A Wager
z119z
© the author 2015
"So the bet is that the loser will donate $5,000 to a charity chosen by the winner, the time limit is one month, and you get to pick the subjects and set the task?"
"Yeah, let's see if you can make good on your boast."
"I wasn't boasting, just stating a fact. Let me work on someone for a month and I can make him do anything. Not just do it, but want to do it and do it willingly and with enthusiasm."
"Yeah, you wish. I can already see you writing the check."
"Ha! No way. Now, what do you want me to do?"
"Nothing complicated. I'm going to send you two men. One is a top, and the other a bottom. All you have to do is reverse their preferences. Four weeks from now, if the bottom is fucking the top, you win. If he isn't, I win."
"Piece of cake."
"Wait until you meet them."
"What are you going to tell them? It's no challenge if they know what's going on."
"I won't let them in on our bet, if that's what you're asking. Each of them has an `issue.' I'll tell both of them that you're going to help them deal with their problem. I'm not going to let you know what the problem is or you'll start planning what to do now. You have to begin with as little to go on as possible and then reverse their polarities in four weeks."
"Are they gay? And do they know each other? It makes a difference if they're already in a relationship"
"I'm not going to tell you. You said you can make anyone do anything within one month. You have to start from scratch—just as you do with one of your bar pick-ups. A month is all you have."
"OK. Send them over. The four weeks starts from the first day I see them, right? And they'll be available to me several times each week so that I can work on them?"
"They can start tomorrow, if you like. As for how often they're available, I assume a skilled hypnotist like yourself will have no trouble making them show up as often as you like."
Hillman smirked at me as he made that last remark. I didn't let him get any satisfaction from it. "Nah, that won't be a problem. A couple of sessions and they'll be begging to see me more often. I was just concerned that they might have other commitments, jobs or whatnot, that would keep me from meeting with them three or four times a week."
Hillman raised an eyebrow and shook his head to let me know that he wasn't buying that. "Four weeks, James, you've got four weeks." He pulled up a calendar on his phone and said, "Let's see. I'll send them over tomorrow to have their first sessions with you. So one month, is Saturday, March 19. By no later than 11:59 p.m., you will show me the bottom fucking the top."
Hillman—Dr. J. Hillman Walters, to give his full name and title—and I have a long history. We've known each other from our undergraduate days, since the first meeting of the honors discussion group for Psych 101. I arrived before Hillman and was already seated when he arrived. Hillman paused in the doorway and looked around. Our eyes met. He smiled, I smiled back. He sat down in the empty chair next to me. I introduced myself. He introduced himself. We shook hands. Hillman had a firm, dry handshake. As I would soon discover, he was firm all over, but not as dry. We had casual sex from time to time our freshman year, but it never developed into anything more serious. Sex between us was a matter more of a mutual mood coinciding with propinquity than of an active desire for each other. Both of us moved on to other relationships, but we have remained close friends since that first meeting twenty years ago.
As you might guess from the exchange recorded above, there is a certain degree of competitiveness in our friendship. Hillman isn't the type to let anyone best him. Sports, crossword puzzles, tests, skills, income, cars, even square footage in our respective domiciles—it doesn't matter. He wants to come out ahead, and he does not take losing well. For some reason, I especially trigger his need to be first. If he comes in second to me, he immediately wants a rematch or searches for something that he is better at so that he can flaunt it in my face. He just won't let go until I admit that he's superior. If he has to spend months trying to win a particular contest, he will.
We were both psychology majors as undergraduates, but thereafter we chose different careers. Hillman went on to get a medical degree and become a psychiatrist. I went to law school. Psychology isn't the worst preparation for an attorney. I'm the house counsel for a large investment firm, and much of my work involves negotiations. Psychology plays an important role in those. I like my work, and I think I'm good at it. But my real interest is hypnosis, and I know I'm good at that.
Hillman and I meet once or twice a month for dinner. The night of our wager I had been talking about a recent success with hypnosis. Eric, the young man in question, had been eager to please. His mind became so malleable. He saw what I told him to see, he heard what I told him to hear, he was what I told him to be. He was totally convinced that he was living in the fictional reality I constructed for him. Hillman, as usual, claimed that both Eric and I were engaged in a folie à deux. We had deluded ourselves into thinking that hypnosis worked, when in truth it was nothing more than a convenient meeting of desires. I had done nothing more than give Eric permission to be the dog of his fantasies. Hypnosis simply was not capable of brainwashing a person and convincing him that he was something other than what he was.
I vigorously argued the opposite—that my skills as a hypnotist had transformed Eric's view of himself. "Hypnosis," I said, "is just a matter of creating links in the subject's mind between the behaviors you want to encourage and pleasure, or conversely creating links between the behaviors you want to discourage and pain. It's not a matter of convincing the subject that he is something he isn't, but of rewarding him for behaving in a desired way. Think of it as an accelerated process of socialization. He's learning to desire the rewards for behaving as you want him to behave and to avoid the punishments for not behaving in the right way. Think of the links you are creating as control rods. They are simply a means of eliminating resistance and encouraging submission. That's all."
