The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

5.

You sleep through the night and most of the morning. It’s nearly noon when you manage to pull yourself free of slumber and rouse up. Steve is still zonked out. Gino and Grant, and their clothes, are gone—the man must have returned them to their room after you went under.

Get dressed. Not too much time before the cafeteria gets crowded for lunch and you’re starved.

You eat. Walk around the campus. Pass the dorms and frat houses, checking in vain for undressed bodies in the sun-washed windows. Toward the far side of the campus, the less developed part, there are roads that wind and trees and dense undergrowth lining both sides. Saunter down them: no destination for body or mind, just a way to walk and let your thoughts talk to one another.

End up returning to campus, across campus from your dorm. Take the sidewalk home. In the door and upstairs. Onto your hall.

It settles over you almost the moment you step from the stairwell. The man is here. You hear his voice filtering through a door or a thin wall. Your body wants to stop and wait for him to speak to you with that relaxing voice of his, to claim you. Your mind cannot make it move, but you continue on as if from inertia or some call. Suspended between your door and Gino and Grant’s, you can hear him. Not in your room—in theirs. You hand finds their knob somehow and turns it and it opens to you. Step through and the door quietly sways shut on its own.

The man is there and his presence, his voice, fills the room in spite of the fact that he’s talking softly and low. Grant and Gino are thoroughly under his control. They are between you and the man. Grant stands in profile to you; beyond him stands the man, facing you. The man is holding his pocket watch up in the air, as if holding it out to you, though he only suspends it before Grant’s half-closed eyes. Grant’s chest is bare, his shirt crumpled on the floor beside him, shorts clumped around his bare feet. Gino, also in profile, nude except for the briefs bunched around one ankle, kneels before Grant, holding Grant’s thighs, head moving slowly at Grant’s crotch. After a second you realize: Gino is worshipping Grant’s cock with his mouth. The man is talking to Grant, giving him suggestions, slowly, so agonizingly and sweetly slowly, easing him toward ecstasy.

The man’s voice calms the back of your mind. Your eyes fasten onto the familiar pocket watch. You remember it from the show where you went up on stage. You know what looking at it, the intricate design means—it means you’re deeply hypnotized already. He says something to you. Your hands move, almost of their own volition instead of his suggestion, and soon you’re naked. And just as hard as they are. You stand there, watching.

The man eases Grant’s body back, and Grant’s hard-on slips from Gino’s mouth with a pop. The man tells him to cum, cum now. Tremors in Grant’s legs and abs mark his orgasm.

The man steps around Grant, who stands there, head bowed, eyes closed, sinking deeply into motionless sleep, and the man closes in on to Gino. His finger applies gentle pressure to the center of Gino’s forehead. Gino sits back on his ass, then lies back on the floor. The man settles beside him. The man’s suggestions guide you too now. Crouch beside Gino and work your head into his crotch, suck his cock. You work on Gino’s rod with the dedication you feel for the man and his suggestions. Gino cums.

Stand when the man stands. As he turns toward the door, his finger traces your jaw line, ear to chin, and the touch makes your skin tingle, pleasant anticipation. He says you should follow him.

Follow him. He walks across the hall to your room. Follow him, naked, without fear of your dorm mates seeing. No one will see, no one will notice—it doesn’t matter—and somehow you understand this.

Your dorm room doorway opens at his touch. Follow him inside. Steve sits on his bed, back to the headboard. Eyes closed. Already deeply asleep; deeply entranced. He wears only a pair of boxer shorts, obvious erection inside. A magazine abandoned on the bed beside him.

Steve slides down on his mattress when the man tells him to, lying down, sprawling out. Waiting. His hips rise up. His hands ease his boxers to his knees, at the man’s suggestion, before his body sinks back to the surface of the bed, limp now. His hard cock lolls across his hip. The only motion is the nudge of his pulse beating in his cock, the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

The man goes to him, sits on the bed beside him, bending to speak quietly into Steve’s ear. Steve’s crotch is exposed—that’s an opening for you. The man says something to you too, and you understand. Go to them. Kneel beside the bed. Take Steve’s ready shaft in your hand and guide it into your mouth. Nurse it, slowly, gently. Coax it with your tongue. He groans. He cums.

The man sits up. His hands pull you toward him, and you kiss. His mouth—you love the feel of it, his narcotic kisses.

You sit on the bed, beside Steve’s limp body. Still kissing. The man’s hand on your shoulder, rolling you so his other hand, on your penis now, can pleasure you. You welcome the orgasm that he offers when he breaks the kiss and tells you to cum, cum hard now.

6.

You awake early. Just past dawn. You’re jolted from sleep so suddenly you panic for a second. You’re body still feels that torpidity; your dick still feels that fucked-out feeling. It happened again last night, but somehow you’re awake and aware this morning. Steve is dead to the world still, sprawled atop his sheets.

