The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I don’t know, man. It’s 9 o’clock on a Friday. That’s prime real estate.”

“Yeah, I think there’s supposed to be a kegger at Sigma Tau.”

“It’ll be over by like 11, tops. The party’ll just be getting started.”

“I don’t know, though, dude. They had a hypnotist at my post-prom and it was pretty lame…”

“Yeah, but it says ‘X-rated!’”

The trio of freshmen shuffled off, still debating amongst themselves. I finished tacking my tutoring advert to the cork board and continued down the hall, past the bustle of students rushing home or to activities following their late-afternoon classes. All week I’d been seeing flyers for the campus hypnotist show and eyeing them warily—I’d been steadfastly opposed to the idea, and had said as much during our Student Programming Board meeting on the subject. The whole thing had been suggested for our childhood leukemia fundraiser by Ryce, the board chair, who said he’d seen this guy at a club and his show was a riot. As for me, I took a pretty dim view of the topic: not that I knew a ton about it, but I’d always gotten the impression hypnotism shows were just about tricking people into making buffoons of themselves. I definitely didn’t believe that when you got up there you became a total zombie, but just like bad decisions at a kegger, it struck me peer pressure probably had a habit of cajoling the unsuspecting into doing stuff they might not otherwise feel comfortable about. Of course, college is famously a time for making bad decisions, but something about the whole vibe just didn’t sit right with me. In the interest of fairness, I’d looked up some of the hypnotist’s videos online—his name was Michael Martinez—and it seemed like his shows tended toward the raunchy. He had a number of signature routines like making a guy (or guys) moon the audience, giving girls handshake orgasms, and making pairs of male volunteers strip to their underwear and pose together like porn stars, all of which seemed at best distasteful and at worst sexist and homophobic.

Not that I was used to being the prude. I’d gotten involved with Board because I wanted to see more new and diverse programming on our generally strait-laced campus. Historically we’d just had stuff like a Fall Formal, Winter Ice Skating, Casino Night, etc. After some pushing, I’d managed to rally people around more diverse programming in a number of regards: things like a Diwali Party and Eid Festival with some of our minority student unions, plus stuff like a drag bingo night, Pride Month foam party, things like that. Those types of events had won me a (pretty unfair, I thought) reputation as “Captain Smut” from some of the more uptight of the board, but IMO that was horseshit. I just wanted to see some more cultural representation and diversity reflected on our campus.

I might not be the kind of guy you’d expect to lead the charge on these things. I it I’m pretty mild-mannered, generally soft-spoken, with an appearance that’s unassuming: with a skinny-to-average build, glasses, and a style that tends toward casual button-ups and sweaters, I probably don’t come off as the kind of guy seeking attention, but underneath I like to think I have a pretty fiery sense of rectitude, something that’s served me well everywhere from Debate Club to College Democrats to, yes, the Programming Board. With elections coming up at the end of spring, I was hoping to nab the chair spot for my senior year, after Ryce had graduated, and then maybe I’d have some further pull to put the kibosh on this sort of nonsense. As it was, this time I’d been outvoted following a pretty stirring defense of “let’s try something new” from Ryce. His enthusiasm honestly came as a surprise to me, since as our resident Big Man on Campus, he hardly seemed the type to be caught dead at a hypnosis show. With broad shoulders, a killer smile and a penchant for tailored jeans and leather jackets, he was pretty much everything I wasn’t—which is to say, used to winning arguments on charisma rather than substance. Unsurprisingly, he’d managed to come out on top of the debate, leaving me standing there awkwardly as the lone holdout, a rare instance where I was the one playing stick-in-the-mud.

Having finished the four-block jaunt back to my small apartment off-campus, I climbed the steps to the second floor, unlocked the door and slipped inside. Typical of a late Friday afternoon, all around me on the way home people were bustling about, getting ready for some event or other to fill their evening. I had contemplated taking the bus to the city to catch a movie, but ultimately opted for a quiet night in. In some weird way, I was still licking my wounds about this whole hypnotist thing, and while it probably would have been better to just go out and do something else to get my mind off it, for some reason my instinct was to stay home and sulk while watching TV.

