The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Man Trainer

I train men. It’s what I do. The way I came into this line of work is its own story, and, because that’s not the story I’m telling you today, I’ll keep the introduction short.

You won’t have heard my name or seen my face on television or on the web, but I’m the most sought-after sports hypnotist in the country. It’s what I do for a living. It earns me more money than I need.

And, no, I don’t turn famous athletes into zonked-out personal playthings, if that’s what you’re thinking. My work as a sports hypnotist is strictly professional. Ever since I figured out how powerful this talent of mine is, I’ve kept the professional side of hypnosis separate from the recreational side. Perhaps like for you, the recreational side of hypnosis for me is the erotic side of hypnosis. But like I said, I’ve kept the two sides separate.

At least until now.

The story I’m telling you today is about a professional job I recently got hired to do. Like most of my professional work, this job was with a professional sports team, to help one of its players. Like I said, you won’t know my name, but you’ve probably heard the player’s name. So I’m not going to use the player’s real name here, and I’m going to use made-up names for the team he plays for, the college he played for before that, and so on. See, I didn’t get to where I am by breaking the trust of my clients. It took a while to convince the right people that what I do is worth their time and money, and part of the secret to convincing them has been that I’m discreet and professional.

Like I said, I don’t break a client’s trust.

But I do break a man’s resistance. That’s what I do. I train men.

And one of the men I recently trained is Brendan McBride. If I used his real name—which, like I said, I won’t—you’d probably react by saying, “Whoa! Brendan McBride? You mean that Brendan McBride??” To which I’d reply—if we were using his real name—yeah. That Brendan McBride. If you don’t know anything about American football, and even if you do, don’t bother Googling that name. Like I said, it’s not his real name. If I used his real name, you’d probably know who I’m talking about, or you’d Google him, and either way you’d understand why it might not be easy keeping the professional side of hypnosis separate from that other side. But, like I also said, I’ve always kept the two sides separate.

At least… until now.

In the years since I established my reputation, I’ve helped guys in pro football, baseball, ice hockey, basketball, and the pro golf circuit, too. All these sports are not just sports. They’re also businesses. And they’re businesses that bring in lots of money for the people who run them. And those people need every athlete they place under contract to stay in peak form. Both physically and mentally.

Which brings me back to Brendan McBride. Yes, that Brendan McBride.

When a team is paying a player as much as the Mountain City Pioneers pay Brendan McBride, the slightest obstacle to his success is not just his problem. It’s a business problem. Guys at McBride’s level are like prize stallions. They’re housed, watered, fed—and, hell, practically bred—with obsessive levels of care and attention. And when the slightest thing goes amiss with a guy like Brendan McBride, you can be sure that the people paying him all that money notice. That’s when I get called in. I get called in when a professional sports team notices that one of its prized stallions has had something gone amiss. That’s why, on this occasion, the Pioneers’ called me in: something had gone amiss with Brendan McBride.

I flew out to Mountain City on a Friday, and the general manager of the Pioneers met me in an SUV with a driver at the airport. We drove directly to the Pioneers’ training center at Life-United Insurance Stadium. (As I mentioned, I’m changing the names; you’d recognize the city and the team name and its corporate-sponsored home field, too, if I used their real names). It was midafternoon and quiet when we got there. Practice had concluded for the day. The players would be back early Saturday morning for a short walk-through of their game plan for Sunday’s game. We sat in the general manager’s office, which looked out over the green expanse of one of the practice fields. A couple of grounds keepers were working on the field.

“It sounded to me like something in your wheelhouse,” the general manager said. “He’s in peak physical condition. Last season, he went from great to better-than-great. But these first two games this season…” The general manager, a fleshy-faced man with receding hairline, made a tight-lipped face and shook his head. “We really don’t see any objective problem. No injuries. Everything’s good in practice. But, on game day, he’s missing the plays. He’s missing the plays that, last season, he totally owned. We’re not talking like he sucks. He doesn’t suck. But the comparison to how he played during the playoffs last season—I mean, it’s noticeable. And it’s attracting notice. Not in a good way.”

