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The Hypnosis Files

by z119z

The Hypnosis Files


(c) by the author 2013

Every time I publish a story involving hypnosis, I receive at least one email from someone asking if I practice hypnosis in “real life.” I answer—quite truthfully—that I have been engaging in hypnosis since my teenage years. Some have a follow-up question—Am I a hypnotist or a subject? I tell them—again truthfully—that I have enjoyed being both, that I like all aspects of hypnosis. If the person is interested only in determining my qualifications to write about hypnosis, that ends their curiosity. For them, it is enough to know that the stories are based on experience and thus presumably more reliable.

A few write back again. Would I hypnotize them? They never ask if they can hypnotize me. They always want to the subject. Interesting, isn’t it? Some people read a story (a fictional story it must be emphasized) about a man turned into a mindless, will-less, totally obedient puppet and their response is “I want to be that.” A study of such people would make an interesting paper. Why do some people fantasize about the prospect of losing their free will and becoming a zombie? What is the attraction? Why, when given a choice between being the controller and the controllee, do they always opt for being the hypnotized subject?

I always reply that I find long-distance hypnosis unsatisfactory, that my methods depend on intensive and frequent sessions, and immediate visual feedback is necessary to allow me to adjust the hypnotic patter in response to the physical clues exhibited by the subject. For these people, I recommend sites that have audio downloads and links to online hypnotists.

A few times each year the response comes: “I live in Boston. Is that near you?” or “I can take two weeks off from work. I’m willing to travel to you.” Perhaps once or twice a year the prospective subject does live near me and is proposing a goal for himself that intrigues me. I write back and arrange to meet with the subject.

The following account relates one such encounter. The names of the two participants have been changed to protect their privacy. This was my third project for 2012 , and following my custom, I labeled the file:

Case 2012/C

Charles Simpson emailed me asking for help hypnotizing a “friend” of his, Zack. They were, he wrote, both interested in erotic hypnosis like that found in several of my “awesome” stories. Both of them were “big fans” of my fictions, and hoping to duplicate some of the things I had written about, Charles had read up on the subject and tried to hypnotize Zack. But he had been able to induce only light, brief trances in Zack. He had concluded that he needed “expert help.” Was I available to install a trigger Charles could use to put Zack in a deep trance? He understood that it might take several sessions. He volunteered the use of his home in Weston Woods Estates—that’s an upscale suburb not far from me. He even offered to reimburse me for my time and travel expenses. I was impressed by the realistic goals Charles and (I assumed) Zack has set for themselves and their practical approach. I estimated it would take two or three sessions on subsequent evenings to install a trigger. I called Charles, and we arranged to meet on a Thursday evening at 8:00, with follow-up sessions on Friday and Saturday.

Charles’s attempts to flatter me were amusing. In retrospect I should have read them as warning signs of his manipulative nature.

Charles’s home lived up to the reputation of the Weston Woods area for large, imposing houses on secluded grounds. A tall privet hedge hid the stone walls that surround the property, and an ornate steel gate with a sunburst panel in the middle closed the driveway to casual visitors. I had to buzz to gain entrance. As I parked beside the house, I could see a large swimming pool in the back yard. Charles opened the front door as I approached.

“Good. You are right on time. Unfortunately Zack has been lazy today and is behind on his duties. He won’t be joining us for several minutes.”

As an opening remark, it struck me as strange. The man made no effort to introduce himself. The reference to Zack led me to infer that it was Charles who was speaking to me.

“Charles Simpson? I’m . . .”

“Yes, of course.” A flash of annoyance crossed his face at my attempt to confirm his identity. He shook his head impatiently. “And I know who you are. Come this way.” He jerked his head to motion me into the house and then closed the door behind me. Simpson was wearing what I immediately labeled as a “country squire” outfit—a pale blue shirt open at the neck, a paisley cravat in complementary colors, gray slacks, and a navy blue blazer with brass buttons and a pocket handkerchief folded so that three points were on display. His cordovan loafers were so highly polished that they had to have been spit-shined.

Simpson led me down a broad central hallway that extended upward to the top of the house. A broad stairway leading up to the second and third floors circled the stairwell, and a large crystal chandelier secured to the ceiling of the third floor loomed overhead. (I always have to stifle an urge to cringe when I walk under it—it’s like this mammoth threat waiting to crush me. I have used self-hypnosis on myself so much that I can envision thoughts as realities very easily.)