Hillman shook his head in disbelief. Hillman hasn't always been so negative about hypnosis. When we were undergraduates, he made a study of the subject. I think my interest in hypnosis and my experiments with it piqued his interest. As I said, we've always been competitive, and in the wake of my first successes with hypnosis, he wanted to show me that he was better at it than I was. We used each other as subjects. I was so confident of my abilities that I bet him I could make him perform an act that would embarrass him publicly before he could do the same to me. I even let him choose the act. In what we later came to refer to as our "pissing contest" (well, to tell the truth, that's what I call it), Hillman decided that the winner would be the first of us to get the other to wet his pants in public.
I came out on top of that contest. I used his desires against him and made him an offer he couldn't bring himself to refuse. He couldn't help himself. He gave in so that he could get the reward I was dangling in front of his imagination. Hillman stood on the steps on the library at noon, on a warm, sunny day, just as the sidewalks and stairs were crowded with people and let off a great shout to attract everyone's attention. Part of my programming of him had given him a raging thirst that morning. In his mind he was emptying a bladder swollen with many, many cups of coffee. He was experiencing a great victory as well as a rush of relief from relieving the strain on his bladder. The reward was that he was aiming the stream of urine at the face of a person he hated. In reality, he was pissing his pants. In the scenario playing in his mind, he gave a final shake of his cock as he finished and exulted as he watched his piss drip from the other person's face. At that point, he awoke to discover that the front of the crotch and legs of his pants were sodden with piss and that an amused horde of people were cheering him on.
He's never forgiven me for that. Maybe that's what turned him against hypnosis. I don't think he's ever gotten over it. Of course, I'm too much of a gentleman to remind him of it—at least not too often.
When I woke up on Saturday the morning after our dinner, I found a text from Hillman waiting for me when I checked my phone. He had arranged for the first man to arrive at 11:00; the second man would be there at 3:00. I was curious what sorts of problem he would send me. I knew he wouldn't make it easy for me.
The Giant arrived at 11:00 on the dot. When I opened the door, I found myself staring at the man's chest. I had to take a step back to look up into his face.
"Um, Dr. Walters . . . um, Dr. Walters sent me. He, ah, told me to be here at eleven." The Giant spoke in a whisper and avoided looking me in the eye. His entire posture betrayed that he was uncomfortable. When I opened the door wider to allow him in, he turned to one side and glanced longingly down the street. His body language betrayed his desire to flee.
"Please come in. I've been expecting you." I felt that I had to say something just to persuade him to enter. "I'm James Creighton. Please call me James." I held out my hand. He looked at it as if he were unfamiliar with the notion of shaking hands. After a pause of at least five seconds, he gingerly copied the motion and raised his hand, but kept it close to his body. I had to reach across the gap and grasp it. He didn't return the pressure of my hand and made no effort to cooperate in the handshake.
"And you are . . . ?"
"Oh, um, yeah, I'm . . . my name is Peter . . . Peter Fyodorowich."
The remark was addressed to the air over my head.
"I'm pleased to meet you, Peter. Why don't we go into my office and you can tell me a bit about yourself, just to get started? It's back this way. Watch your head. This house was built in an age when people were shorter."
What I didn't say was that many houses, even ones far newer than mine, would have doors too low for Peter, not to mention too narrow. Peter had to be at least six feet eight. He towered over my five ten. Eye level for me was mid-pec for him. As we moved into the narrower hallway that leads to my office, his shoulders brushed the walls. He was walking four-five feet behind me, yet I felt his bulk as a physical weight pressing against me. It was a strange sensation. I felt as if I had suddenly shrunk.
When we entered my office, I sat in the chair behind my desk. Peter stood just inside the door, looking around uncertainly. I don't know what Hillman had told him was going to happen, but my first impression was that he was wary. Later, after I came to know Peter better, I realized that uncertainty characterized his approach to all the objects and people he encountered. His lizard brain opted for flight over fight every time.
"Please sit down." I pointed to the only other chair in my office. Peter reacted to the notion of sitting cautiously. He touched the back of the chair as if assessing its solidity and its sturdiness. Perhaps he had a point. I could imagine that chairs sometimes collapsed under the weight of his body. I wouldn't have trusted some of my mother's antiques to support him. My office chair must have met his test, because he sat down—very gingerly on the edge before carefully easing his body back so that his full weight rested on the seat. It was not until his fourth visit that he felt confident enough that my office chair would bear his weight that he allowed himself to sit down without this preliminary ritual of testing.
"Can I get you something to drink?" I swiveled to my right and opened the door of the small refrigerator behind my desk. I pretended to take stock of its contents. "I have water and apple juice. Or I can make coffee or tea, if you'd like."
Peter quickly shook his head no.
"It's no trouble. Some water perhaps." I took out a bottle and set it on the desk in front of him. It was important that he get used to me as someone who gave him orders and made decisions for him.
Peter picked the bottle up. More, I guessed, because he needed to give himself something to do than because he was thirsty, he twisted the cap open and pulled up the nipple. He drank about half the bottle. He still was not making eye contact with me. He seemed fascinated by the wall behind me.