First thing’s first, though. Tossing my satchel on the bed, I slipped out of my pants and posted up at my laptop, firing up PornHub. I didn’t really have anything in mind, but was just kind of poking around for stuff like “gay romantic,” “gay lovemaking,” etc. (I know—I’m such a softie), when I was interrupted by the abrasive jangle of my buzzer. Bewildered because I pretty much never had anyone actually ring my bell, I waited a minute, trying to decide if I should ignore it, before it buzzed again. Sighing, I hopped up, grabbed a pair of lounge shorts, pulled them on and jogged to the door.

Pressing my eye to the peephole, I was shocked to see Ryce standing there in one of his custom jackets, distorted by the lens. I couldn’t quite tell as I squinted, but it looked like someone else was with him.

Pulling the door open, I was startled to see my Programming Board cochair flanked by none other than his star performer. Immediately I felt butterflies: I’d been trying to avoid even thinking about this huckster, and now Ryce, someone I had literally never interacted with outside our professional relationship, had brought him to my house? I didn’t even know Ryce knew where I lived!

“Ryce… what’s up?” I stammered, both caught off guard by the extra visitor and, if I’m being honest, also just intimidated having a guy this fucking hot outside my door.

“Hey, Jonah. Mr. Martinez just arrived for tonight’s show—”

“Please, call me Mike,” the guy interrupted, patting him on the shoulder.

“Mike. Mike showed up early and I was gonna take him to the Union to get set up, but given what went down at the meeting, I wanted to bring him by to meet you so you could be sure things wouldn’t get out of hand.”

“Ryce here tells me you have some… reservations about my act,” the older (and by older I mean like… late 30s) gentleman smiled.

“I mean… not really, it’s just… a few things I don’t think are great for… It’s just not my cup of tea…” I mumbled, for some reason suddenly terrified to articulate what I’d been arguing for so vociferously just a couple months back. Now that I was suddenly in the position of denigrating someone’s livelihood to their face, it felt… well… rude… Besides, by this point, the matter was settled. I was just trying my best to ignore it.

“I really want to assure you no one in any of my performances is made to do anything they don’t want to do. I’m not in this business to embarrass people. I just want everybody to have a good time,” smiled the man.

I shook my head. “Really, no apology necessary, you’re just doing your job. Ryce, I’m sorry if I seemed more heated than I meant to. Really, there’s no problem—”

“I’d love to just have a quick chat about your reservations if you don’t mind,” continued the man, unusually having pretty much taken over for Ryce, who generally played top dog in any social interaction.

“I… If you want…” I sputtered again. Time was moving in slow motion. What was I doing? I didn’t want to invite these people in—there was no reason to—but somehow, it just seemed rude if I didn’t. If I had insulted this guy’s career, I felt bad about that. I’d been arguing against something purely theoretical in the meeting.

“Can I get you a water or anything?” I asked once the two had crossed my threshold.

“Oh no, I’m quite fine,” said the guy. He made his way to the couch, and Ryce sat beside him. Closing the door, I shuffled over and took the springy Ikea armchair next to them.

“This really isn’t neces—”

“I just figured you had the wrong idea about this whole thing, and it might be better if I brought Mike over and you could see he’s a good guy,” interrupted Ryce, suddenly taking charge again.

“Oh, it’s not like that. I’m sorry if Ryce gave you the impress—” I started apologizing again before Ryce interrupted:

“I wanna level with you, man: when I was at the club, I didn’t just watch the show—I was in it. It was wild. I just thought it was so cool and I wanted other people to be able to have that experience, you know?”

That stopped me in my tracks. I had always thought hypnosis was kinda woo-woo, and Ryce certainly didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to go for it. But then, looks could be deceiving. If he had some experience that meant something to him and wanted to share it, who was I to judge? I was an atheist but still advocated for the Diwali and Eid parties. Different things had meaning for different people.

