to recognize you too. Say hey back, noncommittally. Go back to staring at the magazines. Ignore him. Maybe he’ll go away.

He’s looking over the magazines too. And talking to himself. He keeps saying the same things over and over. Focus. Relax. Stuff like that. You pretend intense interest on the magazines laid out before you. You’ve felt this way sometimes when you look at something a long time and get kinda mesmerized by it, the way you’re not fully alert and can’t look away. You’re feeling calmer; you feel it slowly and it spreads through your shoulders and down through your spine and legs. Nothing matters as much as it did a minute ago—you’ve got time and you can out-wait these guys.

You’re awfully tired. The bike ride over must have taken more out of you than you realized. You can’t break the spell of what’s come over you. You can’t lift your head. You’re feeling very sleepy and you can barely keep your eyes open. The man to your left slides up alongside you and drapes his arm around your shoulders. You don’t fight it—the thought never even occurs to you. He leads you and you let him, down the aisle, out of the bookstore, out to the parking lot, past where your bike stands chained to the stands. You can’t raise your drooping head, can’t look at him, and things pass as shapes and colors before your semi-focused gaze. If the hard-on shows through the thin fabric of your jams, you don’t care. Your world has reduced to the tired sensation that tingles through your limbs, and the blurs before your eyes, and the pressure of this man’s arm against the back of your shirt.

He leads you to a car; later, when you wake up, you won’t be able to remember the color or make. He opens the passenger door. The little light makes the interior seem inviting, and all you want is to climb in, stretch out, take a nap. But the man holds you back. He takes the backpack you’ve got slung over your right shoulder. Never occurs to you to mind or say no. He lifts your arms like sapling limbs, tugs your flimsy tee-shirt tail up and lifts it, pulls it off over your head and hands. Kneeling almost in your line of paralyzed sight, he unties your shoes. He deftly unties your drawstring and the material of your shorts caresses your thighs and calves as he guides them down. Feel your worries slipping away, so far away. No embarrassment—only arousal. He’s right—this is such a turn-on. Your briefs glide down too at his touch, and your erection bobs free; it’s so hard it hurts, and you ache for its release. Pressure on your bare shoulder: his hand guiding you into the open mouth of his car door. You sit on the seat, legs still dangling outside; he pulls off your shoes, draws your shorts and briefs over your bared feet, tucks your legs into the car and closes the door.

You’re naked in a stranger’s car. No, not really a stranger. You remember him from the kegger—remember him and trust him. He’s getting in the driver’s seat. You don’t do this with strangers but he’s not really a stranger, and you won’t stop him. You’re too sleepy. The seat jolts a little as he reaches over you and releases the catch, lowers the seat back until you’re prone. He’s kissing your neck. Feel yourself sink into the plush seat, sink into sleep, as if his soothing voice is coaxing the consciousness right out of you. His fingers close around your cock and jack it slowly, an added bonus. This delicious drowsiness is claiming you. Can’t stay awake. Can’t fight the feeling. Close your eyes and cum, an easy, effortless ejaculation that submerges you into the blankness of sleep.

2.

You’re flat on your back and there’s light everywhere. Ignore it—it’s so peaceful to remain asleep a little longer and then a little longer. But finally your eyes have to open. Must be mid-morning, the way the sun stampedes through your dorm room window. You squint in its fury. Sit up. Your roommate Steve’s gone; you’re alone.

You don’t remember anything else about the night before. Even what you do remember seems too dreamlike to be real. There’s that pleasant heaviness in your limbs, though, and that tingling fucked-out limpness in your cock. Push the covers back and swing your legs over the edge. You’re naked—you always sleep in your briefs but this time you’re naked. There are your clothes from last night and your backpack on the floor by your desk. Rub your hands across your eyes. It must have really happened. Must have been real.

The sunlight clears your head, makes you wake up. You stand up and go to your closet. There are these flecks on your stomach that could be dried cum. Check the sheets—no cum stains there. Was it real? Did you let a complete stranger strip you in a parking lot, put you in his car, and jack you off? Too many questions; no answers. You pull on a pair of briefs and shorts and a tee-shirt, and get your towel. Time to hit the showers.

