Christopher & Craig
Part 31: Mike & Mitch
Craig was still in my bedroom, frozen, mute, blind, shackled, and wearing his slave collar. What a truly magnificent sight. He had been very good earlier and this was only part of his reward.
“Unfreeze, Craig.”
He opened his eyes. Chained like he was he couldn’t move much anyway.
“Freeze your tongue.” I reached out and slid his briefs down his legs slowly to his knees.
He stood, watching me wide-eyed.
I began tickling his sides. Then I moved down his belly... down... down... to his inner thighs...
He twisted and wriggled.
I pushed him back on to the bed. He landed with a dull thud.
I tickled his feet. He squirmed more, trying to pull away from me.
I moved back up his legs to his inner thighs... up his ribcage... up under his arms.
He was tossing and turning on the bed, to what limited effect he could, chained as he was. He was breathing hard.
I teased around and around his cock, never touching it. He struggled more and more. The tension built as he thrashed about, his breathing becoming more labored from the combination of exertion and stimulation. I knew he needed to cum. But he couldn’t ask for it. I had seen to that.
His body glistened with a fine coat of sweat. His face was red. Still I tickled up and down his sides. He was gasping for air, quivering all over.
He looked at me with pleading eyes.
I smiled. “Sleep, Craig.”
And his body went limp.
Saturday I kept Craig muted. I had a lot of work to do and I knew that would keep him from being too much of a distraction. I unchained him and he performed his chores while I sat at my desk and labored. Later in the day I went out to run some errands. Mike was due after six, and Mitch would be here at seven.
At twenty minutes past six the doorbell rang. I was ready. I had already gotten Craig out of the way in the upstairs bedroom. I changed to my boots. And I set up my video camera on a tripod in the corner of the den. This was going to be an important night, one that someday I might want to look back on.
I answered the door.
“Hi, Mike. How are you?” I waved him in.
He stepped in and kicked off his sneakers automatically. “I’m good. How are you, Christopher?”
His tone was much warmer tonight, too. The posthypnotic suggestions were working flawlessly. He didn’t even seem to notice as he took off his sneakers. He was wearing white socks. One question remained.
“Glad to see you. Come on into the den and sit.”
As soon as he was settled on the couch I gave him his trigger.
“Queer Pizza Boy.”
His body noticeably relaxed. That was a good sign.
“Mike, breathe in and out... In and out... Relaxing... How do you feel?”
“Good.”
“That’s good. Last night after you left here, what did you do?”
“I went to the mall.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I bought G-strings and socks.”
“Are you wearing a G-string now?”
“Yes.”
“Very good! You’re a good boy, Mike. You will wear a G-string everyday now under your boxers. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Breathing deeply... In and out... So relaxed... Mike, did your girlfriend ever give you a blowjob?”
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember a time when your girlfriend gave you a really good one?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to picture that time. Remember everything about it. Where were you? What did it look like? Feel like? Smell like? What did she look like? Can you remember all of it?”
He was smiling serenely. “Yes.”
“Good. Mike, it is that time right now. It’s happening all over again. Just as it happened then. But you need to pull down your pants so she can do it. You can stand and move however you need to to take down your pants. You will remain relaxed, feeling good. It’s all right. It’s just you and your girlfriend. Take down your pants.”
He stood and unbuckled his belt. His actions were a bit jerky, the motions choppy. He was new to moving in a hypnotic state and wasn’t used to his muscles being controlled by suggestion.
He pulled down his pants and his boxers. They had blue checks. He stood in a royal blue G-string.
“Take down your G-string too, Mike.”
He did.
I checked my watch. “Okay, sit down. In a few minutes your girlfriend will give you that blowjob.”
He sat down.
“Breathe in and out... In and out...”
The doorbell rang. Right on time.
I opened the door to Mitch.
“Wow.”
He grinned at me as he walked in and removed his boots.
He stood in a spandex shirt and white spandex football pants with white socks. He looked amazing.
“Polish your boots. Mitch, how did it feel to wear your spandex today?”
“Great, sir.”
“You will from now on, right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“There’s a boy in the living room with a hard cock waiting for you to suck it. Go, bootboy.”