“Hey, I get that,” I replied, trying to sound sincere—since I was. “You know, I probably have some pre-existing biases about the whole thing anyhow. Thanks for helping me check myself,” I offered. Not that that the one comment had me entirely convinced, but I had reconsidered my position, and honestly, I more than anything just wanted this whole awkward situation over.

“I don’t wanna be weird or anything, but I was kinda thinking maybe Mr. Mar- Mike, could do a quick demonstration on me, just so you could see.”

“Really, it’s fine. I so appreciate the consideration of you coming over, but it’s all good. I’m sure it’s gonna be a great show, and we’ll make a ton of money for the Children’s Leukemia Foundation—”

“Your friend really is an excellent subject,” the man interrupted. “I think it could be transformative if you just take a few moments to see what he can achieve with a bit of focus. I know to laymen these acts just seem like making someone bark like a dog, but when you’re in the hot seat, so the speak, it can feel incredibly vivid.”

The guy’s voice was smooth and firm, calm yet persuasive. I was starting to see why he’d entered his field—with his mellifluous tone, he did seem like he probably had the ability to talk almost anyone into almost anything.

“I mean… I don’t…” I stammered, trying to make it clear I wasn’t interested in volunteering.

“Don’t worry, no audience participation required,” he smiled. “Your friend here was very kind to offer himself up as a test case. But then, it does seem like he enjoys it,” he smiled. Ryce nodded, almost a bit sheepish—a look I’d never seen on him before.

All of a sudden, I felt the butterflies again, stronger this time, and a gnawing in the pit of my stomach. The longer this man was here, with his nicely pressed vest, warm smile, close-cropped hair and well-trimmed goatee, I was starting to realize, to my horror, that he was kind of hot. I didn’t generally have any interest in seeing their demo, but all of a sudden, to my shock and amazement, a little voice in the back of my head started whispering that maybe seeing him take control of a guy as sexy and confident as Ryce might be kind of… no, really… hot?

“Al… alright,” I choked, trying vainly to sound normal.

“Why don’t you get the light?” smiled the man.

I rose, wandering back by the door and flipping the switch, plunging my living room into dusky late-afternoon shadow. As if in a trance (maybe his magic was already working…), I shuffled back to my chair. This was surreal. Fifteen minutes ago, I’d been rushing through the door to rub one out, and now I was about to watch the head of our Student Programming Board get hypnotized on my couch live for an audience of one (or maybe two, depending on the investment of Mr. Martinez).

“Very good. We want a nice, quiet environment. The key to hypnosis is relaxation, so I want you to just close your eyes, Ryce, and think right back to that place you were in several months ago. You’re up onstage in the club, and despite the crowd, all that laughter, all that commotion, they fell a million miles away. As a matter of fact, when you were there with me, you probably imagined you were somewhere quite like this… somewhere quiet… cozy… safe and warm… Somewhere you could relax your inhibitions and just get comfortable. Just get comfortable now and breathe deeply for me, Ryce. That’s it… In… and out… In… and out… So safe and warm… So nice and comfortable right here…”

I gulped again, my eyes fixed on Ryce. Here was the guy every woman on campus was drooling for, who every gay guy jerked off to imagining him blowing their back out their eyeballs, and he was seated on my couch, in his designer boots and leather jacket, eyes closed, with an older professor type whispering softly in his ear… hand on his shoulder… so tender… gentle… intimate… Almost… romantic. My eyes were glued to Ryce’s throat, his chest… watching the steady heaving of his stout frame… watching it slow… rhythmically… I could almost feel the relaxation radiating from his body. It was palpable how sensuous it was, watching the man guide him down… down… down… Without even realizing it, I had no idea my breath had slowed to match his, that I was breathing right along with him, in… and out… in… and out… as the guy kept up his whisper. On and on he went, talking endlessly about what a great subject Ryce was… how he wanted to go so, so deeply under to provide a great demonstration of the incredible pleasures of hypnosis. So intent was my gaze upon Ryce that I think I even forgot to keep blinking at a certain point, and in time my eyes started to itch, to water, as the handsome man just kept going on and on. I watched in dull amazement as Ryce’s head lowered to his chest, rising and falling almost imperceptibly with the gentle rhythm of his breath. He seemed so relaxed. It was incredible. I could have sat there all day, just watching his chin rise up… and down… up… and down. As a matter of fact, I’m not entirely sure how long I did sit there, transfixed, watching the sensuous induction of my friend into what for some reason I just kept thinking must be a “profound, profound state of relaxation.” And at some point, when I wasn’t even thinking about it, I guess my eyes must have closed, the image of Ryce still seared on my retinas, as I drifted off to him, deeper… and deeper… and deeper…