I nodded and regarded the general manager closely. The general manager continued:

“There’s the breakup with the girlfriend, and there was some social media b.s., and maybe that’s part of it. I’d say what he does off the field isn’t any of my business, but it is my business, if it’s getting in the way of what he does on the field.”

The general manager was referring to McBride’s brief, and public, fling with a former supermodel, a femme fatale-looking woman, six or seven years older than the twenty-five-year-old running back. The rise and fall of that relationship had been documented on McBride’s Instagram feed and in the pages of gossip magazines.

I looked on quietly.

“So, like I said,” the general manager continued, “it just looks to me like something in your wheelhouse.”

“So you have a home game Sunday,” I stated. “Probably a light practice session tomorrow. I would recommend I meet with him after tomorrow’s practice, just to get acquainted. I won’t do anything tomorrow other than introduce myself. I find it’s best not to start the sessions so close to a game day. I prefer having a full four or five days, so any adjustments necessary to his mental process have time to settle into place.”

“And that’s all it will take? Just this coming week?”

“As we said, when we spoke by phone, and discussed how I work, there are no guarantees, but the effects of my technique are rapid. I will know by midweek how he’s responding, and whether what I do works for him. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll know by next week’s game, and the Pioneers owe me my expenses only.”

The general manager knew the terms. He nodded in affirmation.

“I expect it will work,” I stated calmly.

“Great,” the general manager agreed. “Saturday’s practice is shorts-and-jerseys. Game plan walk through. They report to the hotel at 5 pm. Maybe after practice?”

With professional football teams, they stay at a hotel on the night before a game, even for home games like this one.

“Yes,” I replied. “That would be fine.”

“Oh,” I added. “It would be good if I were to watch him practice.”

“Right, sure,” the general manager agreed. “You’re under a NDA, so that’s all good.”

He was referring to the non-disclosure agreement that was part of my contract with the Pioneers. They didn’t want anybody watching their practices who might leak details to their opponents. I assured the general manager that they didn’t have to worry; I knew the drill.

Like I said, I got to where I am, because these organizations know they can trust me. I’m a professional.

No dumb jock

A driver with the Pioneers organization drove me to my hotel. I checked in, showered, grabbed a quick meal, then settled into my room. I synched my laptop to the large screen television in my room and began reviewing my Brendan McBride file.

Twenty-five years old. Montana native. Younger of two brothers. Red shirt freshman at one of the top football schools in the country. First-round draft pick after graduating. I noted that: he actually graduated, exceedingly rare at this level of the game. With a BA in electrical engineering. Even rarer still: graduated with a real degree. Note to self: not a dumb jock.

Last season, 993 yards rushing, for 9 touchdowns. 302 yards receiving, for 2 touchdowns. Also, a great performer in high-pressure third-down situations.

Then I reminded myself why the general manager and team owners were worried. Going into the third game of the present season, McBride’s stats, on a game-by-game average, weren’t coming up to even half what he did last season. And game two this season was worse than game one. Not a good trend. I continued clicking through my files.

Five foot eleven inches tall, 206 pounds. Does a 40-yard dash in 4.44 seconds. Bench presses 225 pounds for 12 reps in a set. Plays classical violin in his spare time. What? Unaccustomed to being very impressed, I nevertheless couldn’t help but pause at that detail. This is an interesting guy, I thought.

Also, photogenic. Which I knew already, and anybody who watched football knew. I clicked through photos in the McBride file. Square jaw, but not severe. Ears, slightly prominent, but not overmuch. Eyes, blue and with an almond shape. But what I noticed most was the focus. He exuded a calm, intense focus. I watched some short clips of him training, working out on the field, showing off with a one-arm hand-stand at a gym somewhere. There were lots of photos he’d posted on his public Instagram with the now-former girlfriend, too. What a body! Yeah, the girlfriend, to be sure had the perfect shape for a woman. But McBride is shaped beyond perfection. And it’s not only muscle and hips and ass and everything that make him stand out so much, though those things make him stand out a lot. He also has… energy. It sounds clichéd to say so, but this boy looks like a tiger ready to pounce. Practically always. There’s an animal inside him that doesn’t stop. Even when a camera catches him just sitting on the bench on the sidelines at a game, he’s not just sitting there. He’s taut and ready. As for when he’s actually on the field, the energy radiates.