A wide doorway to the left of the front door revealed an enormous living room, with several clumps of furniture dividing it into smaller areas. Birch logs, startlingly white against the shadows pervading the room, were stacked in a pyramid in the fireplace waiting to be lit. Every surface was covered with objects. The room appeared unused—it was almost as if there were a rope across the doorway allowing you to look in but not to enter. Opposite this room, on the right side of the hallway, was a smaller living room, whose furniture faced a large, wall-mounted TV screen. Behind this were a large, formal dining room and then the kitchen.

Simpson crossed the kitchen and entered a small hallway. To one side were a well-stocked pantry and a laundry room. He opened a door on the other side of the hallway. “You can wait here. These are Zack’s rooms. I’ll go find him and bring him. He seems determined to be irritating today. He knows I don’t like to be kept waiting.” My being kept waiting apparently was unimportant to Simpson.

Zack’s rooms were considerably less opulent than those in the front part of the house. The room in which I was standing contained a dusty-looking couch, an easy chair that had seen better days, and a small TV set so old that the company that manufactured it was no longer in business. An even smaller room to one side held a single bed covered neatly with a thin, faded quilt and a battered dresser. Zack’s quarters had no windows and contained no personal possessions that I could see. It could have been a monk’s cell—or a prisoner’s.

I had plenty of time to inspect the room I had been left in. Simpson did not return for a quarter of an hour.

“Zack will be here in just a minute. He’s getting a chair for me.” Simpson sneered at the couch and easy chair and wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad. That message delivered, Simpson ignored me.

A minute later, a young man entered the room carrying a wicker chair. He was in his early twenties, thin almost to the point of emaciation. His hair had been shaved off, even his eyebrows. He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a white T-shirt so tight that his ribs were visible through the fabric. His body was almost skeletal. It looked brittle—very little pressure would have been needed to snap a bone in two. If I had circled his wrists with my thumb and middle finger, they would have overlapped by two or three inches. The guy was more of a twig than a twink. He also had on a pair of thick, gray socks but no shoes. Around his neck was a chain formed of half-inch-long links and made of some cheap-looking metal. A padlock securing the ends of the chain hung down in front. It was so heavy that it pulled the chain down in front.

I instantly discarded the impression of the relationship between Simpson and Zack that I had gained from reading Simpson’s emails to me. Zack wasn’t an equal partner. I didn’t know the history of their association or how they conceived their relationship or whether Zack had entered into it willingly or been coerced into it, but he was either a victim or a slave.

Simpson pointed to the only open spot in the room and said, “Put it there for now.” Zack sat the chair down and then straightened up, with his hands clasped behind his back. His posture was that of a servant in some feudal drama. That tiny room had been crowded with furniture before. Now it held three people and an extra chair. Even so, Zack somehow managed to detach himself and make himself not fully present as he awaited further orders. It was almost as if he shrunk himself.

Since Simpson clearly intended not to introduce us, I extended my hand. “You must be Zack. I’m Mark Johnson.”

Zack looked at my hand and then glanced at Simpson. Simpson nodded impatiently and flapped a hand wearily. It was only after Simpson had granted permission that Zack shook my hand. He muttered something that could have been a greeting.

“Yes, yes.” Simpson interposed and spoke to me. “Let’s get started. I have other things to do. You will use that chair, and Zack will lie down on the couch.” He pointed to the easy chair. “Where do you want it? Zack will move it for you.”

In truth the position of the chair didn’t matter, but I was becoming so annoyed with Simpson and his imperiousness that I felt a need to assert some control over the situation. “This really isn’t the best set-up. It would be better for you—” I intentionally turned toward Zack and included him in the conversation as a decision-maker—“It would be better for you to lie flat. That couch is too short for you, and it doesn’t look all that comfortable. You could lie down on the bed, but that room is too small to hold both of us. Isn’t there some other room that we could use? Preferably one with a large bed or a couch and enough room so that I can sit in a chair where I can see you?”

“Zack isn’t permitted to use the furniture in the other rooms. He enters them only to clean them. This room is good enough. Zack, lie down on the couch.”

Zack nodded and then complied. Simpson threw himself down on the wicker chair and then gestured impatiently for me to sit. “Let’s get started. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

I was about to protest when I noticed Zack’s expression. For the first time since he had entered the room, he was looking at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was clearly begging me to acquiesce and do what Simpson was telling me to do. Any show of resistance would set Simpson off. I resolved to do the minimum and then get the hell out of there.

“I guess this will have to do then.” I sat down. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Simpson sneering again, this time in satisfaction at imposing his way.

“Oh, and I want you to install this trigger.” Simpson handed me a piece of paper with the words “good boy” written on it. “Make it so Zack goes into a trance as soon as he hears those words. I’ll take care of the rest of his programming.”