“Well, man, you feel better about things now?” Ryce asked with a grin after the demonstration.

“Yeah, dude! I’m sorry, I was being totally silly about hypnosis. Man, watching you, I can really see why it must feel so incredible. It was like you were a million miles away, petting a bird, or catching bubbles, or even driving a racecar.”

“VROOOM! VROOM VROOM!” Ryce yelled, reaching up and pantomiming like he was twisting and turning a steering wheel in front of him. The hypnotist and I cast a knowing glance at each other and smirked, since he’d left Ryce with a few simple triggers as part of the demonstration.

After about ten seconds, Ryce blinked and put his hands in his lap, apparently none-the-wiser as to what he’d just been doing.

“I’m just glad you could be more open-minded about it, Jonah,” Ryce said, strangely stifling a chuckle.

“Uh, it’s Whiny Little Bitch,” I corrected him. I must’ve looked like someone Ryce knew from somewhere else, because he constantly had this habit of calling me Jonah during meetings. Ryce smiled and cast a sidelong glance at the hypnotist, who returned a smirk. What the fuck? Were the two of them doing it on purpose?

“Seriously, you’re always getting my name wrong. It’s really disrespectful, Ryce,” I emphasized, deciding if he was going to insist on being a prick, I might as well push one of the other buttons the hypnotist had left him with.

“Dude. My name’s HypnoBoy. You know that.”

“I’m sorry. You must look like someone else,” I grinned. This time it was my chance to make eyes with our special guest. He shot me a knowing look.

“Well, I’m just glad we were all able to work this out,” smiled Mr. Martinez, patting me on the knee. “It’s really nice to be able to clear the air.”

Face going blank, Ryce rose, turned his back to us, bent over and lowered his jeans, sticking his bare ass out a mere foot or two from me and the hypnotist. As I said before, looking up some of this guy’s routines online, this was one of the acts I had most objected to—it seemed really demeaning and degrading, particularly in some of the shows when he would make another volunteer kiss it. But sitting here now, with our BMOC’s glorious, stone-sculpted glutes mere inches from my face, I was starting to think maybe the routine wasn’t so bad. After all, pretty much any other gay guy on campus would have killed to be in the position I was right now. I broke out into a grin and laughed: “I didn’t know you gave him that one!”

“Oh, that’s Ryce’s signature. We could barely keep him in his seat at the club,” the hypnotist chuckled, as Ryce hiked up his tight jeans and plopped back on my sofa, none the wiser.

“Yeah, I’ve always thought it was really important to do a bit of spring cleaning,” Ryce replied, not skipping a beat. I grinned. I don’t know if he was trying to make some kind of clever remark, but the joke was on him.

“Jonah nose how to keep things nice and tidy, don’t you, Jonah?” asked the hypnotist, patting me on the shoulder.

Despite his conviviality, I felt a pang of annoyance: “Hey, man, it’s Whiny Little Bitch. We’ve been over this.” Apparently Ryce’s bad habits were rubbing off.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he smiled, adding, “Just realize what you’re doing with that finger right… now,” as he snapped.

I blinked, suddenly noticing I was wrist-deep up my nose.