I pulled out a yellow legal pad and wrote the date and his name at the top. "Fyodorovich—is that f-y-o? And do you spell it v-i-c-h or v-i-t-c-h?"
"It's. unh, w-i-c-h."
"Oh, sorry, w-i-c-h." Peter probably doesn't know how sexy his pronunciation of "w" is. He's blind to the impact he has on others.
"Now, tell me about yourself. I can see that you're a bodybuilder."
Peter nodded yes and resumed his examination of the wall behind my head.
"How long have you been bodybuilding?"
"Fifteen years."
"You must have been quite young when you started."
"I was thirteen."
I wrote down "Age 28" on the sheet of paper.
"Why did you start?"
He shrugged his shoulders. For a few seconds, the movement pulled the loose sweatshirt he wore taut across his chest, confirming the existence of bulging, well-rounded pecs. I'll be the first to acknowledge my complete lack of acquaintance with bra sizes, but if Peter wore a bra, he would need at least an M cup.
I waited for him to answer. He finally got the idea that he had to supply more information. "I was kinda small. The other kids bullied me and made fun of me because I was so skinny. So one of my uncles—he's a bodybuilder too—got me started."
"Well, you've obviously been very successful."
It would make very tedious reading to reproduce my laborious conversation with Peter. Every detail had to be extracted from him with multiple questions and much prompting from me. Not even the mild relaxant in the water that he was drinking helped him to speak more freely or let his guard down. It became apparent that that skinny boy still ruled his mind. No matter how much he worked out, no matter how large he grew, he was still that child running from the schoolyard bullies. Bodybuilding as a form of compensation for insecurity and a poor self-image wasn't working for Peter.
"Did Dr. Walters explain to you why he sent you to me?"
"He said that you would help me overcome my shyness."
That was news to me, of course. Hillman had been singularly unforthcoming about the problems of the two men he was sending to me. But Peter needed reassurance, and I needed to project confidence in my abilities to change him. "Yes, over the next few weeks, we will work on that. I'm going to give you some exercises—visualizations, role-playing games, that sort of thing. They'll help. Have you ever been hypnotized?"
He shook his head in alarm.
I gave him my standard lecture about the benefits of hypnosis and my usual spiel about how safe it is. Like many people, Peter had exaggerated notions of how much control a hypnotist can exercise over a subject. I hastened to dispel them (without, of course, admitting that in my case there was good reason to suspect the hypnotist's powers). My lecture didn't do much to reassure him. He was still nervous and suspicious.
But I sensed a certain docility in him. Peter was the type who responds well to authority. I opened the large drawer in my desk and pulled out the VR helmet and walked over to him. I stood behind him and lowered the helmet into place. "Today, we'll start with some easy relaxation exercises. There is a learning curve in hypnosis. The program in the helmet will train you to relax mentally." I adjusted the fit by tightening the strap under Peter's chin. "In a second I'll turn it on. Just set back and relax. It will take about half an hour." I switched the helmet on and stepped away.
Like most first-time users, Peter's initial reaction was to sit up and move his head to follow the action on the screens before his eyes. He soon began to relax, however. The drug in the water helped make his mind receptive to the ideas flowing into his eyes and ears. He slumped down a bit in the chair and began taking deep, slow breaths in an out. The program had the intended effects. He actually smiled at me when I unstrapped the helmet.
"That was nice. It wasn't what I was expecting."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm going to give you a smaller version of the helmet to use at home. You'll need to use it twice a day. It's best to use it first thing in the morning and then last thing at night. Will you do that for me?"
Peter nodded his head yes. When I handed him the home unit, he thanked me. He looked glad to have it.
"Of course, you can use it more than twice a day if you like. It will work even better then." I could tell Peter was going to become addicted to the helmet very quickly. "Bring the helmet with you each time. I'll load a new program onto it every time we meet. Now, let's see." I consulted my calendar. "Is 7:00 p.m. on Monday OK for your next visit? Good. . . . Well, I think we have made real progress today. I'm looking forward to working with you, Peter."
He smiled at me and held out his hand for me to shake. This time he wasn't so tentative about making contact. His hand was warm, and his grasp was firm. He felt good about what had transpired and was looking forward to more—exactly as the program had trained him.
The three o'clock appointment couldn't have been more different.
First, he didn't show up on time. I would quickly learn that that was typical behavior for him. It's a way of asserting his independence and dominance. If he keeps the other guy waiting, then he is the superior. That Saturday, he didn't bother to apologize for being late. In fact, he didn't even mention it. As soon as I opened the door, he pushed past me into the hallway. "You Jim?" was all he said. He took off his topcoat and handed it to me. "Here. Hang this up. Carefully—I don't want it to crease." While I was doing that, he examined the hallway, pausing to assess each piece of furniture, each picture, the color of the paint on the walls, the Turkish carpet in the foyer, and the finish on the staircase. He touched one of the picture frames and tilted it slightly. "I can't stand pictures that hang crookedly. It shows a lack of concern and care. I hope this isn't a sign that you're going to waste my time."