So what gives? I thought to myself. What’s the problem with Brendan McBride? I knew the photos and stats in my files weren’t going to give me the answer. But I knew how to get the answer, and I was looking forward to getting it. Maybe looking forward a little too much, given that Brendan McBride was meeting me for work, not for fun. Yes, I enjoy my work, but, like I said, I keep the professional and the recreational sides of hypnosis separate.

I shook off a few less-than-professional hypnosis thoughts that had crept into my mind, went to bed, and fell fast asleep, which was good. I had a work day ahead.

Walk-Through

Saturday morning, I woke early. I had to be at the Pioneers’ practice facility for the 7 am start of practice. Arriving there a little before the start of practice, I had to wait a few minutes at the gate, while the security guard called the front office to learn that the management expected me. I nodded in a friendly way once he apologized and let me through.

The general manager met me, and then showed me to the practice field. This was what they call a “walk-through” session. It’s a short practice that the team does, no pads or helmets, just to go over the game plan one last time before Game Day. It’s only an hour long or thereabouts, intentionally short and light, going easy to give the players a rest for the punishing ordeal of the game itself, but it’s still an important training session, because it reminds everybody of their responsibilities and all the plays they’d been practicing in preparation for the opponent they would meet tomorrow on the field in front of 80,000 live fans and upwards of another 14 million on t.v.

He was easy to spot. Just like the photos and videos, but more so. I’d worked with a number of professional athletes as well-known as McBride, many less well-known, and all of them attractive in one way or another . But Brendan McBride surpassed any sportsman I’d seen up close for sheer physical beauty. It didn’t hurt that his training shorts fit close enough around his ass and hips that the straps of his jock were visible underneath, or that the longest part of his otherwise buzz-cut blond hair was just long enough to be visibly matted to his forehead by sweat. Or that his t-shirt, sleeveless, displayed his biceps and triceps, and those muscles looked thick and round when he was at rest but like coiled pythons when he went into motion and they activated.

When the head coach blew the final whistle to conclude the practice, the players jogged or sauntered, each in his own style, off the field and back to the fieldhouse. I followed McBride with my eyes, then, after the field had cleared, headed to the general manager’s office.

“He’ll come by after he’s showered. There should be plenty of time. He usually stops at his condo before heading over to the hotel for 5 pm check-in,” the general manager informed me.

I nodded and we waited. The general manager excused himself as he checked email and attended to papers at his desk.

After a little while, players could be heard speaking loudly, going down the corridor along the general manager’s office, out into the parking lot to their vehicles to go and do whatever they do in the few free hours before they were required to check in to the game-night hotel.

There was a knock on the general manager’s door. It was not a loud knock. It was almost tentative.

“Come in,” the general manager said.

The door opened.

With a duffle bag in his hand, a young man, a little taller than me, entered. He wore khaki slacks, a polo shirt with Pioneers logo, and a baseball cap, backwards. Through the open collar of the polo shirt, a thin gold chain was visible around his neck, hanging down his pectoral muscles. He wore reddish-brown leather boots.

“Brendan, this is Dr. Xenopoulos.”

“Hi, I’m Brendan,” the star running back introduced himself.

“Hello, Mr. McBride,” I returned the greeting, “How do you do?”

“Umm, I’m okay. Mr. Seldman asked me to meet with you.” McBride referred to the general manager by name.

“Yes,” Seldman confirmed. “It’s just that Dr. Xenopoulos has an impressive record walking players through their, you know…”

“Problems?” McBride completed the thought.

I noticed that with that word, McBride’s oddly diffident tone acquired a touch of something else. A touch of surly teenager. I narrowed my gaze.

“Well, yeah,” the general manager said. “It’s not that there’s anything really that far off track, Brendan, but we thought, maybe, it would help to talk things through with a professional before we’re too deep into the season, and…”

“So he’s a sports psychologist?”

“Basically, yeah, he…”

“Works with guys who are messed up in the head…”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘messed up.’ It’s just…”

I spoke up, interrupting the irresolute flow of the two men’s conversation:

“I hypnotize guys. It makes them better.”