“Oh… god!” I blushed, unable to believe what I’d just been doing. I clapped both my hands in my lap, then felt something wet on the back and looked down, realizing with disgust my exercise shorts were covered in a spackling of boogers.

Ryce burst into laughter, rolling around on the couch.

“Wait, what the hell… Did you do something to me?” I asked in shock, looking back up at the hypnotist.

“Don’t worry about that now, just focus...” he said, snapping his fingers right in front of me, and suddenly it was like my gaze was locked there, my mind wiped empty, zen, not even aware it was awaiting instructions.

“Give Ryce your hat and go put on your baseball cap in the bathroom,” the hypnotist said gently, then snapped his fingers again. Without even thinking about it, I was off, rising from my chair, pulling off my hat and tossing it to Ryce on the couch. Striding down the hall, I quickly found the bathroom, grabbed my baseball cap from next to the toilet, positioned it over my head and pushed it down a few times, trying to get it to stick, then finally just settled for holding it there, quickly exiting back into the hall, the top of my hat catching on the upper molding of the bathroom door with a loud thwack. Returning to the living room, I noticed Ryce on the couch with what looked like a pair of my underwear on his head, rolling around with laughter as I stepped in.

“Have a seat, Jonah,” the hypnotist smiled, patting my chair.

“IT’S WHINY LITTLE BITCH!” I exclaimed, starting to get really frustrated and sending Ryce into fresh gales of frivolity.

“It certainly is,” the man chuckled, before snapping in my ear and stating firmly: “SLEEP.”

The soft rush of the warm water felt so good across my face and scalp. I leaned back, allowing it to rinse all the suds out of my hair, flowing down my shoulders as Ryce’s strong hands ran a bar of soap around my back.

“That’s it, HypnoBoy, really work in that lather, get her nice and clean…”

I wasn’t sure where that voice was coming from, but I didn’t care. I turned around under the spray, my half-hardened dick brushing against the firm, warm thigh of our BMOC.

“Very good, Whiny Little Bitch. Now get HypnoBoy’s back too.”

Ryce ed me the soap and I began to rub it over the firm, stout muscles of his shoulders until I had worked up a nice lather. Setting the soap in the tray, I rubbed the lather ‘round, blocking the spray of the water with my body, concentrating on getting suds in every nook and cranny of Ryce’s glorious frame. Squatting, I continued to massage the soap in, moving down Ryce’s waist, taking my time to enjoy myself as I rubbed the suds over his taut ass and legs. For some reason, it felt like I’d been near here before.

“Very good, Whiny Little Bitch. Now lean down and let the water rinse it off…”

I did as I was told, allowing the warm stream to carry most of the soap off Ryce’s body.

“Now turn around, HypnoBoy. Your girlfriend’s going to make you feel good…”

Ryce turned, and suddenly I was face-to-face with his impressive, pendulous member. Like mine, his too was jutting out 45 degrees, hot water gushing off the end in an alluring river.

“Why don’t you give it a suck, Whiny Little Bitch. Unless there’s some reason you’d find that… problematic,” the voice sneered, though despite its condescension, I couldn’t see any issue. I was in my shower with my boyfriend, whose cock was chubbing after we’d just spent five minutes washing each other’s backs. What was there to object to?

Leaning forward, I wrapped my lips around the head of Ryce’s cock, taking a good half of it into my mouth and sucking it gently. Ryce groaned and leaned his head back, his dick inflating further. I wrapped my lips around it tighter and sank down, beginning to slide back and forth rhythmically as his strong hand clamped against the back of my head.

“Mmm, if only I could do this in my show. HypnoBoy, you’ll blow when you’re good and ready, saying just what I’ve instructed. Whiny Little Bitch, swallow every drop.”