I was beginning to get an inkling of what sort of programming Simpson had in mind for Zack. I didn’t like it, and I wasn’t going to help him. From what Simpson had told me of his failed attempts to put Zack in a trance and from what I had seen of him in action, I suspected he was too impatient to put in the time necessary to gain the kind of control over Zack that he wanted. I decided to go through the motions and put Zack into a trance. I would mention the trigger but not expend the time needed to make it stick. Then I would leave and not return. Whatever was going on between the two of them wasn’t my business. They could work it out by themselves. I was confident that my trancing of Zack would not benefit Simpson.

I handed the piece of paper back to Simpson and cautioned him to be quiet and not move about. “It’s important that there be as few distractions as possible.” I went through the usual spiel I give first-time subjects about the nature of hypnosis and what it can and cannot do. I decided to use my favorite induction for subjects with a history of difficulty trancing or for those who appear nervous about what might happen—both of which applied to Zack.

I had him get as comfortable as he could on the couch and then close his eyes. “Imagine you are lying on a sandy beach. The sand beneath you is cool. The sun is shining, and light breeze is blowing across your body. In the distance, you can hear the sound of the waves, gentle waves, lapping the shore.” I described the sound of the waves, how they hiss as they foam up onto the beach and then recede. Gradually I shifted from describing the scene to having Zack sense it on his body. The sun feels warm and relaxing. So easy to relax. So warm. So comfortable. Listen to the waves. Just relax and sleep.

I never rush inductions, even when I have installed a trance trigger. I want subjects to be deep in a trance before I begin their programming. For twenty minutes, I spoke to Zack about relaxing in the sun. Toward the end of the induction, when I mentioned that a bird was drifting lazily overhead, I could see his eyes move beneath the lids as he tracked the flight of the bird.

In his emails Simpson had made much of the fact that Zack had proved a difficult subject. But his trance appeared to be real and deep. There are tests to determine that the subject is in a trance, and I decided to use one of them. For once I didn’t want to be successful with the subject, and I needed to know the depth of Zack’s trance. I asked him to imagine that a large bunch of helium-filled balloons was tied to his right wrist and was lifting his arm. As I finished planting the suggestion, the balloons tugged at his wrist and his right arm drifted into the air, swaying gently as the air currents on the beach pushed the balloons back and forth.

A motion off to my left side caught my eye. I turned to warn Simpson to sit still, but to my surprise I found his right arm held aloft by the balloons in his mind. His body had slumped forward in the chair, and his chin rested on his chest. Both Simpson and Zack were deeply hypnotized.

It was too good an opportunity to let pass. I took both of them deeper and deeper. I programmed them to find great pleasure in being hypnotized. Over and over I repeated the simple lesson: “You enjoy being hypnotized. You want to be hypnotized again. Next time you will quickly go into a deep trance. You feel great and you will continue to feel great when you wake up.”

I also implanted the certainty in Simpson’s mind that I had installed his trigger in Zack but told him that he was not to test it, that he knew that it would take many sessions for the trigger to work, that he was to be patient.

And that was it for the first session. Both men woke up, happy and enthusiastic about hypnosis. I arranged to return the next day.


What to do? It was a quandary.

I didn’t like Charles Simpson. And as far as I could judge from this first meeting, his interest in hypnosis lay in dominating Zack. I’m not opposed to domination—far from it. But Simpson rubbed me the wrong way. He was an overbearing and arrogant prick. Perhaps Zack liked that or wanted it. I had no clues about his personality. Our brief interaction before I put him under left me with the impression that he was cowed by Simpson, maybe even fearful. He didn’t like the situation he was in but couldn’t get out of it. But those impressions might be totally wrong.

If I wanted to make the punishment fit the crime, I could work on the two of them and make Zack the dominant partner in the relationship. There was some justice in that. But in all likelihood, that would mean that Zack would become like Simpson, that he would prove as much of an asshole as Simpson—not an appealing prospect. The world already has too many assholes. And I wasn’t sure that Zack wanted to be in charge. For all I knew, their present relationship was what both men wanted.

Neither of them attracted me, in terms of either their looks or their personalities. But the opportunity to control the two of them and mold their relationship was intriguing. I’ll admit that I get off on controlling people—but usually (not always) the pleasure I get comes from helping them get what they want. Both Simpson and Zack were promising subjects. Both tranced deeply. It would take only a few sessions before I could begin reprogramming them. But did I want to do that? I already had several such subjects. Did I have the time to create two more dependents?