Under the spray, alone in the showers: your time to think. From the kegger show last week, you remember the hypnotist. It’s vague. Some kind of relaxing test exercise. Going up onstage with your friends. Then ... nothing until he was waking you up, later, backstage, after the end of show and sending you back into your lives. Nothing except how much you enjoyed the feeling, being hypnotized, being part of the show.

From last night, you remember his voice, the relaxed feeling again, so cooperative again, how good it felt. Then ... nothing.

Your dick hardens. It sidetracks you, makes you forget everything else. Your hand slides around it automatically. No one around. Touching yourself feels good. No distractions. No one around. Not much time. Pump your fist along your cock—the familiar rhythm. You think: Being hypnotized felt so great. Breathe in ragged bursts. Your legs almost buckle as the familiar feeling burns through your balls, then your body. And cum. Cum hard. Cum and cum and cum! Shoot your load hard, like bullets. Spent, you collapse into the afterglow against the shower wall, under the spray. The shower spray rinses it all away. A great way to start your day.

That night, your roommie Steve is there when you get back from the library, ten minutes before lights-out. He’s sprawled out on his bed with his shirt and shoes off, reading a textbook. At not quite twenty yet, you’re a trim, kind-of-muscular sophomore; two years older, he’s a senior, a star on the tennis team. Your body is still a teenager’s turning into a man’s; his already is a man’s. He looks up and says hello when you come in. He’s got the casual manners and easy assurance of his nouveau riche family. Everything about him oozes new money, from his obviously expensive haircut, to his pristine white shorts, to his expensive taste in jewelry—tonight a gold-and-garnet ring on one finger, a little gold dragon dangling from a slim gold chain around his neck, and the thick, expensive gold watch on his wrist.

Steve puts the book aside, turns his attention to you: he wants to know what you were doing the night before, who you were with, what time you got in (after he went to sleep, apparently), and how much you had to drink—a lot obviously, since you were still sacked out and he couldn’t wake you when he left for class that morning. You tell him you were out with a couple of friends and got drunk on tequila—he’ll believe that even though you seldom drink. To celebrate one of the guys getting laid for the first time; that’ll hook him into believing it. To the rest of his questions, plead that you don’t remember. Let him think the tequila is to blame. He doesn’t press.

Propped on one elbow, opposite knee cocked up to give you a good view of his body and the mound in his shorts, he’s clueless about you: doesn’t know you’re gay, doesn’t realize you’ve had a crush on him since you got assigned as roommates. He has caught you staring a few times at his body, and he probably thinks it’s because he’s got a damn good build while you’re still kind of skinny from late adolescence, still filling out. He knows the effect he has on the chicks; he just hasn’t connected it to the effect he has on you. He’s beautiful. Dark blond hair and light brown eyes. Thick jaw line with a little cleft in his chin. Wide chest with a little hair smeared across it. Great build from all the sports he plays. Nice ass, and what you’ve seen of the up-front equipment looks good too. He swaggers about the dorm room naked—more than he needs to just be going to or from the showers or changing clothes—with an athlete’s casualness, and you’ve seen his cock a lot: alm ost always soft but sometimes part-hard in the morning when he walks past your bed en route to the bathroom down the hall to pee. You’ve never seen him fully hard, but he obviously packs more dick than you do.

Sit on your bed, facing him. He steers the talk to this girl he’s asked out, where he’s going to take her, how he plans to get laid. You have no doubt she’ll put out for him; his instincts are good that way, and you’ve seen the women melt for him. You would too, you think, suddenly realizing you haven’t been paying attention to his soliloquy. Not that he needs your input to keep his little speech rolling.

Lights-out passes while he’s talking. You both know you’ll get in trouble if you wait much longer. He shucks his shorts and slides his legs into his unmade bed. You start peeling clothing, down to just your briefs. Pull back the covers. The rule is: whoever is the last one in has to turn the overhead light out. Tonight, that’s you.