I had often been paranoid about swallowing cum—I’m not really sure why, since I looked up the stats and it was incredibly safe—but for some reason, today, it just felt right. I knew I was with my boyfriend and nothing could hurt me. I kept increasing the speed of my slurping, really working it, and it wasn’t long until Ryce was leaning back, groaning “I’m under the control of Master Hypnotist Michael Martinez!” as he pumped a huge warm load down my throat, his strong hand pressing me firmly into his neatly trimmed pubes. For my part, I gurgled, half in discomfort and half in ecstasy, swallowing every delicious drop.

“All right, you two… You’ve done a great job cleaning each other. Now step out, dry off, and get dressed so you can get ready for the show.”

Rising again, I turned off the water and reached through the half-open shower door (why the heck had I left it open?) grabbing a couple towels and handing one to Ryce. After we dried off, we tromped out to my bedroom—both buck naked but totally comfortable—and slipped into our clothes, returning to the living room and taking our seats. The second my butt hit the couch, I slumped forward, arms resting on my thighs and head dropping down, focusing on taking deep, steady breaths as I sank into oblivion…

Ryce and I remained on the couch for a while. For some time, I was aware of a familiar voice—a strong voice, a trustworthy voice, a powerful voice—leading us through exercises meant to guide us deeper. First, I imagined myself at the top of a long staircase—50 or 100 stairs, I can’t —taking each step down, whispering “Deeper and deeper,” doing it again and again, until at last I reached a wonderful bed at the bottom where I could collapse into a comfortable sleep. I the voice telling me to notice the twitching of my eyes behind my eyelids—sign that I was in an incredibly deep trance. Then, I it telling me my wrists had been tied with helium balloons and were floating up to the ceiling. Up and up they rose, almost unreasonably fast, and the voice left me dangling there, nearly yanked out of my chair by the balloons, until it cut the cords and sent me even deeper. Then it told me to count backwards from 1000 and continue starting over whenever I lost my place. I have no idea how many times I did so, but by the end, I was just murmuring “one… one… one…” over and over, unable to even get out the first number.

After that, I was vaguely aware of a form sitting between me and my friend. Sometimes, it would speak to him, sometimes it would speak to me, and sometimes to both of us. The way to tell was when we felt its firm, wonderful grip on our shoulder. When I felt that touch, there was nothing more resounding in the world than the thunder of its voice; when the touch disappeared, the words were meaningless, a million miles away.

I don’t everything the voice said, or in what order, but I do many of the things it told me, some of them repeatedly. It told me I was extremely susceptible to hypnosis, and that I enjoyed the process immensely. It told me nothing felt better than submitting to a man’s hypnotic control. It told me the process of submitting myself to another man was the most erotic thing I could imagine, and that I felt absolutely wonderful when I was being used by another man for his pleasure—particularly while under hypnosis. The voice told me that when I awakened, I would little of what I did today, but that I had witnessed a fascinating demonstration of hypnosis on my friend, and I would be intrigued to see more and experience it for myself. It told me I would attend the X-rated hypnosis show on campus tonight, and that I would be eager to volunteer. It told me I would sink deep, immediately, and make myself useful for a very entertaining show. It told me I wanted to see tonight’s charity event go off without a hitch, and that one of the best ways to do so would be to volunteer, to ensure people were onstage who were committed to the performance going well. It told me I would lose any and all inhibitions under hypnosis, that I would carry out any and all commands immediately and flawlessly. It told me the things I would do onstage tonight—and from now on—were irrelevant to me. The only important thing was that I was submitting to the command of the voice, and making its owner happy. The voice told me that as much as I loved being hypnotized, I would want to share the experience with others. The voice told me it was vital I run next year for the Student Programming Board and ensure that the hypnotist was brought back for numerous performances. My greatest desire was to see that as many young men at my school as possible could have the chance to be hypnotized—and of course, that I could have the opportunity to be hypnotized with them, repeatedly and in front of an audience. The voice repeated that when I awakened, I would feel rested and refreshed, nothing, and believe I had just witnessed a fascinating demonstration of hypnotic phenomena. The voice told me when I awakened, my friend would offer to let me to borrow his jacket to wear at the show, and that even if it was a bit oversized, I would accept it gladly and be sure to wear it without fail, as it felt very good being hypnotized in a nice leather jacket. The voice commented that it would be interesting to see our style switched up—I wasn’t quite what it meant by that. The voice said that at the count of ten, I would awaken, all memory of this afternoon fading but being sure to carry out its every command. The voice counted me up slowly, interjecting between each number that I was rising as though out of the depths of the ocean, slowly but inexorably toward the surface, that I had gone so deep we had to be gentle taking me out, letting my consciousness rise back. The voice got to ten and snapped its fingers. After a long moment, I opened my eyes.