“Yes, sir!”
He sashayed into the den, swinging his ass in those tight, white football pants. This was going to be good.
I crossed to the video camera and started it running. Mitch knelt beside the couch.
Mike tensed when Mitch’s tongue darted out and flicked his cockhead. Then he was swept away in the rush of present stimulation and past memories.
I taped the entire scene, zooming in for close-ups of Mitch from head to toe, sucking Mike’s cock.
Mike came quickly; I had anticipated that. He hadn’t had sex in a month. When Mitch had licked him clean I turned off the camera.
I whispered in Mitch’s ear to wait in the bathroom.
He left the room.
“Mike, did you enjoy that?”
He was smiling. “Yes!”
“Stand up and dress yourself.”
He got to his feet and pulled up the G-string, boxers, and pants. After he fastened his belt he sat down.
“Mike, you’re a good boy. And tomorrow night you can come back here after work. What time is that?”
“Nine,” he said.
“Okay, Drive here at nine.”
“Yes.”
“Mike, breathe in and out... Relaxing... When you get home tonight you will take off all your clothes except for your G-string and socks. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I will take off all my clothes except for my G-string and socks.”
“Good boy. Whenever you are home that is what you wear. It will be perfectly normal and natural. You only dress to go out. That is what you always do. It’s what you’ve always done. You won’t remember a time when you didn’t only wear a G-string and white socks at home. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“That’s my good boy. I will count to three and you’ll awaken. All of the instructions I’ve given you will become a part of you. You will remember only that you came here and had a good time. You’ll return tomorrow after work. Any questions?”
“No.”
I walked to the foyer and picked up Mitch’s boots. I stashed the size 10s in the hall closet and returned to my chair.
“1...2...3.”
Mike opened his eyes. He was still smiling.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’ll be here,” he said.
I walked to the front door.
He stooped over and pulled on his sneakers. Then he straightened up and offered me his hand.
I shook it. “Goodnight.”
“’Night.” He smiled and left.
I opened the closet door and returned Mitch’s boots to the entryway. Then I collected Mitch from the bathroom.
“Settle on the couch, Mitch,” I instructed as I switched on the video camera and focused on him.
I sat in my chair. This was going to take some time.
To be continued in Part 32...
Christopher & Craig
Part 32: Detective Mitch Driver, Bootboy
Several hours passed. I videotaped a little here and there. Mostly I guided Mitch deeper into relaxation.
At Leatherman’s club on Friday I had had a revelation about how to get Mitch off the police force. The drawback was that it was a lot of work. But it was also a challenge, and I was up for a new challenge. Tonight I was putting my plan into action.
For Mitch the past month was just erased.
Well, not erased. But locked from his memory until I chose to give him the key. In a few moments, when I counted to three, he would believe this was the first night he came to my house under the pretense of an interest in hypnosis. For Mitch, the Craig Matthews case was open and being investigated. He would be just as sexist, homophobic, and obnoxious as he had been.
Only all was not as it once was. Yes, his personality was back. But in the body of a completely shaved, spandex-clad, ass-shaking, toe-walking, boot-worshipping fag. That was the trick—all of the physical changes remained in effect.
And the anticipation of Mitch’s reaction to his own behavior had my throbbing cock ready to cum in my pants.
The piece de resistance? No matter how he tried he wouldn’t be able to walk differently, dress differently, or stop shaving.
I put a new tape in the video camera and zoomed out wide so much of the room was in the shot. I may want to save this moment for future enjoyment.
I took the other tape to the VCR and pushed rewind. This was going to be completely unpredictable. I hadn’t programmed in any sort of response, and I had no way of knowing how Mitch would react when confronted with evidence of his own homosexuality.
I almost felt sorry for what he was about to experience.
Almost.
“Mitch, you will awaken when I count to three. All previous instructions are still in effect. And, as always, when I say ‘polish your boots’ you will revert to this hypnotic state. 1...2...3.”
Mitch’s eyes snapped open.
“You okay, Mitch?” I asked.
“That’s Detective Driver!” he snapped in his high tenor voice. He lowered his eyebrows. He cleared his throat. “I’m here—” He cleared his throat again. “I’m here because our department received word that you may have information regarding the location of Craig Matthews.”