Get some clothes. Get a shower. This early, you’re alone in the showers. You’re thinking about what has been happening lately, how good it feels, how relaxed and peaceful and sexy Steve and Gino and Grant look under the man’s influence. Suddenly, under the spray, your morning-hard dick is the center of your attention and you can think of nothing else. Lean with one hand against the shower wall. Grasp your erection with the other. Feels so damn good. Jack it gently and feel it revel and send vibrations throughout your body. Speed up your strokes and it reveals something more intense, more imperative. You think: Being hypnotized felt so fucking great, better than sex. Your legs and balls are tightening. Your torso is bucking. You think: Wanna try hypnosis again. Cry out—that primal roar that could be pleasure or rage. Your cock strains and your body turns inside-out and goes red-hot and the scalding semen arcs into the air and smacks against the tile shower fl oor.

Slow your hand down; feel your breathing and heart slowly slow down to normal too. Fall back against the wall. This has been one of the most intense orgasms of your life, has left you deeply relaxed. Let all the worries go. Let go and pant quietly for a moment. Your cock, spent, softens and your awareness is broadening back out again.

Get shaved, get dressed. You stomach rumbles hungrily, and you think about breakfast from the cafeteria. The sun is going to blaze today.

Steve is still asleep when you come back to the dorm room. Survey your near-naked body in the mirror. At nineteen and a half, you’re a skinny Florida boy. Muscular enough for your age, but still waiting to fill out into full manhood and still intimidated by the bodies of the better developed guys around you in the dorm and the gym. Your hair is dark brown, like your eyes, and worn in one of the longish casual styles of the moment. Your chest is hairless. Your tan is enhanced by a naturally medium-dark complexion—which, with your bone structure, suggests Native American blood in your background. Your face is cute but not the godlike beauty you’d like to see reflected in the mirror. Your best features are your tan and the potential your body shows. Your cock, uncut, is a nice length and curves upward a little when its hard. Your balls are perfectly average in size.

You’ve had sex with a handful of guys, but you’ve never been in love beyond a couple of crushes, like the one you’ve had on Steve since you met him. Certainly, physically, you’re better than average, but nothing men would fall all over themselves to seduce.

All of this is getting you depressed. Get dressed. You’re reaching for your keys on the dresser when you see it. The man’s pocket watch and chain. Just sitting there next to your keys. Like a gift or something. You pick it up, toss it lightly in the air once and catch it. The pattern on the casing catches your eye but not quite in the same way. Maybe he forgot it? Hmm—this might have possibilities. Pocket the watch.

Go outside. Your bike is chained to the rack out front of the dorm, as usual. Go to the playing fields. Settle on the hill overlooking one field and watch some guys playing soccer. One of them catches your eye. He looks familiar. Gino? Right—you remember him saying once that he came here to play soccer some mornings.

Move closer, to the edge of their playing area. Yeah, it is Gino. He sees you and grins that pouty grin and waves. He’s a cute little motherfucker, and his clothes—a black tank tee-shirt, skin-tight yellow compression shorts thin enough to show the ghost lines of his underwear underneath, and running shoes—show off his body. Cheer him and his team on.

When the game breaks up, more because several players have to go to class than from a decisive victory, he comes over and, still breathing heavy, sits beside you. “Hey there! You see that last goal I made? It was so sweet! Bam!—I was right in there.” He emphasizes by smacking his fist into his palm.

You’re feeling something like desire, need, eagerness, whatever. You’re very aware of something in your pocket, alongside your semi-hard cock.

You look at Gino, a challenging look straight in the eyes. “What?” he asks? After a moment he gets the message and looks around. “Listen,” he says, quieter, “we can go into the woods across the field if you want to. I know this trail ...”

Bingo. Try not to sound too eager: “Okay. Show me.”

He leads you, still yakking about the game, but pausing now and then to look at you like he’s having second thoughts. You keep meeting his gaze with what you hope is an intensely seductive stare, and he doesn’t back out. Gino takes you down this little trail. The woods are dense enough, a protective barrier away from buildings and interruptions.

The trail widens into a little clearing. Gino turns to you. This is it. Grab him when he approaches and kiss him. He tries to jerk away for a moment, like he’s not into kissing, then his tongue probes deeply into your mouth. He’s an inch shorter than you but that doesn’t deter him. He pulls back. “Come on,” he says as he peels his shirt off, “I have a class in half an hour.”

He only shoves down his compression shorts and underwear. His body is bare from the knees up. You strip completely. His eyes are enflamed with desire, but his expression is carefully neutral. “Blow me,” you say, brandishing your penis at him.

He shakes his head. “No—you blow me.”

Bend down and pull the pocket watch from your discarded shorts. Straighten up. Suspend it in the air before Gino. He squints at it as a patch of sunlight through the trees flashes off of it. Tell him to look at it carefully. Doesn’t he remember it? Yes?

“Hey, isn’t that ...” he says, trailing off. But he doesn’t look away.