I blinked, staring at Ryce as he came to. Wow. This sure had been some afternoon. If you’d told me the campus all-star was going to be sitting on my couch, giving me a demonstration of hypnosis with the headliner at our student union, I never would’ve believed you. I can’t say anything that happened was too insane—the guy had mostly led Ryce through some simple exercises, like imagining he was in a racecar, changing his name, etc. But watching him go through all those motions, watching the emotion play out so powerfully on his face, had convinced me something incredible was happening. A hypnosis show itself may rely on silly routines and hacky jokes, but I could see from what Ryce went through how it could also be transformative, akin to meditation or religious ecstasy. I felt bad for how harshly I had judged the subject before, purely on its bells and whistles, and, in all honesty, I was now quite curious to watch the evening’s performer in action. Besides, I mused, this guy was so hot, I could almost see there being something sexy about letting him manipulate you.

“How are we feeling, Ryce?” the man asked gently as my friend came back around.

“Good…” he blinked, still trying to get his bearings but looking genuinely happy. “Damn, that felt awesome,” he followed, cracking his neck and bursting into his megawatt smile.

“Good. I’m always glad to hear it,” the hypnotist smiled, patting Ryce on the shoulder.

“Damn, Ryce, that was incredible. Thank you so much for showing me. I’m really sorry about everything I said. Hypnosis is awesome!” I gushed, while trying my absolute best to sound genuine. I really meant it! It’s far too rare someone comes along and changes your worldview.

“I think we’d better get going, we do have a show to put on,” the hypnotist smiled, rising from my sofa. “Jonah, it was a pleasure,” he added, extending his hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine, seriously. I’ll be there tonight, with bells on!” I grinned, grabbing his hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Hey, speaking of which… why don’t you borrow this?” said Ryce, shrugging off his designer jacket and holding it out to me.

“Sure. I’ll get it back to you next board meeting,” I said, grabbing it without even thinking. After I did, I briefly wondered why he was offering such an expensive item to me, and, even more so, why I had immediately accepted. It was a cool jacket, but not at all my style.

“All right. Hopefully I’ll see you later, Jonah. I believe Ryce may be otherwise engaged,” the hypnotist smiled, clapping me on the back while he ed. Ryce followed, unusually meekly for a guy of his confidence. The hypnotist opened the door and the two slid out, leaving me alone.

Walking back to my room, I tossed Ryce’s jacket on the bed and slipped out of my jeans. Wait… hadn’t I been wearing shorts? I looked over and saw them hanging on the edge of the hamper. When had I thrown them there?

Logging back on my computer, I could barely contain my excitement for the hypnotist show, but since I had a bit of time to kill before I needed to leave, I figured I’d finish what I started. Hauling out my dick, I logged back onto PornHub and sat for a moment, browsing my recent search history and thinking about what I wanted. For some reason, I just wasn’t feeling “gay romantic makeout” or any of the usual. After a moment’s thought, I typed “dom daddy latin” into the search bar and started browsing. A lot of the hits were way too hairy/bearish for me, but eventually I found a guy who was more around middle age—twice my age almost!—but still really hot, muscular and masculine and confident, with a firm, commanding voice that made me shiver. He had a shaggy little twink on all fours in front of him, and was plowing him from behind, making him say “Thank you, daddy!” firmly each and every time he took a thrust. When the guy reached forward and grabbed a handful of the boy’s shoulder-length hair, yanking his head back as he jammed himself to the hilt and nutted, I sprayed so hard I coated my t-shirt in jets of cum, then lay back panting in my chair for several minutes.