“Mm-hm.” I nodded.
He looked surprised. “You know of his whereabouts?”
“Sure. So do you.”
“What are you talking about?” He coughed. Twice. “How would I know his location?”
“He’s upstairs. What’s the big deal? I can call him down if you’d like to speak with him.” So far he seemed oblivious to his appearance and behavior.
“I’d like to talk to him. I’ll need to go out to my car and call this in.” He sashayed toward the door.
I stifled a laugh. That walk was so completely out of sync with that cocky attitude. “Are you sure you should go out like that?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned back to me. “Like what?”
I gestured down.
His eyes followed my hand. White socks...football pants...spandex shirt. “What the hell?” he sputtered. “What’s going on? Why am I dressed like this?”
I held out my hands and shrugged. “I assumed you like spandex.”
“Spandex?” he repeated. “I don’t even own any spandex. Where did I get these?”
Denial. That was one of the stages of grief. Interesting. Would Mitch grieve the loss of his heterosexuality and free will?
He was staring at himself. He must have realized how tight the football pants were against his crotch and how clearly they outlined the bulge there because he shifted his posture a bit. He appeared embarrassed. “I look like some kind of fag!” he spat out.
Anger. The second stage. “I’m not sure you should blame the clothes.”
“What?”
“Well, look at you. Look how you’re standing. What guys stand like that?”
He seemed to become conscious of the fact that he was balancing on his toes. He rocked back on his heels—
—and right back onto his toes.
His eyes popped wide.
“And look at your hands, for crying out loud.”
He tried to straighten his limp wrists. Still they hung limp.
He began to sputter. “What the hell? I don’t—I’m not—I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Perhaps you should calm down first? I don’t think you should be driving in your condition.”
“My condition? What’s wrong with me? I’m no fag! I’ve got a girlfriend, and—” He stopped, a grimace on his face.
“Would you like to call her? Perhaps she could pick you up and take you somewhere?”
He shook his head. “No, not her.”
“Mitch, why don’t you sit down for a moment?”
He eyed me suspiciously.
“Unless you want to charge off into the night like that. I mean, looking like that you’d be a lightning rod for gay-bashing.”
His irritation was growing.
“Please. I’d never forgive for myself if I let you drive while you were so upset.”
“I’m not upset!” he trilled. The shrillness of his own voice caught him off guard. He sat on the couch and crossed his legs.
I stared at them momentarily.
He recognized what I was looking at and quickly uncrossed his legs—
—and immediately re-crossed them.
“Detective, do you shave?” I asked in mock-horror.
His right hand felt his jaw. “Of course.”
“I was talking about your legs.”
He ran his hand over his right calf. “What the?”
“Your arms, too,” I pointed out. “Why, you’re as smooth as a baby!”
He seemed a bit unnerved. “This isn’t happening,” he asserted.
I suppressed a grin. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any hair on you at all.”
His face was panic-stricken.
Time to move on. I didn’t want to give him too much time to think. I crossed to the television set. “Mitch, there’s a video here that you may be interested in seeing.”
“I don’t want to watch TV.”
“You’ll want to see this.” I pushed play.
The picture faded up. It followed up from white socks over the kneeling legs of a smooth man, to a pair of football pants, to a spandex shirt.
Mitch realized he was watching himself.
The picture zoomed out and it was obvious he had a dick in his mouth. He was blowing a strange guy.
It took several seconds for Mitch to comprehend what he was seeing. His face registered disbelief, then disgust, then pure terror.
“No!” he screamed. “It’s not me. I wouldn’t. I hate fags!” The venom in his tone sent a chill through me.
The picture cut to Mitch seated on the couch.
“Go ahead, say it,” my voice instructed from the TV.
“I’m a mindless, spandex-wearing, cock-sucking bootboy!”
Mitch couldn’t seem to grasp what he was hearing. “This isn’t happening,” he said again. He shook his head, as though that would make all of this a dream.
“Prove it,” my voice said on TV.
The camera tipped down and followed him as he dropped to the floor and began polishing a pair of boots with his tongue. They were, in reality, mine, though that was unclear from the video.