Tell him to watch it carefully. Watch it swing. Back and forth. Isn’t it familiar, pretty, fascinating. Focus. Relax. Concentrate. See how the sunlight shines on it? Back and forth. See the pattern that seems to draw pull the eye in? Focus. Concentrate on it. Listen. Let go. Relax. Concentrate. No distractions. Focus. So focused. So relaxed. Eyelids so heavy. So familiarly heavy. So easy. So loose and easy. Sleepy. So relaxed. Eyes closing. So sleepy. Sleep. Sleep.

His eyes close. His head drops slowly forward into sleep. You guide him through a deepening exercise you read in one of the hypnosis books in the library. Maybe they weren’t all techno-babble after all.

Tell him he wants to blow you. He wants to make you feel good. He needs to. His expression changes subtly and he sinks to his knees in front of you. His mouth services you nicely. He knows how to suck a guy. One hand is busy in his crotch, doing himself, and the other toys with your balls. A finger slips back to poke your butt hole. You can’t hold back. “I’m gonna cum,” you grunt so he can pull off if he doesn’t want to taste it. But he buries himself in your bush and swallows.

Pull your cock from his mouth. Time for his turn. Stand him up and turn him around. On your knees. Spread his ass cheeks and slip your tongue up to toy with his asshole. He’s deeply relaxed and lets you do what you want. Do this for a while, then suggest, “Want to take off your shorts and lie down in the grass over there?” So he does. He’s being more cooperative than you thought. Lie down alongside of him and kiss his nipples while you jerk his cock. Tell him it will be so intense. Tell him he’s ready. Tell him to shoot. He cums all over your hand.

When you draw back and wipe his cum off on the grass, he doesn’t move. Gino is breathing deeply, heavily. He’s asleep, all right, but more than that. He doesn’t wake up when you nudge him gently. He is still deeply entranced.

What can you make Gino do under your hypnotic influence? Order him to stand up, and he does, without seeming to wake up. Tell him to get dressed, and you climb back into your own clothes. You consider escorting him back to his dorm room for another round, but your nerve is wearing thin. Instead, you tell him to count to one hundred. When he hits one hundred, he will awake and feel refreshed, all memory of what just happened a blur. Then you leave. You figure the count will give you time to get a good distance away.

This is something new and you want to test it again. Go back to your dorm room. Steve’s awake, on his back in bed reading a magazine. He’s had a shower—his hair is still damp—and he’s got on fresh, white briefs.

He looks over at you briefly when you come in. “Hey.”

Stare at him until he looks at you again. Do you have the nerve?

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” you say. Then, “Here, I want to show you something.”

Pull out the pocket watch and hold it up. Let it sway back and forth a little. Back and forth. Talk to Steve. Tell him to focus on it. Relax. All his attention. Relax. Let go. Relax. So heavy. So hard to think. No need to think. Focus. Relax. Concentrate. So familiar. Just like before.

You can tell it’s happening. Slowly. It’s subtle: you almost feel it more than see it happening.

He says, “Huh? What’re you ...?” But his voice is thicker, his expression turning vacant.

Keep at him. Tell him how relaxed he must be feeling. So relaxed. Relaxing more. More and more. Relaxing. Heavy. Tired. Eyes heavy. Arms heavy. Eyes closing. So relaxed. So focused. So open. So sleepy. Sleepy. Sleepier. Sleep. Sleep now. Deeply asleep.

His eyes close and don’t open again.

Tell him, “Put that magazine down and come here.”

The magazine falls aside as he stands up.

“Take off your underwear.”

“... O-okay ...” His voice is coagulated, distant. He takes them off. His cock isn’t fully erect yet, but it’s getting there. He listens to your suggestions. He follows them. Cooperative. He’s yours. You haven’t thought this far in advance, don’t have any idea what to do with him. You tell him to put his hand on his cock and jack off. Take out your own hard-on and ask him to stroke it with his other hand, and he does. Kiss him. Tell him to kiss you back. Jack himself off. Jack you off. You cum suddenly, like biting through a shell into a lush orange slice. You shoot all over his hand and leg. You gasp and buck your way through it. As you’re coming down, you give him his instruction: Cum. He does, as intensely as you.

Wipe up the cum. Tell him to get his underwear back on and lie down. Tell him to sleep. When he wakes, he’ll think he napped and it was just a dream.

You, though, get dressed and back outside. The success has you feeling like you could explode or yell or party all night or something.

You don’t really have anywhere to go, though, so you stroll around the campus, feeling energized and walking fast. Finally, tiring, you find a seat on one of the benches bordering the quad. You’re thinking about Grant and whether you should go back and try it on him, and what he’d say if he knew what you’d done to his roomie Gino. You’re almost tempted to tell him. “See?” you’d say. “He came on to me at the playing field, so I made him go to sleep and made him blow me.” Then he’d stare at you in confusion as you grin triumphantly.