When I arrived at the show, most of the crew was surprised to see me, given the reservations I’d expressed before. The thing was nearly a sell-out, but I told them I’d had a change of heart and, since no one had yet been itted, asked if I could be set up with a reserved seat front-and-center to check out the performance. Once the crowd started to come through, the auditorium filled up quick, and I was heartened to see so many people had made the time to come out on a Friday night for childhood leukemia, even though there were plenty of other things to do around campus. I vowed that next year we would get the room to capacity—maybe even book a bigger venue like the main auditorium on the quad. While I hadn’t seen the show yet, I was confident this was something I was going to want to ensure as many of my peers experienced as possible. For some reason, I was just sure it was going to be transformative, and part of me quivered with excitement waiting for the performer to take the stage.

The time finally came, and after a brief introduction, Mr. Martinez strode into the spotlight, a commanding and handsome presence that sured all my expectations. When he called for volunteers, without even thinking about it, I was off like a shot, racing up the steps and into the row of seats as they filled with eager participants. Once the crowd settled down, Mr. Martinez paced back and forth in front of us, telling the audience—and, by extension, the volunteers—how wonderful and fascinating an experience hypnosis could be. I couldn’t wait.

After he started his induction, I sank deep, and I sank hard. The heavy bulk of Ryce’s leather jacket helped pull me down, so my whole torso sagged, body melting into my neighbor, some Indian guy I vaguely recognized from my Calc class. I had no idea I had such an aptitude for hypnotism, but based on what everyone told me after, I was the star of the show. I don’t any of it. I just the hypnotist’s voice, and how good it felt to follow it, to sink into its warm and steady rumble, to give myself over completely, to feel the absolute ownership of a hand on my sleeping shoulder. Occasionally, a sharp snap would echo through the speakers and I—and maybe others, sometimes all of us—would briefly raise my head. A song might play, and I would leap out of my chair and dance. Perhaps a sound would be heard, and I would be on my feet, screaming at the hypnotist or one of the volunteers about something—what I can no longer , but at the time it seemed important. Sometimes, something as simple as a single phrase might be said, yet I would be turning my back to the crowd, dropping my pants and showing my bare ass to a room of 300 strangers, or dashing up to the microphone to say something totally obscene and degrading. A few gentle words could be spoken into my ear, and I would find myself marching behind the curtains, helped by an assistant to change into panties, fishnet stockings, and a feather boa to perform a lap dance on male of the laughing crowd. At the end of every routine, I would return to my seat, sometimes pantomiming shock and other times simply shuffling back where I’d come from, yet always quickly guided back into rest and subservience by a soft voice and a firm and steady hand. And then, anything I might have done was irrelevant. All that mattered was sinking deeper and awaiting the next instruction.

After a few weeks, the furor from the show subsided around campus and it largely faded into memory. Except for me. I followed Mr. Martinez obsessionally, ing as many photos and videos from his shows as I could—including my own. It was funny watching what I and the others had done, but honestly, the videos I looked at most were the ones of the induction, or the moments when he ed among us, instilling the commands. I longed to be there again, with others, sinking deeper into submission, and next year, when I replaced the newly-graduated Ryce as Student Programming chair, I did everything I could to ensure Michael Martinez was brought back not once, not twice, but every quarter of the year. It was the least I could do for my fellow students: if even one of them learned to enjoy hypnotic submission half as much as I had, it was money well spent.

Sometimes, I reflected wryly on how uptight I’d been when I’d first heard about Mr. Martinez and his show. Sure, some of the routines may have been raunchy, but people were free to make up their own minds, and participation was totally voluntary. I was just happy I had been open-minded enough to try it for myself before causing too much trouble. As it turned out, Mr. Martinez’s show was good clean fun. And it sure was funny when he made that guy from Calc kiss me on the ass!