He stared at the screen in silent rage.
His eyes traveled to me, then down the length of my body to my boots. A connection was made.
“You did this to me! I don’t know how! Or what! But you did this to me!” His accusatory tone made me feel a twinge of regret at putting him through all of this. Even someone as vile as Mitch didn’t deserve this type of mental anguish.
Although it was quite an accomplishment. I had merged his former state of mind with his altered behavior. I really could be proud of my work with him.
He lunged off the couch.
I hadn’t anticipated that. I was too busy congratulating myself. I sidestepped him and quickly gave him his trigger. “Polish your boots!”
He came to a sudden stop and balanced himself.
“Mitch, you will not lay hands on me. You cannot. 1...2...3.”
He stared at me with loathing in his eyes and returned to the couch. He cradled his head in his hands. “I must be losing my mind.” He stared at the screen in disbelief. On tape he was sashaying around the room. “Parading around like some fag. It’s not happening. It’s not happening!” He got very quiet. “I can’t stop.”
There was my opening. “I can help you stop.”
His head jerked up. “What did you say?”
“I can help you. That’s why you’re here. Mitch, that’s how you’ve realized what’s happened. I’ve been working with you to try to reintegrate your personality.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was merely a whimper now. His confusion was palpable.
This must be the depression part of our grief program. I sat down in my chair. “Mitch, you’ve suffered a Dissociative Identity Disorder. Do you know what DID is?”
“No.”
“DID is usually precipitated by a traumatic event, causing an emotional break which results in what used to be termed a split personality.” I continued to explain in technical jargon which I knew he wouldn’t completely understand.
He looked hopeless.
“Mitch, your personalities can be reintegrated. We’ve been working for weeks—”
“Weeks?”
“Yes. Today was a breakthrough. This is the first time your original personality has resurfaced since your break.
“So I’ve been like this for weeks? Dressing like this? Acting like a fag?”
“Your behavior has been more in line with what is stereotypically associated with that of a homosexual, yes.” I rolled my eyes. I sounded so pretentious!
“Can you help me stop acting like this?”
“I believe so. If you want it badly enough.”
“Of course I do!” he shouted. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever you say!”
Bargaining rears its head. I smiled. “It will take some effort on your part. You’ll need to be more cooperative than you’ve been recently.”
“How soon can I get back to normal?”
I frowned. “Mitch, it’s difficult to put a timetable on this type of treatment. Could be days, could be weeks. Could even take several months.”
My answer seemed to stun him. The glimmer of hope in his eyes evaporated.
“You’ll need to undergo intensive treatment. If you’re committed to recovery then it will go much quicker.”
“If? If? I’m acting like a fag!” He tried to force his legs apart. They crossed again.
I stood and walked to my desk, picking up an envelope I had readied this afternoon. “Mitch, the work we need to do is not going to be accomplished on an out-patient basis. It’s my recommendation that you check into a facility—”
“You’re putting me in a nut-bin?”
“No. You’re not crazy. I believe a stay in a rest home will facilitate your recovery.” I held the envelope out to him. “This is a letter with my diagnosis. My advice would be to take a leave of absence from your job.”
“I can’t go to work like this!” He took the envelope.
“Mitch, you’ve been going to work all month.”
He blanched. “I have?”
“Yes. Talk to your superior tomorrow. Get a leave.” The truth of the matter was I didn’t know the policies for requesting a leave of absence from the police force. That was why I needed Mitch’s knowledge. The psychotic break idea simply insured his boss would grant him the time off.
Mitch stared, lost in his despair.
“You know what you must do.”
He slowly began to nod. “Yes. I’ll talk to my lieutenant tomorrow.”
And there was acceptance.
“The sooner the better,” I said. “We have an appointment for seven o’clock tomorrow. I suggest you come in then and I’ll have your arrangements made. Okay?”
He had already resigned himself to his fate. “Okay.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at seven.”
“That’s it?” he asked. “We’re done?”
“For tonight,” I replied.
He got to his feet. I walked him to the front door.
He automatically laced up his boots.
I shook his hand. “We’ll get you through this, Mitch.”
“Thank you,” he said.
I shut the door. He wouldn’t be thanking me for long.