I was already engaged to return the next day for a second session. I could use that session to make them forget the idea of hypnosis and not see them again. Or I could use it to develop their suggestibility and learn more about them. I still hadn’t decided what to do when I drove up Simpson’s driveway.

Both men were waiting when I arrived. Zack played butler and opened the door. He showed me into the small living room at the front of the house. Simpson was sitting there reading something on a tablet computer. He was in the process of turning it off when I entered. He rose to his feet and extended his hand to greet me. The two were obviously anxious to begin, but Simpson took the time to offer me a cup of coffee. I refused and suggested that we get started. “I think both of you will be more comfortable lying on these sofas rather than using Zack’s room.”

Simpson hesitated and looked around. Clearly he would be more comfortable on one of the sofas in this room, but his domineering personality baulked at allowing Zack to use one. His reluctance told me much about how much reprogramming he would need.

Zack solved the problem. “I can lie on the floor, Mr. Simpson.” He immediately took his own suggestion and stretched out on the floor. “I’ll be okay,” he assured me.

“Good. That will work.” I moved to take control of the situation. It wasn’t ideal, but we could work on Simpson’s attitude later. “Now if you both would make yourselves comfortable. If you don’t mind, I’m going to pull these curtains and turn off the lights. That will help you relax.”

Simpson scowled. He didn’t like other people making decisions for him. But he also wanted to be hypnotized again. So he lay down on a couch.

I began with breathing exercises. I find those effective—both because the deep breaths mimic the breathing people associate with going to sleep and because by telling the subject when to breath in and out and how (for example, in through the nose and out through the mouth), I accustom them to following my suggestions. After a minute or two of breathing exercises, I moved on to a guided imagery session of lying in gently swaying hammocks that helped them drift off to sleep. As they had the day before, both Simpson and Zack went into deep trances.

I still didn’t know what to do with them. Simpson’s lack of respect for Zack was a problem, but it was part of their relationship. And then it hit me. Like many good ideas, it was simple. It also had the virtue of being minimally invasive. It would take a good many sessions, but it would leave the development of their interactions up to the two of them.

For the next six weeks, I met with them twice a week. Once I was confident that the change was now part of their psyches, I cut back on the sessions to monthly refresher trances. The change? I simply repeated over and over while they were in trances: “You respect and like each other.” That was it. And It was enough.

Simpson didn’t stop being Zack’s employer and (I suspect) master, but he treats Zack with consideration now. He has started Zack on a regimen of diet and exercise. Zack is never going to be Mr. Universe, but he looks a lot healthier. Simpson seems proud of the change in Zack. When I see them, he is always pointing out how Zack’s muscles are growing. Zack has moved upstairs and now has his own room next to Simpson’s bedroom. When I trance the two of them now, both men lie on Simpson’s bed.

Zack is still a servant—and still subservient. But now he’s more of a boyfriend who happens to be the subordinate partner in the relationship.

Of course, that isn’t the only change that I made. In the end, temptation got the better of me.

I have very sensitive nipples. They were always an erotic zone for me, but I used self-hypnosis to increase the pleasure I get from nipple play. I have a mental control button that allows me to increase their sensitivity, rather like a rheostat. At the top setting, even the movement of air across a nipple can give me an orgasm.

Charles and Zack have been such good boys that I decided to reward them by giving them the same capacity for nipple stimulation that I have. They are such deep trancers and obedient subjects now that it took only one session to create the desired outcome.

Of course, I tested them to make sure the programming had worked. I implanted the post-hypnotic suggestion that as soon as I woke them up, they would be overcome with a desire to play with each other’s nipples. The results were all I could have wished for.

I had barely finished saying “you will wake up feeling refreshed and full of energy” when they eyes popped open. Both of them leaped to their feet and began tearing off their clothes. Zack’s jeans were still around his ankles when he grabbed Charles and began sucking his nipples. Charles screamed with pleasure at the first touch and then pushed Zack away so that he could lick Zack’s nipples. The cocks immediately became erect and throbbing. The two of them fell back onto the bed, fighting to get at the other person’s nipples. Charles is bigger than Zack, and he soon had Zack pinned down so that he could work on Zack’s nipples. All Zack could do at first was to use his fingers on Charles, but he soon figured out that he could turn around and reach Charles’s nipples with his mouth. The two maneuvered themselves into a nipple 69. Moans, groans, pulsating cocks—eventually that resulted in a joint orgasm.

When I left, they were still joined together at the nipples. I should check back. It’s been two days now, and I hope they’ve taken a break.


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