And then there he is, coming out of the Humanities building. Jeans, another gray tee-shirt, running shoes. You wave to Grant and he waves back, walks over. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“Just fine,” you say. “Getting out of class?”

“Naw. Had a meeting with my professor about my term paper. You?”

“Just taking it easy. Taking the afternoon off.”

“Wish I could do that. Shit, I’ve got so much fucking shit to do.” He has a seat on the other half of the bench, legs sprawled out in front of him and showing a shard of white sock between the cuff of his jeans and the top of his worn running shoes.

He starts to say something but doesn’t—his eyes are fixed on something faraway, his expression glazes a little like he’s daydreaming. You look at him, the side of his head, willing your gaze to bore straight through his skull as if probing for the thoughts beneath it.

“Grant?”

“Yeah?” His voice is distracted, far away.

“I’ve got something I want to show you.” No one else is around. Hold out it in your hand.

Grant says, “What’s that? A pocket watch?”

The light catches the engraving on the casing, and it flashes as you turn it back and forth.

“Yes. A very special one. You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? You remember it? The special design that you can only see if you concentrate very carefully? You remember how carefully you had to concentrate.” Tell him to focus. Focus on it. So focused. No distractions. No holding back. Let go. Concentrate. Relax. Body so tired. So heavy. Eyes so tired. So heavy. Arms and legs so limp. Too limp to move. No need to anyway. Eyelids so limp. Too limp to hold open. No need to anyway. Sagging closed. Yes. Relaxing. Concentrating. Focusing. Closing. Eyelids closing. Closing. Tired. Sleepy. Closing. Sleepy. Falling asleep. Falling deep into hypnotic sleep again. So deeply falling. So deeply sleeping. Sleep. Sleep deeply.

There’s a lump in the crotch of his faded jeans. He’s not going anywhere.

Doing this to him has you trembling, excited, your cock hard, so horny again. Now it’s just a matter of cranking up the volume. After a couple of tries, you’re getting the hang of this. Enjoying it. So easy to guide his thoughts into a hypnotic fugue he can’t break out of and probably won’t want to. He’s all yours, maybe not even really thinking anymore.

Or maybe he’s waiting for you to think for him. You can talk to him. Give him suggestions. Let him make it happen. Your words bypass his thoughts and affect his subconscious so strongly. Start him with some easy suggestions. Relax. Enjoy the feeling. Anchor himself here deep in this hypnotic trance. Love this feeling. He’ll answer any question, follow almost any instruction. You say, “Grant, you’re in love with me, aren’t you.”

He can’t mistake it for a question. He whispers, “I dunno ... Kind of ...”

Indecisive. Just a crush? Doesn’t matter—after you work with him a while, helping him accept the suggestion, he thinks he does love you now. You’re getting a headache and you can’t concentrate this intensely for much longer, but you’re going to push it while it’s here, to the limits, send him deeper. “I mean, you really love me. More than anything you’ve ever loved else, more than you ever even dreamed of loving anything else. Right?”

Hardly more than a slurred sigh: “... Yeah ... love you ...”

“You love me so much you’ll do anything I tell you to, right away and without question. You’ll never refuse me. Understand?”

“... Ye’h ... unnerst’n ...”

You have to pull back, tone it down. You’re head is throbbing. The afternoon sun at your back is only as intense as before, but it strikes your eyes like something thermonuclear. You need to get somewhere out of its fury, someplace with plenty of aspirin for your head.

Tell Grant it will happen on the count of three. Open his eyes. Think himself awake. Remain deeply asleep inside. Deeply hypnotized. So willing to follow any suggestions you give.

One, two, three, and you snap your fingers. Beside you, Grant shudders and blinks and looks at you like he’s not sure what happened or even if anything happened at all. There’s a blank edge to his expression: the hypnotic fugue state.

He’s smiles at you like before. Try it out. Say to him, “It’s sure a good day to work on your tan. Why don’t you take off your shirt.”

He does! He doesn’t seem to think anything about it—just says, “Okay,” and skins off. In this intense light, his trim, buffed torso glows. He’s not tanned dark like you, but he’s working on a golden, sun-kissed color.

“You like to go barefoot, don’t you. It’s a great day for it.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Off come his shoes and socks.

You’ll have to think about what to do with him. Right now, your headache is crashing in waves over your skull and there’s a roaring in your ears that makes thinking hard. “I’m going back to the dorm,” you tell him; “I’ve got to get some aspirin for this headache.”

“I’ve got some in my room,” he says, eager to help. He stands up when you do, his books and discarded articles of clothing bundled under his arm, and he follows you back to the dorm. His attentiveness, never more than friendly or neighborly before—he was always more Steve’s friend than yours—now reminds you of a puppy’s playful affection. He’s keeping things cool because you’re in public—this campus isn’t one-hundred-percent accepting, of course—but you can see he’s getting more kinetic, more expectant, as you close in on the dorm.