Now, I’d waited until that moment to speak, because a conversation, like an individual, has lines, rhythms, patterns, and openings. Inserting my words at the right time, when the opening was right, my effect was maximized. The general manager and Brendan McBride stopped and looked at me. Neither spoke.

“You have a game tomorrow, and so I won’t take much of your time today. Hardly any time at all. We are going to chat, say, ten or fifteen minutes, twenty max, then we may meet again after the game. Mr. Seldman, may Brendan and I have your office to ourselves for a little while?”

The general manager blinked, looking a bit dazed. “Umm… Is twenty minutes enough?”

“Yes, twenty minutes will be fine. But I’ll tell you what:” I checked my watch. “Leave us here until 9.30, and then we will meet here again, Monday morning.”

“Okay,” the general manager agreed, in a rather docile way, and left the room.

I told you earlier that one of the secrets to my success as a sports hypnotist, contracted to help the top professional athletes in the country, has been keeping everything on the down low. Quiet and professional. Another secret to my success has been keeping to my lane. I don’t swim where I’m not supposed to. The way my work goes, I usually get approached by somebody like the general manager of the Pioneers. And a guy like that, when he calls me, wants a fix, no new complications. That said, I’m not past using a bit of hypno-suggestion to move things along. All in a strictly professional way. Like moving the general manager out of his office, making him dazedly accede to my preference that he let us use his office, rather than having to use some physiotherapist’s room or something. Maybe it’s not strictly in my lane to manipulate the general manager like that, but I only do things like that once a job’s been contracted, and never for any purpose except to get the job done.

Now turning to the job at hand, I settled my attention on Brendan McBride

“Mr. McBride, please have a seat.”

The running back sat.

I pulled a chair from in front of the general manager’s vacated desk, and I positioned it facing my new subject. I went to the windows and drew the blinds. I returned and sat in the chair.

Changing tone and presence, I spoke casually now. “So you’re definitely right if you think sports psychology can be a whole lot of b.s.”

The star running back gave me a slight, crooked smile and a shrug.

“And I’m getting paid here, whether or not you get any better,” I half-lied. As I’d reminded the general manager, I get paid, but only my expenses, if the subject doesn’t improve.

“But, because we’re here, and you’ve agreed to spend a little time with me, let’s just try something.” I got up out of the chair, went to the light switches, and turned off the lights. With the blinds drawn, only a few rays of the midmorning sun entered the room. It was otherwise dim and shadowy now. I pulled out a pen lamp and clicked it on.

“Like I said, I hypnotize guys. From your game clips, I can see you know full well what it means to be focused. You’re perhaps the most intensely focused man I’ve ever seen on a playing field. Hypnosis is merely a state of focus. I’d like, for just a few minutes, to see how you look when you are in the state of focus that you enter when you are at your peak, when you are coiled and ready and primed. You don’t have to do anything to enter that state of focus, just draw your eyes to this pen lamp. Good.” He was already doing as I said.

“Now focus your gaze at the light, and imagine to yourself that the light is the sole and only thing that matters in your field of vision, in your train of thought, at this moment in time. Once you settle your gaze on the light… good… at the same time, I want you to form an image in your mind’s eye. The image is of the same light that you see in your open eyes right now. So you stare at the light, and inwardly, in your mind’s eye, you focus on another light, a light of your imagining, in the inward part of your mind.”

Without being bid, McBride was breathing nicely, steadily, and his eyes did not waver from the light.

“You can always do this, you can always see the image in your mind’s eye that I instruct you to see. Any image. Whatever image I tell you to see. It’s simple. And it’s easy. Now, as you continue to see the light inside your mind, and as you continue to focus on the light that I hold in my hands, you will begin to notice your breathing. Your easy, gentle breathing. And as you breathe in, you will find yourself beginning to form a word, inside your mind, a simple, easy word, and that word is FOCUS. You will feel that word—FOCUS—every time you breathe in. And the clarity and strength of that word will grow with your every breathe. Calmer, easier, and deeper. As you breathe in, and… FOCUS…”

Already, the star running back displayed the telltale slackening of the jaw, the incipient outward sign of trance. It was hard not to be impressed. This is a suggestible boy, I thought to myself.