"And who are you?" Two can play these games.
"Hillman sent me. He seems to think you might be able to help me. We'll see."
"Help you with what?"
"You mean you haven't read my file yet?" He jabbed a finger at me. "I expect people to prepare for meetings with me." He straightened his tie as he muttered to himself, "I knew this was going to be a waste of time."
"Dr. Walters didn't send me a file on you. I don't even know your name."
"Christ. What a fuck-up! I thought he was reliable. Didn't he tell you anything?" The man shook his head in disgust. "Well, I'm here now. I spent an hour getting here—the idiots on the streets these days—I swear half the people on the road don't know how to drive. It doesn't help that most pedestrians haven't mastered what the colors on stoplights mean. And then I couldn't find a parking space nearby. I had to park two blocks away and walk here." Apparently the lack of on-street parking was also to be charged against me. "It would be a waste of my time to leave now. I can give you—" He pushed back the cuff of his shirt and consulted a watch "—an hour."
"Why don't we go into my office?" I pointed to the door at the end of the hallway.
The man nodded and led the way. He paused inside the doorway and looked around. I got the impression he was debating whether to take the chair behind the desk and then invite me to sit in the visitor's chair. In the end he settled for moving the visitor's chair a few inches back to a position that satisfied him. Moving my furniture about was another way of asserting dominance.
I was still standing in the doorway waiting on him to get settled. From my point of view, he disappeared when he sat down. He was so short and small that his head did not extend above the back of the chair. Later he told me that he was five feet six inches tall. I didn't bother to dispute him about that, but I'm sure four feet ten is closer to the mark.
I sat down behind the desk. The man crossed his legs and steepled his hands, resting his chin on his fingertips as he inspected me.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" I opened the small refrigerator behind my desk and peered in. "I have water and apple juice, or I can make coffee or tea."
"I'll take a decaf latte."
"I don't have an espresso machine. All I can make is a standard drip brew. And I don't have decaf. I don't see the point of it. Why drink coffee without caffeine?"
He curled his lip at me. "Then I'll take a water. Sparkling if you have it."
I handed him a bottle of water. He examined the label and then sneered at it before twisting off the cap. "A glass—if you have one."
I reached behind me and took a glass off the low shelf by the refrigerator. I think it disappointed him that I could give him a glass without getting up. He would have been happier if I had had to run to the kitchen to get him one. He splashed an ounce or so of water into the glass and took a small sip. He rolled the water around in his mouth as if he were sampling a wine in a restaurant. He shrugged. The water passed muster—at least, he was telegraphing to me, it would do. Clearly I had nothing better to offer him, and it would be futile to attempt to educate an idiot like me. I half-expected him to tell me that I could fill his glass, but he did that for himself.
I pulled out a yellow pad and wrote down the date and time. "What is your name?"
He kept me waiting for the answer. "John Smith will do for now." He thought he was being clever.
"OK. John Smith it is. And what is your problem, Mr. Smith?" Other than the fact that you're an asshole.
"A so-called judge gave me a choice. If I have anything to do with it, he won't be re-elected. He said I could either spend three months in jail for assault or I could see a psychiatrist about my `anger issues.' It wasn't really a choice. I agreed to the counseling. It took me three tries, but I finally found someone who isn't a complete idiot. Although I may have to revise that opinion."
"You're referring to Dr. Walters?"
Smith scowled at me. "Yes."
"And what triggers your `anger issues'?"
"Some people make the mistake of misjudging me. I don't like that." The thought of how people treated him made him angry. He took a long drink of water.
"Misjudge you because of your stature?"
He scowled at me. Clearly his height was an issue. "Yes." For the first time, he broke eye contact with me. Any mention of the source of his anger was unwelcome.
"We can work on that by redirecting your feelings."
"We can work on that." He aped my voice. "Yeah, right."
"Have you ever been hypnotized?"
"I wouldn't waste my time. It's total bunk. Is that what you're offering me? Hypnosis? Christ." He rounded off the dismissal by emptying his glass and refilling it.
I smiled at him. I had handed him a bottle containing a double dose of relaxant. I continued to ask him questions. He gradually grew more cooperative as the drug took effect. When I pulled the helmet out and put it on him, he didn't resist. He emerged an hour later looking satisfied. The drug had insured his susceptibility and openness to suggestion.
"Tell me your name."
"Robert Chambers."
"Good. We're making progress." I gave him the take-home version of the helmet and told him to report back to me on Tuesday evening.
Hillman can be a devil. He knows me too well. It's one disadvantage of an old friendship, especially when one of the partners is a psychiatrist.
My type sexually isn't a set of physical characteristics. It's a combination of physical and mental characteristics. I like men who embody combinations that run against expectation. Men like Peter Fyodorowich who combine gross physical size and musculature with meekness and small men like Robert Chambers who are assertive and domineering. It's the unexpected twist—men one would expect to be tops who are bottoms, and vice versa—that excites me.