As you stand up for the walk past the foot of Steve’s bed to the switch by the door, your phone rings, the sudden sound jarring in the quiet night. Pick it up quickly, before the Resident Advisor hears it, and you say hello. Someone—a familiar man’s voice—says your name and something else, a phrase that you recognize as special, and this pleasant lethargy steals over you. Suddenly. You must be more tired than you thought. Moving takes conscious effort. Sleepiness sneaks over you, overwhelms you, overcomes you. The few steps to the door become an eternity, and only your cock is rousing. You planned for your hand to reach for the light switch, but it closes on the door knob instead. You open the door and step into the darkened hallway beyond.

Part of you realizes this is like what you felt the night before. Part of you realizes the man is waiting for you. Your hard dick is tenting up the front of your briefs. The friction of fabric against flesh as you walk makes it throb for release.

Walk down the stairs, like sleepwalking, to the front entrance of the dorm. A shadow before one of the sets of glass double-doors. The doors lock automatically when shut, openable from the outside only by running a student ID through the reader. He cannot enter unless the door is opened for him. Your gaze focuses on the metal bar handle running across the glass door. Everything is lit by street lights from outside, the security light in the stairwell you just exited. The world appears underwater, and the sluggishness of your body confirms it. Push open the door. He enters in an eddy, a zephyr that swirls the currents around your tingling skin.

He’s taller than you, but you cannot see his face clearly: too much effort, and it’s too dark in here anyway. You’d rather look at the pocket watch he holds up into your face. You have the impression of dark clothes that feel expensive when his other arm slides around your shoulders. Let him use that arm to guide you back to your room.

He pushes open your door, ushers you through. Your relaxed desire is invitation enough, and he follows, closes the door behind him. You can’t look away from him. It’s like he’s enthralled you just by being there or something.

He has this silver pocket watch. Looks expensive, in the low room light, ornately engraved. It dangles from a chain in his hand. He holds it up into the light. You remember it.

“Don’t worry about Steve,” the man says. “I came by earlier when you were gone. Steve and I had ourselves a nice, long conversation. Didn’t we, Steve? Yes. A nice, relaxing conversation. Steve is an excellent subject. Aren’t you, Steve? Yes, indeed.”

He goes to Steve’s bed. Tracking the man, your eyes take in Steve’s face as the man stands beside his bed. Steve is awake, sort of. On his back, he’s looking up at the man, at the man’s swaying pocket watch, rapt as if seeing God. Steve’s eyes are spellbound, heavy-lidded, and his expression is thick. His body relaxes, as the man talks to him, slowly sprawling out as the tension drains from his limbs. He’s feeling what you’re feeling. The man pulls back the sheets all the way to the foot of the bed, a progressive revelation of Steve’s body. Steve is erect; you can see it straining at his white briefs. The man sits on the edge of Steve’s bed, beside his thigh, and pulls the pouch of Steve’s briefs aside to unveil a seven-inch-plus cock that hooks a little toward the left and down, then turns back up nearer the end. Uncut.

The man leans forward, his face hidden from you, to lick at Steve’s nipple between suggestions. Steve’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. Like the man’s voice is narcotic or something. Steve is letting the man into his head. The man’s mouth is at Steve’s neck, kissing, nudging Steve’s face to roll toward you. The man whispers gently into Steve’s ear. His body hovers over Steve’s, hand working Steve’s cock between them. Steve’s eyes glaze over, then close. His expression is blissful, quiet. He shudders when he cums.

The man stands, wipes off Steve’s sperm on the sheets. He turns to you. One finger, still a little wet with Steve’s semen, pokes into the waistband of your briefs and deftly slides the cloth down to free your erection. He is talking to you now. Telling you to relax, surrender, sleep. Your eyelids are slipping shut. That finger and its companions wrap around your dick and start stroking it. His other hand draws your body in, holds you close, and his head bends to kiss you. You open your jaw to let his tongue inside, but you’re too far gone to respond with your own. This passivity pleases you as much as what you’re feeling throughout your body and on your cock. He’s laying you back on your bed, stretching himself out on top of you. Whispering, always whispering suggestions to you. His fingers are coaxing your cock. You give in willingly. Your cock feels like it shatters as the force of your orgasm quietly splinters through every part of you.