“Good. And as you continue to breathe, and FOCUS… you now find that as you exhale, another, simple, easy word begins to form in your mind… And that word is RELAX. In fact, with each release of breath, as you exhale, the word RELAX forms itself inside your mind with more and more clarity, more and more depth, until that easy, reflexive movement of your diaphragm, as you exhale, is practically the same thing as that word, RELAX.”

McBride’s breathing deepened. And his eyelids now hung heavily, practically covering his eyes. I continued in a soothing pitter-patter, pouring my words into the increasingly focused subject’s awareness. I also noticed the muscles of his neck and how, even there, the curves of his body, where the neck and shoulders meet, were graceful.

“With every breath you take, the clarity and depth of those words that form in your mind grows more and more. As you FOCUS… and RELAX… to the sound of those words in your mind, the only sound you need hear, as I speak to you, and that sound reaches deeper and deeper inside you, are the words I speak to you.”

I now was myself absorbed in the dual-track process of thought that I enter when I hypnotize a guy—speaking straight to his deepest mental recesses, while simultaneously I watch his every move, every subtle signal of what he’s feeling, how he’s receiving my words, how deeply he’s falling. Speaking on one track—watching, observing, absorbing his reactions on the other track. And this boy’s reactions were perfect.

“In fact, Brendan, in a moment, you’ll find you can just focus… and relax… completely… into my words… and there will be only my words, and only the rhythm and sound of my voice, and your own thoughts, if any still enter your drowsy and restful mind, those thoughts just melt away and you focus… and relax… even more… on the thoughts I speak to you.”

His eyelids now fluttered, closing at times for a full breathe before fluttering some more and then closing again.

“In fact, Brendan, the more you listen to my words, the more my thoughts, the thoughts I speak to you, become your thoughts. The more my ideas, Brendan, become your ideas. If you agree with these words, Brendan, then, slowly and gently, nod your head.”

He nodded.

“Good. Now, Brendan, as you continue to listen, and breathe and focus and relax, you will find it easier and easier to agree with my words because, after all, your thoughts are mine now, and my thoughts are yours now, and the space between your ears now fills with the sound of my voice, and the sound of my voice is now the sound of your thoughts. If that’s okay, and that feels good, then, slowly and gently, nod your head.”

Again, he nodded.

“Good. Now, Brendan, you will hear me in a moment count down, from the number 10 down to the number 1. With every number I say, you will feel the drowsy, contented feeling that you now feel, grow deeper and drowsier and even better, as the contentment, the ease, the relaxation in you grows more and more. Nod your head, because you understand.”

Compliantly, he nodded. It was a movement strangely like his diffident knock at the door and his initial words when entering the office a short while ago. Not the surly teenager, but the respectful, attentive young man, mindful of his place, ready to do what he’s supposed to.

“Counting now, 10… Deeper into focus and relaxation… 9… deeper into contentment and ease… 8… breathing easily and deeply… 7 … deeper and deeper… 6… focused on my words… 5… focused on my voice… 4… only my voice in your mind now… 3… very restful, very deep… 2…. and ONE… SLEEP DEEPLY NOW.”

As I spoke these last words, I reached out with my arm, and firmly but gently placed my hand on the already-half-tranced athlete’s forehead, and pulled him into hypnotic oblivion.

“Goooood,” I said with a soothing drawl.

“Brendan, from now on, whenever you hear me say the words, and only when you hear ME say the words, TWILIGHT FALLS ON THE DESERT HEIGHTS… you immediately will enter this deep, relaxed state of focus. When you hear me, and only me, say the words TWILIGHT _ FALLS _ ON THE _ DESERT HEIGHTS… you immediately enter deep, deep hypnosis. WHEN I SPEAK THE WORDS… twilight falls on the desert heights… your mind goes blank, empty, and open. When you hear me say those words, and only me, then you, Brendan McBride, enter deep… hypnotic… trance…”

“Also, Brendan, you will find, after we have finished here today, that you will be eager to meet and sleep like this for me again. You will feel a deep, eager yearning, to hear the sound of my voice, and to respond to those words again. And every breath you take, deepens those words, and deepens the truth of those words, as you open and accept how good it feels when the TWILIGHT FALLS ON THE DESERT HEIGHTS… and you sleep… and you OBEY…”

The second track of my mind—that part that monitors what’s happening, that keeps this internal self-conversation of mine running even as I hypnotize a subject—on that track, a surprised feeling hit me. I’d not planned to induce this guy to need more hypnosis. It was not part of the drill. He was a professional subject. This was a professional meeting. But there it was: I’d just programmed Brendan McBride to need hypnosis. To feel a deep… eager… yearning… for me to hypnotize him.

