The following is erotic fiction. It is intended for an adult audience. It contains many adult elements: teacher/student sexual contact, medical imagery, genital pain, bondage, tickling, humiliation, and hypnosis. Also, it's written in the second person, which can be fatal to the literati. If you can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy, you shouldn't be reading.
Some people need help exploring their sexual fantasies. That's why I set up my hypnosis clinic.
It's OK to be nervous, by the way. Most people are. But it's very relaxing at the start, and then I can make you imagine whatever you want. Just tell me what you'd like, and I'll make it seem real as soon as I put you under.
Oh, hot for teacher, eh? Yeah, I've stocked several variations on the student-stays-after-school scene. How vanilla do you want this? Really, are you sure? No, it's not a problem, I can do it, it's just... You understand that this voids the money-back guarantee, right? OK, man, it's your dime.
Let's get started. Go ahead and stare at the test pattern here. As you look at the lines, watch them sway, you slowly hear my voice change to the voice of that teacher you're so fond of. That's right, it's me, and you're my favorite student. Let's say you've come to me after school because you're failing science this quarter. I tell you you can have some extra credit points if you help me with an experiment, though I warn you that I can't tell you much about it ahead of time and that it might make you uncomfortable. You're worried about what your parents will think of your grade, so you agree...
I'm working on some paperwork as you enter the classroom. All the chairs are up on the long black lab benches, but doubled up in some places so that the lab table in the front is clear. I tell you to have a seat on the table while I finish up. It takes a few minutes, so you pull the DS out of your backpack and start to play. I get up and lock the classroom door, but you're too busy finishing a level to notice. Before you know what's happening, I have my hand around your neck and your back pressed against the cold, smooth surface of the lab bench. Your fingers grasp at my arms but can't dislodge my grip.
"Remember, you agreed to this," I remind you. "I have to get you into the proper emotional state if your bloodwork is going to satisfy the demands of this study. Or do you want me to send you home right now with a note explaining to your parents how you refused to cooperate?"
You try to shake your head. "Speak up."
"No, don't throw me out. I'll do it." Your voice is raspy.
"Good," I say, smiling, still holding you in place. "Now close your eyes."
"What?"
"You heard me."
I can feel your adam's apple bob as you swallow nervously and lower your eyelids. I remove my hand from your neck and watch the curve of your chest rise and fall as I secure each wrist and ankle to a table leg. A shiny silver handcuff encircles each joint.
I tell you to open your eyes, and when you do, you see the light glinting off the key dangling above your nose. I hang it on a hook above the chalk board, well within your line of sight.
"Well that's a start," I muse. "Now as you know, we need as many stress hormones in your blood as we can manage. Some of the things we do next might scare you. They'll probably make you pretty uncomfortable, but nothing will hurt you. OK?"
You nod and move your lips, but no words come out.
"Answer me when I ask you a question. Do you understand?"
"Yes!" Gulp.
"Very good. Now let's see if we can make you less comfortable."
With that I lift the hem of your black t-shirt and slip my fingers under the fabric to trace the curves of your soft, hairless belly. You shiver as I tease the sensitive skin. But I don't give you long to think about it as I pull the shirt up over your head, leaving the cloth to span the space between your outstretched arms, the bed of a stretcher between two poles.
"You boys call these 'titty twisters,' don't you?" I muse, demonstrating a savage pinch and twist on your right nipple, then your left. "I see you doing these to each other in the hallway between classes."
I pause to take your pulse. "Hm. Not quite high enough yet. Let's see what else we can do."
I run my hands across your belly again, dragging my fingers up from your waist. "Can we find something else that's sensitive?" And with that I dig my fingers into the soft flesh under your arms, swirling my fingers through the wisps of hair I find there. You jerk and writhe on the table, chafing your wrists and gasping for breath between gales of laughter.
I pause for a second to take your pulse again. "Getting there," I say, and start in again. More helpless laughter, interspersed with the occasional hacking cough and rushed of air as you try to catch your breath. I only give you seconds between attacks, and after what I took to be just a few minutes but I'm sure you felt as eternity, the skin of your armpits was red and sore and tears were streaming down your face. I give you a minute to recover, but you continue to sob, and that's when I notice the dark patch at the crotch of your jeans.
"What's this?" I ask. You don't answer, just avoid my eyes.
"I told you I expect you to answer my questions," I remind you. "There will be a punishment for this later. Now, what's this?"
You mumble something.
"I can't hear you."
Again, you sob something unrecognizable.
"I wet myself!" you finally shout. I smile when your voice cracks.
"Yes, you did, didn't you?" I muse, almost laughing. "I would have thought you were a little too old for that, but, no matter. Let me give you something to think about while I take care of this."