3.

You linger in that heavy slumber as long as you can, unwilling to part with the lingering limpness. The covers coat you like a lover’s saliva, and the dark peace of sleep protects you from everything.

But then as before, sunlight in your face gradually carries you to waking. You hear Steve stir, and you force your eyes open against the wall of sleep and the glare that challenges it from outside to see him climb from his bed and, yawning, sleepy-stumble to the closet for his towel and shaving kit before practically sleepwalking to the showers.

You feel even more zoned out than yesterday. Reach for the clock with sluggish fingers. Peer at it. Nearly drop it onto your head accidentally: fingers so slumber-clumsy. It’s nearly noon.

Steve’s a while at the showers, and it’s nearly half an hour before you can gather the strength to sit up. How did the man zonk you out like this? Will it happen again tonight? Part of you thrills at this thought.

You’re sitting with your legs over the side of the bed—covers bunched in your lap, your eyes barely open—when Steve comes back. He’s whistling, feeling chipper now, post-shower. “Get up, sleepy-head,” he teases as he spreads his towel over the back of his desk chair to dry. “Time to get moving,” he says and grabs your covers and jerks them away. He nods, eyebrow cocked as he surveys your lap: “Nice equipment.”

Look down. You’ve got a boner and, still freed from the pouch of your briefs by the man’s dalliances, it curves up into the sunlit air. Grab the covers and slam them into your crotch to hide yourself. Feel the blood flare into your cheeks.

But Steve’s already going his own way, to the closet for a fresh pair of briefs. Says, over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about it, man; happens to everybody.” A tee-shirt and shorts. Socks and athletic shoes. “I’m going running. Catch you later.” Then he’s gone.

Once the sound of Steve’s voice and the closing door have cleared out of your head, you push the covers aside. Your cock is still hard. It has that “recently cum” feeling, but you’re horny again. Stroke it. The skin sings to your touch. Retrieve Steve’s undershorts where he discarded them. Press them to your nose. Inhale the smell of him. Press them to the tip of your cock as your world narrows to that shaft of flesh and you spurt your white jizm into the white fabric.

That horny feeling doesn’t go away—it makes you want to do things all day. So you’re open to it when a friend you tricked with once calls and says he and a couple of other guys you know are going dancing at this gay club across town and do you want to come along.

It’s far enough away that your friends are the only people there who will know you. You’re not old enough to get in—at nineteen and twenty, none of you are—but you have the cover charge and the fake IDs and the jaded looks that get you past the tired-looking bouncer. It’s a weeknight, so nothing much is happening cruise-wise, but you’re here to dance and drink and have a good time, and you do all three. You and your friends are there until the last possible moment, even though the joint is picking up toward the end and you’re tempted to stay and risk trouble for getting back to the dorm after lights-out.

The high of beer and dancing and loud music and second-hand smoke—not all of it tobacco—still chimes through your head when you make it up the stairs to your dorm floor with two minutes to spare. Steve’s already in your room, and he’s in a slow seethe: the girl he took out tonight wouldn’t put out—and got pretty insulting about it, to hear his side of it. You reek of beer and sweat and the smoky bar. You grab your towel and excuse yourself for a quick shower to blast the cigarette smoke and smell of stale booze off your body.

The overhead lights go out while you’re under the warm water, all except the safety lights, enough to see by. You stand around a while under the spray, enjoying the caress of it. The beer buzz is fading faster than you’d have liked.

Back in your dorm room, sitting spread-kneed on the edge of your bed in your briefs as you rub the towel through your damp hair, you have to listen to Steve’s rantings. The gist: this chick was an easy mark and laid this friend of his last week, and she was obviously into Steve and was really leading him on, so she had no fucking reason to say no like that when they both knew she wanted it.