Surprised at myself, the other track of my inner dialogue snapped to attention. This was a professional job. And I was going to get the job done. I resolved to get myself back into my lane.

“Now, Brendan, as you sit and sleep and obey, I want you to find in your mind that point in time when you had your best game ever. A game so perfect, so right, that everything in the universe was perfect and right. And, your mind might have found that game already, or your mind might still be searching, but the best you have performed, the best you have felt, that is the game, the time, the feeling that will enter your mind, and the feeling of that game, of that time, will grow more real and more intense, in a moment, because, in a moment, I will snap my fingers, and, as you will discover, when I snap my fingers, the reality, the intensity, the depth and the truth of that feeling, that feeling of absolute perfection, that truth and that feeling will grow much, much stronger. When I snap my fingers.”

My fingers snapped, loudly. Brendan took in a rapid breath.

“Good. Now…” «SNAP!!»

“As I snap my fingers again, that feeling will grow even more intense, and more real… and more present… and deeper and more truthful…”

«SNAP!!»

“Good. And even more now…”

«SNAP!!»

“And even MORE…”

«SNAP!!!»

Oh fuck, I thought to myself. He’s enjoying this. It was not just that he was responding. It was the way he was responding. Yes: he was responding that way. The way it sometimes takes me an hour or more to get a guy to respond, when it’s not a professional job I’m doing. How I want a guy to respond when it’s for fun. For play. For SEX. I knew the signs when I saw them, and I didn’t even have to move my eyes down the star running back’s torso to his open-thighed crotch to see that the trance was arousing him.

Stay in your lane, my watchful inner second-track told me.

“Your mind now has the perfect image. The perfect game. The absolute perfection of your strength and focus. You feel it. You remember it. Let that image gently reach through every part of your being, and as it fills you, as it takes hold every space and cell of your mind and body. And as it takes over, as you feel that perfect game take over, understand this, Brendan: when I wake you in a few moments, you will have no memory of any other experience since that time… since that game… since that perfection… Except for the bare essentials that you NEED to remember—where to go tonight to the hotel… what your game plan is for tomorrow’s game—who you play for—who your coaches are—who your teammates are—Other than those essentials, all the intervening facts and experiences and distractions, everything else since that perfect game, will be erased. Gone. Inaccessible to your conscious mind. You see, Brendan, I’ve taken you back. Back before whatever has started to bother you. Back before whatever has complicated you. Whatever has distracted you. And there, back there, is where you will stay until after tomorrow’s game. From this moment, until the final whistle of tomorrow’s game, you have no memories, no thoughts, except of that moment when all was right. When all was flawlessly, impeccably, perfect. Nod your head if you understand.”

He nodded. And he squirmed and stretched and breathed deeply. Now I did run my eyes down the length of his body. Even in khaki slacks, his hips and thighs looked powerful, ready.

Up until this point, I had mostly kept to my lane. The suggestion about craving hypnosis—that was a minor slip. But I’d gotten right back to doing what I was being paid to do. Even that minor slip, that was a rarity. In every professional engagement I’d ever carried out as a hypnotist, I’d never slipped any farther than that. Thinking about it right then, I realized, actually, I’d never slipped even half that far. Almost as a matter of professional pride, I chided myself inwardly: back into your lane, I heard my inner voice remind myself.

In front of me, his legs splayed, head tilted back, mouth agape, Brendan McBride breathed out relaxation.

And all the subtle but unmistakable signs of deep, inner pleasure radiated from every inch of his body

“Good, Brendan. You understand. Now, in a moment…”

In a moment? Are you gonna just leave it at that? You fixed his gameday problem, and you did your job. But, come on, man! Look at him! He’s INTO it!