As you exit the stairwell onto your floor, Grant dashes ahead. “I’ll go get you some aspirin.” By the time you get to his door, he’s handing you the bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water from the mini-fridge in his room. Wash down a pair of pills. Thank him as you hand the bottle back. He offers to rub your temples, voice hushed because—well, who knows who might be listening to you in the hallway? You thank him but say you’d prefer to lie down a while. Ask him to join you. Tell him how happy it would make him to join you.

He follows you into your room. Steve isn’t around, probably at class. Grant closes the door behind you and offers again to rub your temples.

“Okay,” you say, too beat out to argue, “But take off the rest of your clothes first.”

He grins widely and strips off his jeans and briefs. He stands there, smiling, letting you inspect his skin, his erection, waiting for permission to proceed. If his eyes didn’t still have that distracted edge, you’d think he was completely awake. You take off your shirt and your shoes. He sprawls out on your bed and pats the mattress beside his thighs. “Sit down right here.”

So you do. He pulls you back, your back against his chest and tight stomach. His limbs make a harbor that makes you feel safe and sheltered. You snuggle back against him, suddenly more fatigued than you realized. True to his word, he massages your scalp and forehead and neck and upper shoulders and upper arms. He has quite a talent for it and you tell him so.

“Shh,” he hisses in your ear. “Be quiet and rest.”

So you let him continue, your headache being replaced by tiredness and a groggy drowsiness.

When you rouse from your nap, Grant is still holding you. He’s dozing too, in that almost-asleep state where you know you’re falling asleep but are too far gone to wake up. Your turn to grin at him. Your headache is nearly gone, just a residual tightness over one eye. Close your eyes again and return to your nap for a while.

Grant wakes you by nibbling and nipping at your earlobe. His erection pokes at your waist, just above the waistband of your shorts. Affection, or is he hoping for some action?

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs. His voice is warm and seductive, and you’re not immune to its implied promises. Roll over, and embrace him, and share a kiss. He rubs your half-hard prick through your shorts with his fingertips. He breaks the kiss to whisper, “Why don’t you take off your shorts so I can take care of you right?”

Instead, you lie back. He gets the hint and unties the drawstring on your shorts. Slowly, so slowly he draws off your socks; then, when he reaches for the waistband and you lift your hips, he draws your shorts and briefs gently down and off with little tugs. Now you’re both naked and erect.

Tell him to suck your cock. His mouth descends upon your stiff rod. He nurses it. He’s pretty good—good enough that you know for sure he’s done this before, and often enough that he isn’t entirely straight. One hand works your nipples. The other probes at your asshole, like Gino did in the woods earlier. Which of them learned that from the other, you wonder.

“I’m about to shoot,” you whisper to him, but he doesn’t pull back; instead he presses in and swallows your load as you orgasm. He pulls back and stares straight into your eyes as he jerks his own cock. Stretches his neck up so that his lips reach yours. Kiss him, demandingly. His eyelids flutter against your face and his spine flexes and he ejaculates onto your leg.

You entwine in bed together, nuzzling and murmuring and kissing. The strength of your orgasm still lingers in your extremities. Grant is sweet and attentive. You find you’ve kind of misjudged him for thinking him aloof and superficial just because he’s beautiful. You find yourself actually growing to like him.

Ignore the fact that Steve could return at any moment. It makes you nervous to be in bed with a guy when your roommate could walk in any time.

Around noon, Grant tells you to stay put and climbs out of bed. He won’t tell you where he’s going as he wrestles himself into his jeans, only that it’s a surprise and you’re to stay in bed. He pops his feet into his shoes, grabs his shirt, and waves as he exits.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s back, carrying a tray of food from the cafeteria. He sits down on your bed, sets the tray down beside him. Two plates, both some kind of mystery meatloaf—not what you’d have chosen, probably, but the cafeteria isn’t always known for variety. Or flavor—one dish usually tends to be as bland as another there. Meatloaf will do, and the veggies he chose are actually some you like. He feeds you, takes a few bites himself from his own plate while you’re chewing. This ritual has the endearing charm of naiveté. When the meal is finished, the tray set aside, he climbs on top of you and lets you tug off his clothing article by article as he kisses you and tickles and squirms and pretends to resist.

You reach for your shorts and fish out the pocket watch. You’re going to suspend it before his ready eyes and ease him back into that deep trance one last time before you have to wake him up.

7.

The next morning, after Steve has showered and gone to class, Grant slips into your room. He’s wearing only the briefs he slept in, which he slips off just before he slips into bed with you. He’s ardent, his erection prodding yours. He’s admiring your body with a lover’s eyes that can see no flaws. You’re complaining about being too skinny and wishing you had a gym-built body like him. He says he’d be glad to take you to the gym when he goes, let you work out with him, but first ... He keeps his eyes devilishly on yours as his stubbled chin scuffs down your abdomen on a collision course for your cock.