Steve’s in his underwear, staring at his body in the full-length mirror on the closet door by the light from his desk reading lamp. “She said I didn’t have ‘husband potential.’ Can you believe that? That slut! No ‘husband potential.’ What the fuck did she mean by that? Look at this body—any guy would be proud to have a body like this!” That part at least is true, you think, trying not to look. “Is it my pecs? My arms? Do I need to do extra reps on the bench press?” He laughs, an angry sound that catches your attention. “Certainly don’t need any improvement down below”—he squeezes his crotch forward into an obscene lump and shakes it at his reflection. Tongue stuck out. Grinning. “There’s enough here to keep a bitch like her on her knees all night and still have her begging for more in the morning.” He laughs again. Looks like he’s semi-hard. Sure enough, he complains, “Damn! That bitch got me so worked up! What the fuck made her think she could she tease me like that and leave me dry? I’m so fucking horny. There ought to be a fucking law against screwing with a guy like that, y’know? A fucking law against it! Shit! What the fuck am I going to do now?”

His eyes are in shadow, but you feel them deflect off the mirror and onto you. You blush in spite of yourself and look away. “Hey ..."—his voice is quieter, mindful of the neighbors and thin walls, but there’s a hard edge to it that pricks your hackles. “Is it true, what I hear about you on campus?”

Half of you wants to run, the other half to just die. You’re fixed to the spot. Swallow hard. Uncertainty: “What did you hear?” Great!—Might as well hand him a full confession.

“I think you know what I hear. I think you can help me out here.” He’s turned to you, openly groping his definite hard-on through the flimsy underwear material.

“No way, man. I don’t—”

Steve interrupts. “Shhh. I’ve known about you since you moved in. I know you’ve been wanting it.” He pulls the elastic waistband down with a hooked thumb, strokes his exposed member with his other hand as he saunters toward you. Like a bird before a snake, you sit. You’ve wanted this so long you can’t run, but you’re so afraid you can’t reach for it. He stands between your knees, with the tip of what you’ve dreamed about less than three inches from your lips. He takes the towel from your hands and discards it on your bed. He whispers, “Just a little? Just help me out a little. C’mon, I won’t tell anyone. I swear. Help me out, just a little. Please?”

Lick your lips nervously. He takes it as an invitation and his rod begins its slow advance. Part your lips and meet it halfway. “That’s it,” he sighs. “You’re good at this. I knew I was right about you.”

His body sways above you, in rhythm with your bobbing head. He’s being unusually quiet. Look up at him. Above the tight grid of his abs, above the expanse of Steve’s solid pec muscles is a man’s hand. It holds a silver pocket watch on a chain, dangling it a few inches in front of Steve’s eyes. The man from before, embraces Steve from behind with an arm around Steve’s chest. He whispers in Steve’s ear. For a second, you wonder how he got in here, before the glittering silver pocket watch catches your eyes too, fills them, and you find you don’t care. The thought slips away. The man provides support for Steve; Steve’s head reclines back onto the man’s shoulder. The man kisses the side of Steve’s neck. The sight of the swaying pocket watch fascinates you too, and you almost stop sucking to get a look at it. But the man tells you to keep going, and you do.

The man eases Steve’s unresisting body backward. Steve’s cock pulls out of your mouth. The man says a final word into Steve’s ear: “Cum.” Steve’s cock throbs and jerks and shoots onto your chin and neck and chest. With the warm wetness, you feel that pleasant weariness slouch through your whole body. The man hoists Steve easily, carries him to his bed, lays him out like a slumbering child. Then the man turns to you with the pocket watch extended. You’re too gone already to avoid looking at it, even in this half-light. He tells you to relax, focus. Then he turns out the desk lamp.