Hillman knew that he was tempting me. He knew that I was capable of turning Peter into a top and Chambers into a bottom. He also knew that I wouldn't want to do that, that my instincts would be to use Peter and to have Chambers use me. Would I go for the money and change them or would I go for the sex and let them stay the way they were? That was the dilemma Hillman was posing me. And I knew the bastard was sitting at home mentally picturing what had happened and enjoying my quandary.
By midway through the second week, I had established firm control over both Peter and Chambers. The taped programs that each listened to several times a day on the helmets had instilled triggers that sent them into a light trance as soon as I spoke the words and made it possible for me to hypnotize them quickly and deeply. Both were responding well. I knew that I would be able to reprogram both of them long before Hillman's deadline.
Peter in particular was becoming more relaxed around me. He had come to enjoy our sessions. I made sure of that. Just being in the same room with me sent a light buzz of pleasure throughout his body and mind. He also learned to trust me enough to be willing to talk about himself and open up about his sometimes crippling shyness. (I was treating his and Chambers's problems as well as preparing them to help me win the wager. It was the least I could do to reward them for their participation.) In the first week of his training, Peter always wore loose sweatpants and a zipped-up sweatshirt. His clothing didn't hide the fact that he is huge—no clothes could do that—but they weren't revealing. On his fourth visit to my house, while I had him in a trance, I suggested that he felt comfortable enough around me to show more of his body. I included a similar suggestion in the program I loaded into his helmet that day.
The next time he showed up at my house, he was wearing his usual physique-hiding sweats. But when we reached my office, he asked. "Can I take my jacket off? I'm a little warm today."
"Sure. Make yourself comfortable." I busied myself arranging the papers in his file. If I treated his request as normal, so would he. Nonetheless, it was all I could do to keep from staring.
Peter was still shy enough that he turned away from me as he unzipped the sweatshirt and removed it. Underneath his jacket, he was wearing a red, sleeveless, scooped-neck tee shirt. From the first time I saw Peter, when he was standing on the steps leading up to my front door, I had known that he was well developed. To be honest, I had even Googled his name, hoping to find some images of him. To judge from the number of photographs available online, as soon as the biceps begin to bulge, the first thing any guy developing his body does is to post pictures of himself. I could find none of Peter, however. The complete absence of pictures made me even more curious to find out what he looked like under those loose sweats. Each visit revealed tantalizing hints of just how large he was. Frankly I was feeling frustrated, and I may have pushed Peter prematurely to reveal himself. But I was growing more and more desirous of seeing his body—I admit I was becoming somewhat obsessed with Peter.
And now he was sitting across from me, his arms and shoulders bared. His arms were incredible—hard, rounded, vascular. In most men the shoulder straps of the type of tee Peter was wearing would droop down over the shoulders. Not in Peter, however. The upper half of his pecs were so well developed that the shoulder straps of his tee stretched almost in a horizontal line between the flaring ridges of his trapezium muscles at the sides of his neck and the peaks of his pecs. Beneath the scoop neck the tee clung tightly to his pecs, so tightly that his hard nipples puckered the fabric. You know how in most men, even men as muscular as Peter, there is a wide groove between the pecs over the breastbone. Peter's pecs bulged so much that their inner edges came together in the center, obscuring the groove between them. As I watched, he moved, causing his pecs to bounce.
Now, pec bounces are one of my turn-ons. I couldn't take my eyes off his body. If Peter weren't so modest, I would have suspected that he knew that the motions of his pecs fascinated me, because he kept flexing them slowly, making the mounds swell and ripple. The movements pushed the tee shirt down even further, revealing more of his chest. Peter, of course, didn't guess at the effect he was having on me. He's so naïve and innocent that it wouldn't occur to him that I was finding his behavior erotic. I was so distracted that when Peter said something, I had to ask him to repeat himself.
I don't know how I got through our session. Later I couldn't recall much about it. I must have been operating on autopilot because, as he was leaving, Peter told me he thought that we were making real progress. I got some confirmation of this from his demeanor. Despite the cold weather, he didn't put his jacket back on when he left. I watched him bound the steps and stride off, confidently displaying that magnificent torso.
Peter's body made such an impression on me that I even dreamed about him that night. We were sitting in my office. Peter had just taken off his jacket and was sitting opposite me. He began to bounce his pecs slowly up and down. He said something to me. I didn't catch it and had to ask him to repeat it. "Doctor Walters told me to say mindwipe." Which is strange, because back in the day when Hillman and I were experimenting with hypnosis, "mindwipe" was the trigger he attempted to install in me to put me in a deep trance. Hillman had failed, but in my dream, I felt the wave of dazed relaxation sweep through my mind and body that for me heralds the onset of a trance.
"You like my body, don't you?" said the dream Peter. He leaned forward in the chair and pulled off his tee shirt. His nipples jutted out from the center of his pecs. They had to be at least three-quarters of an inch long. As happens sometimes when the pecs are so huge, the areole surrounding each of the nipples had stretched. Peter's were around two inches across.