No fucking way. It’s not the job. It’s not what I do. I make things right. And that’s the end of story…

I had never enslaved a professional subject, and I was resolved not to start. My job was to help teams with their player problems. To help teams like the Pioneers. With problems like their Brendan McBride problem…

…like their thick-thighed, wasp-waisted, wide-shouldered, python-armed, tranced-out and hypno-oblivious Brendan McBride problem…

Did I mention his lips? How about the dimples on his cheeks?

I swallowed hard.

“Good, Brendan. Now, one last thing. Before I wake you, it’s important for these ideas to sink in even deeper, for the perfection of that perfect game to soak down to the deepest parts of you. I’m going to help you with that, Brendan.”

Fuck yes. I’m going to help this boy. I’m going to help him GOOD…

“Like all men’s minds, your mind responds to pleasure. Your mind seeks that which feels good, right, and pleasurable. And the most intense pleasure, the deepest feeling of pleasure that your mind feels, is the pleasure you feel when you climax. When you reach sexual climax. It’s that moment, Brendan, that you will feel when I count you up, when I count from the number ONE up to the number TEN… with each number, you will feel a mounting feeling of pleasure inside you. You will feel a growing, expanding wetness, a growing, expanding need for release, and when, finally, you hear me say the final number, the number TEN, Brendan, you will in fact release. When I next say the number TEN, Brendan, you will CUM.

“Nod your head, if you understand and accept.”

He nodded.

“Good… Good boy…”

“And one more thing…” My voice now entered a new register of authority, of command.

“After you cum, you will have no way to cum again, not today, not tomorrow, not the day after… You will be UNABLE to cum… until you submit again to the sound of my voice. Until you accept again my suggestions and my instructions. After you climax for me here, as you will soon, you no longer own your sex. You no longer own your climax. Your sex belongs to ME. You cum only if I command you. Nod your head if you understand.”

He nodded.

“Now beginning at the number ONE…”

“In the deepest, sleepiest state of pleasure…”

“Two… fluttering in your solar plexus, that pleasure announces its expanding, growing need…”

“Three… accepting the perfection of the perfect game…”

“Four… allowing all intervening distractions, all memories of distress or worry … to DISAPPEAR…

“Five… the pleasure growing…”

“SIX… feeling the awareness of NEED intensify inside you…”

“Seven.. the perfect game… impeccable focus…”

“EIGHT… urgent, wet, and needful…’

“NINE… more now… readying to peak, to flow, to CUM… and…

“Ten.”

With a start, as if jolted awake from a dream, Brendan McBride sat bolt upright, eyes wide. And in that first instant of wakefulness, as he stared forward his eyes locked on mine, and he let out an intense, guttural sound of release.

“Unnhhh!!!”

And then again, this time sounding surprised and at a higher pitch. “Unghhh!!”

And then a final, third, quavering moan. “Unnnnnn….”

The tension flowed from his body, as a patch of wetness spread across the middle and left inside leg of his trousers.

The subject sat in front of me, now slumped slightly in his chair, looking dazed. After a moment, he spoke, his voice cracking slightly at the first syllables.

“W…was… that okay?”

I smiled, in spite of my own, slightly flustered, state of mind, wishing to recover my professional demeanor. “You tell ME. Was it okay?”

“Umm… Oh, fuck.”

He looked at his crotch. The damp blotch darked the fabric there.

I addressed him again, this time with direction, “Tell me, Brendan: How did that FEEL?”

“It felt… good,” he said, compliantly.

“Good. That’s the way it’s meant to feel. Now you have to get going. Use your duffle bag to cover your crotch. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a normal experience. It means that your innermost mind accepts the instructions that I gave you in trance. But I appreciate, if you were to run into somebody in the parking lot, or going into your condo, you might find it… awkward. Go home. Change into something… dry. Then report to the hotel. I will see you Monday morning, after the game.”

“The… instructions…” Brendan repeated those words and stared blankly.

“Yes… the instructions. You don’t need to think about them. You will simply obey.”

“Y…yes. Thank you.”

“Go now.”

“Y…yes, Sir,” said Brendan McBride, and then he rose, picked up his duffle bag, picked up his baseball cap, and left.