The man comes to you. His hands behind your calves lift your legs up and cantilever your body onto the bed. His fingers on your chest—pressuring you back. His hand slides into your briefs. His body settles on yours like a cape of sleep. You settle in and enjoy the sensation. He’s telling you to let go of something: consciousness, wakefulness, awareness, inhibition, care—you aren’t sure what exactly, and you’re sure you won’t miss it anyway. He’s giving you this feeling in return, this orgasm that ripples silvery through your body, this deep sleep that claims you.

4.

It’s after ten o’clock the next morning before you manage to rouse yourself. You can’t face Steve after last night. Fortunately, he is still out cold, breathing deeply, snoring softly. The bright sun burns your eyes and seems to help wake you a little. You climb from the beckoning mattress, get dressed, grab your backpack, leave.

After a quick meal in the cafeteria, you hole up in the library, up in the top floors, back in the stacks where you know from experience few people go. The fifth floor, to the left and back to the next-to-last study carrel. That’s your favorite; that’s where you think the best.

What Steve did both excites you and terrifies you. But the ice has been broken. Maybe it’ll happen again. Maybe next time he’ll reciprocate. Maybe he’ll fall in love with you instead of those “bitches” he screws. Does he remember what has happened twice now with the man? You don’t think so; you pray he doesn’t. You’re not so sure yourself what happened after your eyes closed.

And what about the man: where does he fit into all of this? Was he the reason Steve came on to you last night? What does he want, and why you? And your darkest thought: will he come again?

Leave the library only for dinner, then hole up again. In the dim corridors and quiet of the stacks, your mind runs quicksilver through the possibilities, not paying any attention to the open textbooks in front of you. Search the catalog for reference books on hypnotism. The books are full of techno-babble. No answers in any of them and none come in response to your spiraling thoughts, only more questions. You’re sure the man will be back. You can almost feel some kind of connection between him and yourself. He’s always shown up around lights-out time; he’ll be back tonight. Maybe that’s an answer of sorts.

Awake with a start when the open book slides out of your lap and hits the floor. You’d drifted into sleep without realizing it. The groggy feeling fades a little, but you can’t entirely shake it. You’ve stayed out as long as you can. Half an hour before lights-out. The library is closing. Someone will come around soon and evict you. Time to head back to the dorm.

Your dorm room door is propped open by the body of a man sitting on your floor, his back against the door. You recognize the torso, the shape of the head: Grant, who lives across the hall. Grant has blond hair and two earrings in his left lobe, and you’ve always found him attractive; you’ve always thought he could be had if you were careless enough to make a pass at him. But there has always too much chance of someone else in the dorm finding out, though; and when you’re not fully out, you never shit where you live.

You have to step around him to get through your door. He’s surprised, grins, says hello, moves out of your way. Jeans and bare feet. A face that’s beautiful and destined for fashion-model handsomeness when the boyish edge fades. Age twenty-one. Sandy-blond hair cut short and so wavy it’s almost curly. Blue eyes. About five-foot-eleven and one-seventy pounds. Shirttail out and front unbuttoned, his shirt flaps flutter open around his gym-toned muscles as he rolls aside. A glimpse of his well-defined, hairless chest and one pinkish nipple. He keeps grinning. You purposely let him catch you looking quickly as you say hi back.

His roommate, Gino, is standing by Steve’s bed, showing Steve a straight skin magazine. He’s trying to convince Steve, who’s sprawled on his bed in his underwear, that the naked girl listed as being from your university in the magazine’s annual “Sexy Girls of College” nude layout is in his biology class. Gino is Italian and his accent always strikes you as sexy as hell. The fact that—aside from a tiny quartz crystal on a gold chain around his neck—he’s wearing nothing but a pair of tattered old denim cut-offs doesn’t hurt either. Straight brown hair and eyes. Hairy legs—and as you know from the showers, a hairy ass—and a light peppering of hair across his chest and belly. An inch shorter than Grant and not as gym-developed, but about the same weight and age.