It’s just after lunch when you make it to the gym with Grant. He’s hard on himself, always pushing. He’s easier on you, maybe because he’s so fucking in love with you, but you’re trying to push as hard as he does. Free weights and some weight machines. Both of you are sweating like pigs.

You cool down by checking out a basketball from the equipment room and shooting some hoops. A little informal hoop-shooting that never gets around to being too competitive or too much like an official one-on-one game. On one of the other courts, ten or so fraternity members are playing and yelling. One of them—he must be six foot three—catches your attention. He’s not bad looking at all, and he’s half a head above the rest of them. White tee-shirt, some kind of striped athletic pants cut off into shorts, high tops with bunched white socks, a tiny diamond stud in his left ear. He’s good, playing hard and drenched with sweat. They’ve been at it since before you and Grant got to the courts, and they’re breaking up about the same time you and Grant decide to head to the showers. One last look—he’s got his back to you as he makes plans to meet his departing friends later—and you head to the locker room.

There’s nobody in the locker room when you walk in. Open your lockers and pull out your towels, peel off your sweat-wet gymwear. You head to the showers. Grant goes to the urinals to pee first.

Two rows of five showerheads, one row along each flanking wall. You go to the next to the last one on the left. When Grant comes in, out of all of them, he stands under the one right next to you. Not subtle, but he can hardly stand to be away from you. You really did a number on him yesterday. He’s flirting with you, keeps grabbing at you, very touchy-feely. You’re both getting hard.

Press him up against the wall, slide in close. Someone could walk in any second. You’re reaching for his cock, parted lips about to meet his throat for a kiss, when you hear something behind you. It’s that tall guy from the basketball court, flipping his towel over the rack by the entry. Jerk away from Grant, but it’s too late. Tall Guy glares at you. No mistaking what he’s seen, not with your dicks both hard and sticking straight out like that. He spits the word at you under his breath—“Faggots!"—as he takes the showerhead on the opposite wall, opposite corner from you, by the entry.

That does it. Turn off the water. You take three steps toward him. Hearing your feet on the wet tile, he turns, hands enveloped in soap lather. Challenge him with the angry fire in your eyes. He frowns back, doesn’t turn away. Glower at him for a second ... then storm past him, out of the showers. Grant follows you.

When Tall Guy exits the shower a couple of minutes later, when he grabs his towel and starts wrapping it around his waist as he rounds the corner, you’re standing there. He jerks to a stop, almost colliding with you, your upraised arm, the pocket watch suspended at his eye-level.

“Careful,” you say. “You don’t want to run into my pocket watch.” And, “It’s such an interesting design, isn’t it?” And, “Doesn’t that intricate design just seem to catch your eye and hold it? Yes.”

He peers at it, doesn’t look away.

Tell him to watch it carefully. Look at it, as it sways and turns. See the design? See how complex it is; see how convoluted. How it draws in the eye? Always a new layer, a new design to see, further in. The more the eye looks, the more it sees. Yes. So easy to look deeper. See deeper. New levels. Unfolding designs. Concentrate. See? Focus. See? So easy. Focus. Concentrate. Yes. That’s the way. Focus. Deeper. Look deeper. Inside. Eyes sinking into the design. Focus. Concentrate. Eyes tiring? Maybe a little? Yes? Relaxing? A little tired sensation in the corners of them? Yes? Spreading? Tired? Focused? Concentrating. Deeper. Relaxing. Tired. Sinking into it. Tired. Whole body, so tired. So exhausted and loose and relaxed. So tired. Sleepy. Eyes sleepy. Body sleepy. Thoughts sleepy. Eyes closing. Sleepy. So deep now. Sleeping so deeply. Sleep.

His body sways, eyes closed, head dropping slightly forward, lips parting. Push him back against the wall, firmly. Your hand has met a hairy chest framed by wide shoulders. At his waist, his hand relaxes, and the cinched towel ends slip free. The towel flutters down off his cock and body. He’s four inches taller than you and outweighs you by eighty pounds of muscle. But his cocky attitude has faded with his expression. His relaxed body sags back against the wall under your hand, sinking down until his butt meets the floor. His cock rises like a spire, thick, long, dark, cut.

It’s too dangerous here, too easy to get interrupted or caught. You could try to give him an order: “McNutt Dorm, Room 525, nine o’clock tonight. Be there.” Your dorm room. But probably that wouldn’t work after just this one trance. You’ve got to him deeply entranced, but a hundred later distractions might interfere.

Guide his body over to the full-length mirror. Aim him at his own reflection. Brown hair, darkened from the water. Brown eyes. His hairy pecs are shaped like hard slabs. He’s a sexy guy. He knows it. Tell him to imagine his reflection is his ideal self, free of any imperfection—his face and body the way he’s always dreamed they should look. Tell him how sexy he looks. How sexy he feels. Yes, his erection is a winner, long and thick.