The dream Peter made his nipples move in a circular pattern. It was like gazing at one of those spirals that hypnotists sometimes use to tire the eyes and draw a subject in. The dream Peter kept repeating "mindwipe" over and over. When he suggested that I would be more comfortable if I took my clothes off, I immediately undressed. He spread his legs apart and motioned me closer. I knelt between his outstretched legs and began licking his pecs. I buried my face between them, pushing my nose and lips into the groove. He flexed his muscles, and a wave of hard flesh imprisoned me. With my tongue I traced the outer edge of the muscle, savoring every inch of it. My slow oral exploration of those magnificent pecs eventually led to his nipples. My lips closed greedily around an erect nipple, and I sucked on it, pulling it as far into my mouth as I could. I was grunting with hunger. Peter held my head in the crook of one his arms and pressed it hard against his chest. His bicep flexed as he thrust the nipple further down my throat. He let me enjoy that nipple for several minutes before he guided my mouth to the other one.
Peter grew as excited as I was. He pulled me to my feet, grasped my buttocks in his hands, and pressed my groin against his pecs. His chest was smooth and as slippery as if it had been oiled, and my cock surged as it met the heat of his hard body. Peter grabbed it and pushed it into the groove between his pecs. Then he began to grind my cock between his pecs, while holding me tight against him chest. I couldn't draw back. Nor did I want to.
I couldn't stop moaning. I had never been that excited before in my life. I had no control over my body and was fast losing control over my mind. I couldn't help myself. All I could do was respond to Peter's—I have no idea what to call it. The phrase "pec fuck" doesn't begin to cover it. In a pec fuck the top rubs his cock between the bottom's pecs. But my cock was pinioned between Peter's pecs, and he was using them to stroke it. I wasn't moving. Peter was jerking me off with his pecs. It was far better than any hand job I had ever experienced.
It didn't take me long to cum. My cock was wedged tightly between Peter's pecs, and I shot my cum into the groove. Some of it spurted up onto Peter's neck and pooled in the hollow under his Adam's apple. When he released me, I fell to my knees and began licking my cum off his body.
It was a weird dream, but I have to admit that I enjoyed it. It's funny what the mind comes up with, isn't it? The next day, I kept recalling the dream over and over. I had to force myself to set it aside. I couldn't let my fervent imaginings get in the way of winning my bet with Hillman.
Robert Chambers was responding almost as well as Peter. He was making progress, and I was confident that I would have him ready in time. When he was in a trance, I had complete control over him. The effects of the trance lingered a little bit longer each time I brought him back to waking consciousness, but he still was somewhat resistant when he arrived at my place. From time to time there were flashes of the arrogance he had displayed the first time we met.
On the day following Peter's visit described above, I decided it was time to deal with the problem and lay it to rest. "Is something bothering you?"
Chambers took a long drink of the doctored water before answering me. "To tell the truth, I'm not comfortable with this whole idea of hypnosis. I don't like you messing with my mind. I worry that you're going to mindwipe me."
His use of the term mindwipe startled me. I guess it showed.
"Is that it? You're going to mindwipe me." The kid was smirking at me again. (It was hard not to think of Chambers as a child—his stature and his behavior shrieked petulant spoiled brat.)
That was twice in less than twenty-four hours, I had heard the term mindwipe. First from the dream Peter, and now from Chambers.
"You must have heard Dr. Walters use that term. I'm frankly surprised that he alarmed you about hypnosis, especially since he is the one who sent you to me in the first place."
Chambers didn't bother to answer. The drug was beginning to take effect. I quickly used his trigger to put him deep into trance and take him through his programming for that day. His behavior had improved considerably by the time he left. I made a note to myself to add a subroutine in his take-home program to delete his resistance to hypnosis. Chambers was going to become a vocal and enthusiastic proponent of hypnosis.
Maybe it was Chambers's use of the term mindwipe that set it off, but I had another sex dream that night—this time about Chambers instead of Peter. In the dream, Chambers was naked. I should explain that Chambers is not a dwarf or a midget. He is just a diminutive man. At that point, I had never seen his body. That didn't stop my imagination from supplying one to my tastes. The dream Chambers was finely muscled and had incredible definition. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body. He was small but very masculine and very hard—all over. He sat in my office chair and motioned me over. I crawled on all fours across the room and began sucking his cock. I felt myself slip into a very submissive mindset. I wanted to worship Chambers and to give him pleasure. His cock throbbed in my mouth. No cock had ever excited me the way his cock did. I was a complete slave of his cock.
When he stood up, I swiveled around, still on all fours, so that my ass faced his body. I lowered my upper body presenting my ass to him. He grabbed me by the hips and in one quick motion penetrated me, skewering me with his cock. He thrust his cock deep inside me and then grabbed me by the hair, pulling my head back. "You want it, don't you, bitch?" he snarled "You want to be my faggot, don't you, bitch?" He kept saying things like that, and I kept shouting, "Yes, Yes. Make me your faggot, Sir."
I was screaming with pain and moaning with pleasure at the same time. Chambers spanked my butt repeatedly, telling me, "Tighter, bitch. Make your asshole tighter. I want to feel your body want me, faggot."
He pounded me mercilessly, driving his cock deep inside me. I was soon reduced to guttural, primeval gasps each time he thrust into me. As he came, he pulled out and sprayed his cum all over my body.