Steve is skeptical, and the argument doesn’t seem to be advancing beyond the “is”/“isn’t” line. You park your butt on your bed and unsling your backpack and pull off your shoes and socks. Enjoy the scenery for a moment—real fantasy fodder—but you’re kind of hoping Gino and Grant will go away so you can see if Steve will try for another blow-job. Or maybe you should make a move now for a fantasy four-way. Yeah, right. As if you’ve got the guts to try that.

What really concerns you is that it’s almost lights-out. Will the man come while they’re here? Will they remember each other?

Glance at the door. Gino and Steve haven’t noticed yet. Grant’s still standing there, but he has turned around, looking at something outside, in the hallway now. His arms are crossed over his chest, but his expression is stunned, as if stoned. You’re not hearing the man’s voice yet, but Grant is. Past the edge of the door frame, you can see an occasional arc of the pocket watch as the man swings it in the hallway. As you watch, Grant’s arms uncross and slowly sag, until they hang limp at his sides. That gray paisley shirt is drawn back off his shoulders—a single quiet, smooth motion that carries it down his arms and over his hands. You see it flutter past the doorway as the man discards it onto the hallway floor.

The man impels Grant into your room with a word and a gentle nudge; then he enters too, closes the door. Gino and Steve look up from the magazine. The man holds out the pocket watch. He talks about how intricate the engraving is, how it draws their eyes in, how there’s a secret design deep inside that they can almost see if they concentrate hard enough, how surely they must remember how to concentrate and look for the secret design. Their expressions slowly start to go slack as he keeps talking, telling them to relax, focus, concentrate, relax, sleep. There’s a practiced efficiency about him. His voice washes over you too, but it’s directed at and stronger on them. The magazine tumbles from Gino’s relaxed fingers and is ignored.

The man is standing behind Grant. He is looking at, smiling at, Steve and Gino. His voice tells the three of them what he’s going to do, tells them it will be okay, to just relax and let it happen. His hands reach around to open Grant’s button fly jeans. The jeans and briefs beneath decline Grant’s legs. The man murmurs suggestions, instructions. Grant steps free of them, slowly, not exactly gracefully but not stumbling. Boxer tan line. He stands there, expectantly. His cock sticks straight out, a perfect ninety-degree jut with a slight lift at the head. He’s cut and packing six inches; not ultra-thick but better than most you’ve seen. The man wraps his arms around Grant from behind, wraps one hand around Grant’s cock. His lips whisper into Grant’s ear. Grant gives in, gives it up, eyes closing, head dipping back onto the man’s shoulder. His lips part in bliss, a private paradise. He cums.

You expect him to fall over when the man releases him, but he stands there, swaying but not falling. Like a sleepwalker under the man’s control.

Gino is receptive to the man’s suggestions. The man opens and unzips Gino’s shorts. They drop to his ankles—no underwear—and Gino steps free of them in all his naked glory when the man asks him to. A bikini tan line. His cock tapers to its uncut tip. Average size and thickness. He’s grinning a little, sleepily, anticipating. The man stands in front of him, one hand on Gino’s shoulder and the other jerking his erection, leaning forward to speak close in Gino’s ear as Gino’s head sags forward. Somehow, Gino is letting him do what he wants, following the man’s suggestions. Gino cums in hard-driven spurts, like rifle fire.

Steve smiles half-blankly and does not look away. He runs his briefs down when the man turns to him and asks him to, and Steve drops them off the side of the bed. His cock runs up along his belly, aimed at his navel. He waits as the man settles onto the bed, settles onto him, compels him down onto the sheets. Steve’s face, turned toward you, is rapt, the expression religions always burden with similar labels. The man murmurs suggestions into Steve’s ear. You only hear the last one, as the man tells him to, and he cums.

Your turn. The man approaches. Stand up obediently when he says. Lift your arms at his suggestion. He takes the hem of your tee-shirt and wrests it over your head. He pulls down your elastic-waist gym shorts and briefs. He maneuvers you down onto the bed. You’re giving in, letting him take control. It’s for the best, just like he says. In return, he gives you this intense feeling and the orgasm that permeates your senses, as his voice lulls you into slumber—deep, black blankness.