Tell him to stroke his chest. There’s a twitch in his cheeks as he tries to resist. Repeat the suggestion. His hand rises and glides over his pectorals. Tell him to relax. Accept. Surrender. Obey. Ask him if he wants to cum. He nods. The twitch again, but he nods. Tell him how easy it is—all he has to do is what you say it. How horny he is. How good it will feel. He doesn’t twitch again. His body sags a bit. His surrender, his submission, is the sweetest part of this. He’s practically reaching for his cock before you tell him to. Grinning, Grant is watching you and Tall Guy the way a tiger watches its prey.

Three minutes later, there’s a load of Tall Guy’s cum creeping down the mirror. He still has his deflating clock in his hand. You and Grant are dressed, ready to go. Tall Guy is still nude, standing before the mirror. His eyes are closed now—he’s deeply asleep. Leave him there to sleep off his trance, which might take a few minutes. If anyone walks in on him ... Well, in your opinion, it’s what he deserves.

Turn and motion Grant to follow you. He’s still grinning, horny, eager to get off himself. Head back to your room. Halfway there, you realize you forgot to get Tall Guy’s name.

In your room, show Grant the pocket watch, talk him down, and take him straight to your bed. He’s comfortably groggy and pliant. Strip him, then yourself. By now, your anger over Tall Guy has faded. You’re feeling something entirely different. Pull Grant to you, a standing embrace that leads to toppling onto the bed. It takes just a few minutes of moaning, licking, sweating, swearing. He cums. You cum.

Part of you wonders why the hypnotist hasn’t shown up in the last day and a half. You hope he’d be proud of you.

You’re on the bed with Grant. Steve comes in. You jump, panicked, and snatch up the pocket watch from beside the bed. Steve is no sooner through the door than he’s staring you, then at the watch, starting to slide under the spell of what you’re broadcasting, the way a radio antenna can’t help but receive. Tell him to push the door closed. He takes his clothes off when you tell him to do that too, and sits on the side of your bed. Pull him down onto you. Now you can reach his hard-on and his head. Kiss his ear, murmur, “You’re my slave; you will obey me,” into it while his mind is receptive to suggestions. Cheesy, but maybe it will work. No luck—he twitches, fighting the suggestion. Too much, too soon. “Okay, never mind that,” you tell him. Instead: “Just kiss me.” Kiss, kiss and ask him to jack him off while you watch. He’s close. When you give the word, he cums.

Seduction is best when it’s new. This whole thing, this whole week, has been breathtaking. If you’ve been thinking of yourself as the seducer, then suddenly you also understand that this thing has seduced you too.

8.

Wake up slowly. Glance at the clock. It’s nearly nine in the morning. Sunlight spills everywhere through the window. Steve is stirring too, starting to wake.

Something is different about today. You’re not sure what, but you’re sure it is. Different.

You, in the briefs you sleep in, are sprawled under your bed covers. Steve, naked, had kicked his sheet aside sometime during the night. He rolls on his back. His morning hard-on waves your way for a moment before settling alongside the trail of hair between his navel and pubes. He reaches for his headphones. Turns his CD player on. Settles back to listen to the CD.

His casual nakedness was an easy adjustment to make when you had him entranced. He welcomed the suggestion—didn’t resist that one at all.

His leg moves in time to the beat; it makes his cock twitch too. You’ve been planning to make it do a lot more than just twitch, as soon as you finish waking up.

The quiet knocking interrupts you. Steve hasn’t heard it over the music, but he looks over when you sit up. The bed covers bunch at your waist and lap, concealing your own woody. Call out, “It’s open.”

The knob turns. The door opens. “What’s up, guys?” Grant slips in, Gino following him. They’ve both got on boxer shorts: basic white for Grant, dark blue paisley for Gino.

Grant slips onto your bed beside you—another easy change. Steve and Gino have been told not to mind, and they don’t. Gino asks Steve what he’s listening to, and they get to talking about the band.

Grant’s feeling horny. “Just came by to see what you’re up to,” he says playfully. He pokes you and teases your chest with a finger.

“Not much. I gotta brush up on some notes today for an exam,” you say.

Grant pushes the envelope with his mouth dangerously close to your ear. “Mmm, there’s some anatomy notes right here I want to brush up against.” His warm breath makes your pulse quicken. His finger teases the crotch of your briefs through the sheets.

“Oh, that,” you say. “I already passed that test. I blew it away.” Poke his nipple and grin.

His lips brush your earlobe, light as a promise. He whispers, “I know something else you can blow away.” He has the sexiest grin.

Something over your shoulder catches Grant’s eye. You turn and look where he looks. You see it too, and you know. You know what’s different today.

Grant is slowly reaching over your shoulder. He leans into you, reaching. His bare shoulder presses yours.

He reels his hand back. The shiny silver pocket watch dangles from the end of its chain in his fingers.

The silver pocket watch he is lifting—the way the light shines off it as it turns—it catches your eye.