The dream was so realistic and so exciting that I awoke to discover that I had cum in my sleep, my first nocturnal emission in almost twenty-five years. Oddly enough, my ass hurt, as if I had been pounded for real.
I enjoyed the dreams, but I couldn't let them affect my work with Peter and Chambers. I resolved to set them aside. Later after I had won the bet, I could re-enact them, this time with the real Peter and the real Chambers. I think I can claim to have behaved professionally during the remainder of my sessions with Peter and Chambers. It grew increasingly more difficult, however, to remain calm and focused around them.
No matter how much I vowed to control myself during the day, at night my libido was released in my dreams and I engaged in orgies of sex with the dream versions of the two men. Peter and I and Chambers and I and sometimes all three of us sampled every possible variation of sex. Interestingly. Peter grew more and more dominant, and I became more and more submissive, both to him and to Chambers. My dreams of Peter always began with the pec jobs, but in the new version of the dream, after I came, Peter grasped my hips in his hands and slowly lowered me onto his cock until the entire length was inside me. I buried my face in his pecs and licked and sucked and bit them as his hands on my hips slowly raised me up and down. After a few days, Chambers joined us. He pulled my head away from Peter and thrust his cock into my mouth. My mind grew empty. I was their cock puppet, my entire existence reduced to their pleasure.
I decided that once I had won the bet with Hillman, I would think more about what my dreams were revealing about my nature. For the moment, however, I had to concentrate on reprogramming Peter and Chambers.
On the evening of March 19, I couldn't resist arranging a little tableau for Hillman. I invited him for 8:00 p.m., four hours before the deadline he had imposed on me. When he arrived, I gave him a drink. We sat in my living room chatting for an hour or so. I purposefully kept the conversation away from our wager. I went on at length about my latest project at the office. My checkbook lay on the coffee table. Hillman must have thought that I had failed and was putting off paying him until the last minute.
Around 9:00, I casually said, "There's something upstairs that I need your opinion on. I've been thinking about remodeling the second bathroom upstairs, and you know more about that than I do. I'd really appreciate your opinion."
Appeals to Hillman's vanity never fail. He was only too happy to accompany me upstairs to advise me and set me on the right path. Of course, our destination wasn't my guest bathroom. Earlier, that afternoon, Peter had helped me move the furniture and set the stage in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. Having a muscleman available to shift heavy things about is a great convenience. Plus I had him strip down to a jock strap, and I got the benefit of watching him at work. We had removed the bed and the dresser and brought in two easy chairs, one for Hillman and one for me, so that we could watch the show that Peter and Chambers would put on that evening.
On the way upstairs, I chattered on about the types of changes I wanted to make in the spare bathroom. I was walking ahead of Hillman. I didn't pause in my progress down the hallway, but Hillman did. I heard him gasp as he passed the open door of the spare bedroom. I turned around in mid-sentence as if surprised..
I played the concerned friend "Hillman, are you OK? Is something the matter?"
Hillman stood in the doorway to the bedroom, his gaze transfixed. I joined him. "Oh, yes, this is the night I collect on our bet, isn't it? How could I have forgotten that? Well, I suppose we should get this out of the way. We have a small demonstration of the powers of hypnosis planned for you." I couldn't resist rubbing it in. "Let's see. It's 9:06. I believe you said I had until midnight to prove to you that I could turn a top into a bottom and a bottom into a top. It shouldn't take us that long. Why don't you take that chair? It will give you the best view."
Hillman couldn't take his eyes off the scene I had prepared. Both Peter and Chambers were naked and frozen in place. Chambers knelt on all fours before Peter, who loomed over him in the classic "most muscular" bodybuilder's pose. Well, not entirely classical. Peter's cock was erect and throbbing. (OK, it was a bit cheesy, but I couldn't resist.) Next to each other, Peter looked even larger than he usually does and Chambers even smaller. The contrast was unbearably sexy, at least for me. I couldn't guess what Hillman thought about it, although he was clearly entranced by their bodies.
I suppose he must also have felt some disappointment and dismay at my success. There had never been any doubt in my mind about the outcome of our wager, but Hillman must have thought he had a chance of winning, or he would not have risked another loss to me. He should know better by now, but, as I said, his competitiveness and his desire for revenge lead him to take chances he shouldn't.
I sat down in the other chair and said, "Mindwipe." That was the trigger I had installed in both Peter and Chambers to signal the start of the sequence of actions that I had programmed into them. It was bad of me, but I couldn't resist reminding Hillman of his former defeat.
"Mindwipe," repeated Hillman.
I had anticipated astonishment and dismay from Hillman when he realized what I had done, but he spoke very decisively.
The room was suddenly incredibly hot. It was as if the temperature had jumped 30 degrees in a second. I burst into a sweat, and the heavy, humid air caught in my throat. I had to loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt. Hot flashes surged through my body. I started quaking. My mind stopped functioning. I couldn't control my actions. I tore off my shirt and tossed it on the floor. My hands and feet were trying to do several things at once. I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my socks even as I was dropping my trousers and ripping off my underpants. My cock was throbbing. It was burning up. Steam and smoke rose from my body.