I take six clothes pins from a drawer and place them on your chest, one on the center of each nipple and two on each side of that. With the pain you barely notice as I undo your belt and pull your jeans and briefs down to your ankles. I run a hand over the fine hairs on your calves and thighs before opening a pack of baby wipes and using them to clean your skin. Your penis and scrotum are shriveled from the cool air and the icy press of the solid table against your bottom. I wipe your genitals down quickly and efficiently, as if they were unimportant.
"Now I said you'd have to be punished," I say. Your eyes widen a bit as I wave a ruler in front of your face. "Ordinarily I'd use this on your ass, but you're in the wrong position."
I cup my hand around your scrotum so that your orbs are stretched to the bottom of the sac, sticking up in the air. "I think five strokes ought to be enough for a first offense. I'll need you to count while I do this. Ready?"
"Yes," you say, remembering this time.
"All right. Now, each time I strike, you will call out the number, and then you'll say, please hit me again. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Another gulp.
"Good." Sometimes I like to build the anticipation, but today I just get down to business. I can hear the ruler slap against your delicate nuts, but you're too focused on the pain. Several ragged breaths later, your voice wavers as you say, "One." And then: "Please hit me again."
"All right." You yelp as I connect.
"Two." Deep breath, deep breath. "Please hit me again."
"OK." I squeeze your scrotum a little tighter, rolling your balls in the taut skin. This time I strike from an angle, centering the entire blow on your right nut.
You cry out more from surprise than from the pain, but recover quickly. "Three. Please hit me again."
I repeat the gesture with your left nut. "Four. Please hit me again."
This time I let go of your sac for a minute. "OK. Just to let you know, I have to make this one count." I stare into your eyes, then gently chuck my fingers under your chin. I let you smell the scent of your own crotch mixed with the alcohol from the cleaning supplies.
Then I grip your nuts again, roll them around in your sac for a moment. And I strike, hard, leaving you gasping.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" I say, as you try to curl into yourself, cuffs clanging against the laminate surface.
"Fuh-fuh-fi-five," you manage.
"And?" I prompt. The look on your face is precious.
"Please hit me again," you say. It's almost too soft to hear.
"Why, certainly," I say, and swat your nuts without holding them in place, letting the blow smoosh them back against the base of your abdomen.
I'll always admire the bravery you show as you make your voice sound out, "Six..." But I put a finger to your lips.
"No, that's enough for now," I say gently. "If you're not stressed out at this point, you're not going to be." I take a few seconds to roll your bruised orbs around in their sac again with one hand while I wipe off the junction between your inner thigh and your hip with another alcohol pad. Sweat glistens on your forehead as you watch me pull the cap from a syringe.
"This won't take long," I say, but I take my time in lowering the needle toward the vein in your leg. You whimper, but I don't know if it's from fear of the sharp point or the pressure I'm keeping on your balls. I have to keep them out of the way somehow, don't I?
With a quick jab, I slip the syringe into your skin, pulling four vials of blood from the blue vein I find there. By the time I tape down a cotton ball to the red spot, you're dizzy. I let you rest as I put the blood sample in the fridge.
"Here," I say, handing you an ice pack as I unlock your wrists. "You'll want to put that on your scrotum to keep the swelling down. Wouldn't want anything permanent happening to the boys, would we?"
You give a weak grin as I move to your ankles and work the key.
I help you slip the ice pack inside your briefs and rub feeling back into your wrists and ankles. You're a little unsteady, so I help you you get dressed the rest of the way, too.
"Come on," I say. "I'll drive you home. Make sure you get a good night's sleep. I want you well rested for our session tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" This brings you out of your daze.
"Sure," I said. "The experiment's far from over. And your grades need all the help they can get."
I snap my fingers, and you find yourself awake in my office. I ask if you're feeling like yourself again.
I watch as you get your bearings. When you speak, your voice is rough from the lingering trance state.
Oh, sorry, I thought you knew from the brochure. When I put you under, I installed an orgasm lock on your mind. No mental or physical stimulation will cause an orgasm as long as the lock is in place. It's done for several reasons, really--it saves you a change of underwear, it saves me a stain on the carpet, and it saves both of us the higher insurance premiums that would have to be passed on to the consumer. The last thing I need is to have somebody having a heart attack in here. The vice squad's breathing down my neck enough already.
Don't worry, the lock will fade away on its own. Most people find it dissolves within four to six weeks. I know that sounds like a lot, but, really, you'll be surprised at how quickly it passes.
Oh, you want me to take it off sooner? Well, we're out of time for today, but I can remove the lock at your next session. Same time next week?