“That’s it,” he tells you. “Just watch it turn. Yeah. It’s my turn.” He holds it higher. “Hey, Gino, look here. Steve, take off those earphones a second. Look at this.”

Past the pocket watch, you see Gino turn, Steve tug the headphones off over his face. They’re looking over, at the watch in Grant’s hand.

Grant reminds you how good it feels to relax. Gino’s eyes are already fluttering. Yours too, a little. Already the drowsiness is settling over you again like a net. Grant reminds you all how easy it is to focus. You can feel it in the corners of your eyes. Feel them glazing, emptying. How tired you must be, Grant says, and how surely you must want to sleep.

Gino’s eyes flutter and close, finally. His head droops forward.

So sleepy, Grant asserts. So easy to sleep.

Now Steve’s eyes close, and his head settles against the mattress.

Yes, Grant says to you. So sleepy. So deeply asleep. Needing only to close your eyes and sink. Deep, relaxing sleep. You can’t keep your eyes open. Body so heavy. Grant’s hand on your shoulder, easing you back until you’re prone on your bed. “Sleep,” he says a final time, and you do.

Open your eyes when he asks you to. Your arms and legs are so heavy. You’re so deeply asleep. You know this. Grant stands in the middle of the room. He still has that pocket watch in his hand.

Gino moves. His face looks so deeply entranced. His hands move. Push off his boxer shorts. His cock is hard, as hard as yours.

Push back the sheet when Grant says to. Slide off your briefs. You’re naked now. Yeah, what he says is right: you’re happier that way. You know that now. Your erection stands out like an antenna.

You’re receiving the signal Grant is sending. All three of you—Steve, Gino, and you—pull yourselves closer to him. On your knees. Reach up. Pull Grant’s boxers down. He’s steel-hard too, throbbing. He’s grinning, looking down at you, heavy lidded eyes clouded with lust, a coming storm.

He steps free of his boxers. Naked. All of you gloriously naked.

Grant rubs his hand over your head. Steve’s too. Gino is directly in front of Grant. Grant asks him to suck his cock, and Gino gobbles it down with easy familiarity.

Steve is sent around back, where he parts Grant’s ass cheeks and sends his tongue between them to lap and lick.

You’re told to stand. Kiss him. Play with his nipples. You do all these things enthusiastically.

Gino sucks Grant, with one hand around the base of Grant’s cock, the other playing with his balls. Steve makes a lot of wet, slobbery noise at Grant’s ass. Bend and suck at one of Grant’s nipples with your mouth. Work the other with your fingers. Your other hand settles into the small of his back.

After a couple of minutes, a change. Grant asks you to kneel, directs your head into Gino’s lap. Your mouth welcomes his salty, average-sized cock inside easily. Steve’s bare ankle is pressed against your leg; you feel it when he moves. A warm wetness engulfs your erection—Steve’s mouth.

Another leg presses up against yours. Whose? This one wears pants—you feel the fabric, rough against your bare skin. Look up between Gino’s mouth and Grant’s torso. Just in time to see a familiar hand close over Grant’s, draw the pocket watch chain from his slackening grip. Grant’s hand drifts limply down as the pocket watch hovers, is held, in front of him.

The man, back from whatever show appearances took him away. His familiar voice. Saying he came by to see how the changeover went. Telling Grant to relax too. Focus. Concentrate. Drift. Enjoy. No worries. No thoughts. Just relaxing. Sinking. Falling asleep again. Enjoy. Falling deeply asleep. So peaceful. Peaceful sleep.

Another change. Grant sprawled beside Steve’s bed. Steve kneeling beside him, sucking. You beside Steve, sucking. Gino between you and Grant, sucking you, getting sucked by Grant. Feels great. So focused. So relaxed. Concentrating only on giving and getting the best blowjob ever. Slip a finger into Steve’s butt. He accommodates, spreads his legs wider. Find his prostate. He moans appreciatively. Grant’s finger invades your ass, and he finds that spot that sends little jolts of pleasure all through you.

The man says your names, one at a time, and you cum. Grant. Steve. You. Gino. Suddenly, your orgasm is there, right there, bursting over you, and you’re there, you’re shooting, shooting, and swallowing and shuddering, loving the feeling of your orgasm, and Steve’s in your mouth, and Gino’s as he sucks you. You’re there, cumming so hard. So hard, just like the man said. Cumming so intensely. Time slowing. Cumming. Stretching out. Cumming.

Exhaustion settles over you with the afterglow. The man says so. He’s pleased the first changeover went so well. The first of many, many. It’s Grant’s turn, for now. Yours will come again after everyone has had a turn. Your turn will come again, and you will have many opportunities to cum, many. But for now, wakefulness has turned to trance has turned to sleep. The man says so. Every good job like that deserves a little nap. He says so. He says your names again, one at a time, and your eyes close and you sink into sleep. Steve.. Grant. Gino.. You.