Perfect game

“Third down and 9 yards to go on the Crescent Bay 35 yard line, just under two minutes remaining in the fourth quarter. Mountain City, with one time out remaining…”

I listened to the television announcer’s play-by-play through a headset as we watched the field from the team owners’ box. The teams were returning to the line of scrimmage. It was Mountain City trailing by four. And Brendan McBride had already carried the ball for his season-best performance—114 yards rushing, 66 yards receiving, 2 touchdowns.

And now all eyes were on the line of scrimmage.

“There’s the snap. Mountain City QB Chaz Reynes drops back to ass. The Crescent Bay defensemen read the play, moving in on Reynes… Mountain City offensive line in the pass block, pushing defenders to the outside…

“It looks like… Yes! It’s the draw play! Reynes hands off to McBride! McBride drives up the middle! Crescent Bay’s Jefferson Tidewell turns, but too late, he misses the block! And McBride’s got an open field!!! McBride’s going all the way!!!”

Everyone in the owners’ box was on their feet now cheering. The star running back, flawlessly executing his part of the draw play, had just carried the ball into the end zone. With less than forty seconds remaining, and now with a two-point lead, Mountain City runs down the clock. Players are coming out onto the field, and the television announcers are wrapping up their commentary.

“And in his third season with Mountain City, number twenty-three Brendan McBride shows them how it’s done!!”

“That’s right, Cal,” the color commentator chimed in. “The start of this season was, to be honest, a little rocky for McBride, but what we just saw today puts any doubts to rest…”

I took off the headphones and stepped away to the back of the box, as celebratory hugs and fist-bumps continued among the management and owners and hangers-on.

Nobody pays my much heed, which is precisely as I want it, until the general manager comes over.

“Well, whatever you said to him yesterday doesn’t seem to have hurt!” the general manager spoke grinning from ear to ear as he slapped me on the back. “Come on. Let’s go down and see the team.”

We headed out among the throng of fans exiting the luxury boxes and took the elevator down. A line of cops cordoned off the passageway to the locker room, and the senior officer waived the general manager and me and the rest of the owners’ entourage through.

The locker room was raucous. There were shouts, and hollering, and laugher.

“He ain’t just pretty! He can RUN!!!” one of the other backs was exclaiming.

“YO!! Brendan!!”

Hoots and hollers erupted when McBride made a little fist pump. But that’s about all he did, before turning to his dressing area.

After he’d undone his shoulder pads and slipped them up and off, he stood in a sleeveless white t-shirt, those arms hanging at his sides as he stood up straight and his eyes met mine. The crooked smile.

“Hey, Doctor!”

I stepped closer to him so we could hear one another over the noise of the locker room.

“W…was that alright?”

“Yes,” I replied. “That was good, Brendan. That was very good.”

The crooked smile turned to a grin. The boy was happy.

“You’ll be doing your post-game routines, and so I’m going to get out of your way. Here’s my card, so you can call me directly. When you need to.”

He took the card.

“Thank you, Sir. Thank you very much,” he said.

He was grateful.

“It’s what I do,” I replied. Then lowering my voice and locking eyes with him, close, I concluded, “You will be calling soon.” And I turned and made my exit.

Back at my hotel, I pondered where things had gotten to. The therapy did its work. Brendan McBride’s game-time performance was a major improvement. He’d been his former, focused, perfectionist self on the field all four quarters.

Moreover, he’d acknowledged why it was he’d gotten back in the groove. He’d acknowledged that it was because of my hypnosis.

But what about the other part of our short session? You know—that part? I had every reason to believe that that part also had sunk in. Sometimes, some instruction in trance sinks in, but other instruction does not. Even in the same trance session, you’ll find that a subject soaks up one command like a perfect sponge, but another command just washes over him and doesn’t have any effect. The thing is, my other instructions to Brendan McBride had definitely had effects. Wet, orgasmic effects, which had been plain to see yesterday in the general manager’s office right at that moment when, as commanded, the star running back had risen up out of trance and creamed his trousers. Now, the question was, whether the rest of my instructions—my very unprofessional, not-in-my-lane instructions—had also sunk in.

The question was, could Brendan McBride cum without my command?

I slipped off to sleep, having set an alarm for an early start. I’d be checking in on my subject back at the Pioneers’ training facility Monday morning. I looked forward to seeing him.