I tumbled to the floor. Chambers stood up to let me lie down. I gazed up at him and at Peter. Their bodies were so beautiful. I had never seen such sexy men. And their cocks were pointed straight at me. I knew that the only things that could quell this raging fire were their cocks. Their gorgeous, luscious, succulent, thick, juicy, sexy, cum-filled cocks. That was the medicine I needed.
"On your hands and knees." I wasn't sure who spoke. My body obeyed. Peter's cock swayed in front of my face.
"Suck." Again I didn't know who spoke, but it didn't matter. My lips closed around Peter's cock and swallowed deep into my mouth. God, it was great. I was born to be a cocksucker. Behind me, Chambers began rimming my ass. His tongue overwhelmed my senses. I was moaning and groaning in delight. This was the cure I needed.
I lost track of time. I don't know how long the three of us kept at it. I just know that there was no thought in my mind other than to be there, with them.
Hillman said something, and the scene shifted. Peter lifted me up as if I were a rag doll and lay me flat on my back. He grasped my ankles and pulled my legs up exposing my ass to Chambers. In one swift motion, Chambers rammed his cock into me. There was a flash of pain followed by a sense of total acceptance and well-being. Peter guided my head to the floor. He stretched his body out prone, supporting it with his toes and hands. He straddled my body so that his cock was poised above my mouth. Then he began doing push-ups. My mouth opened wide as he thrust his cock down my throat. The two of them moved in and out of me in unison.
I was helpless. And I loved it. I was as excited and aroused as the two of them. I was the means of their pleasure. That was all that mattered. Giving them pleasure was my function. Giving them pleasure was my only pleasure.
All three of us were surging toward a climax, when suddenly the action stopped. Chambers pulled his cock out of my ass, and Peter rolled away. I felt suddenly bereft and abandoned. I lay there on the floor gazing up at their cocks and licking my lips with longing.
"I trust their control rods were stimulating the pleasure centers of your brain," said Hillman. "Peter and Roger have been helping me create links between pleasure and the behavior I wanted to encourage in you. They've been such enthusiastic helpers. But I don't imagine that having sex with you every night has been a hardship for them. That was what I programmed them to do, and in return they've been helping me program you, James."
I had been so enthralled by Peter and Chambers that I hadn't noticed Hillman get undressed. He towered over me as I lay on the floor. It had been almost fifteen years since I had last seen his body. I had forgotten how handsome he is, and how powerful he is.
Peter and Chambers knelt on either side of me, facing Hillman. I copied their action. Hillman slowly began stroking his cock. A bead of pre-cum formed on the tip. I opened my mouth to receive it. The orgasm spread from my tongue throughout my body.
"Submit. Obey."
The three of us repeated, "Submit. Obey" over and over, growing more and more excited as we watched Hillman's cock grow harder and harder. When he came, he shot his cum over my face. It slowly oozed across my skin in hot sticky rivulets. Peter and Chambers turned toward me and began licking it off and feeding it to me with their tongues. All three of us were making piggy noises of delight as we feasted on Hillman's cum. As a special favor because I had been such a good boy, Hillman allowed me to lick his cock clean.
When we had finished, Hillman stepped over to where his clothes lay on the chair and removed his cell from his pants. "My good boys deserve a reward," he said. I felt a glow of happiness because I had been a good boy and pleased Hillman. He thumbed through his apps until he found the one he wanted and then turned it on.
A clear chime sounded. My cock instantly grew rigid. My mind emptied of all thought but the desire to submit and obey. Each beat of the chime made my cock shimmer with pleasure. This was my reward for behaving as Hillman wanted me to behave. I was filled with the need to submit to him and obey him. Each beat reverberated through me, destroying all the bad behavior, all thoughts of anything but submission and obedience.
Peter and Chambers joined with me in chanting, "Submit. Obey."
The beats came faster and faster, and the chime grew louder and louder.
"Submit. Obey."
There were no other thoughts in my mind. Submit to Hillman. Obey Hillman.
The three of us came simultaneously in an orgy of devotion to Master Hillman.
I joined my brothers in servitude to Master Hillman.
Later Hillman released me from bondage to his will and returned control of my mind and body to me. He had made his point. He had the stronger mind and will, and he possessed powers of hypnosis that I could only dream about. I wrote out a check to Hillman's favorite charity and handed it over. As was only fair, Hillman enjoyed his triumph. He had beaten me. I had failed, and he had won.
I acknowledged his victory again last night at one of dinners. "I suppose Peter and Chambers were payback for the pissing contest." Oddly enough, I've been feeling a bit guilty about that. Maybe that's why I brought it up.
Hillman just smiled and said, "I'd almost forgotten about that." Then he changed the subject and started discussing my upcoming speech to the local bar association. Hillman doesn't usually pay much attention to such matters, but last night he wanted to know all about it—How many people would be there? Would there be reporters or photographers? Would there be a podium or would I just stand up in front of everyone?