O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Sensitivity Training (Case 2014/2-1) (hypno)

by Hyptrance

I was in a white-lipped, white-hot fury. It takes a lot to do that to Dr. Madison Kearney. You’ve only ‘met’ me once (through my case report on John Joyner), and so you really have no way of knowing how low key and unflappable I am in general, but trust me, I don’t lose it easily or often. This circumstance was exceptional. I had just come back from the fourth day of long, grueling hours at the psychiatric ward of the emergency center trying to talk Bobby Kowalski, a sweet young senior at _______ High, out of a suicidal depression (he’d already commenced a far-too-intimate relationship with a razor blade, but, thankfully, was going to recover, as long I could persuade him not to continue with it). Bobby is gay, you see, and it seems that, in the bible-belting community where he resides, the high school ruling clique (in this case, basically the varsity football team, led by their quarterback, Jason Stamp, and his lieutenant, wide-receiver Ray Tuttle) had made it their mission to destroy him: ridicule and verbal abuse, physical abuse (including some beatings so severe they’d required attention at the emergency room), destruction of his property (they’d put sugar in the gas tank of his car, and then regularly slashed the tires of the bike he was now forced to use since the car was a total loss and he had no money to replace it). His parents had complained; there was plenty of hard evidence of all of this. But in redneck central, where football was the leading religion, with even more adherents than the local hate-mongering version of Christianity, the principal and the football coach, as well as the local cops, ignored or hushed everything up. Bobby was the one branded as the trouble-maker, and his torturers were “just high-spirited boys blowing off a little steam”. His parents couldn’t afford to move away, or to send him to the private school just across the county line, so one sunny afternoon Bobby decided that even death would be better than this, and slashed his wrists to the bone. 

But, horrifying as all that was, it wasn’t the cause for my current teeth-clenching rage; not Bobby’s pathetic bandaged arms and pain-filled, hopeless eyes; not his mother, her face so pale it was almost grey, so shocked she could barely speak, her trembling arms around her boy’s shoulders, holding him as tightly as though she’d never be able to persuade herself to let go again. No, the match that finally ignited my emotional napalm was the phone call I received after returning to my office. It seems that the judge assigned to hear the case (yes, this last series of events had been too extreme for the Sheriff to continue to look the other way), was also the brother-in-law of the football coach (!!). His “Honor” had ruled it unnecessary to go to trial, releasing Jason and Ray on their own recognizance, with the stipulation that they both undergo “sensitivity training”.  Sensitivity Training!!! And the phone call had been to request that I be the one to conduct said training. 

It’s a good thing I was rendered temporarily speechless, or I might have said things that would have melted the entire county telephone exchange. As it was, in the moment it took me to recover the power of speech, I also gained control enough to conduct the rest of the conversation without revealing my incandescent fury. For, you see, in that blinding moment of total meltdown, one clear, unarguable fact manifested in my maddened brain: if anyone could see to it that these  pieces of human feces paid what the law refused to demand of them, that person was Madison Kearney PhD, psychiatrist and hypnotherapist. Those boys (and the coach and the judge, if I could find a way to get to them) would end up sensitive, all right – sensitive as a hang-nail in salted lemon juice!

Access to the football players, of course, would present no difficulties. They’d be coming to my office for psychological treatment just as so many other troubled or troublesome young men had in the past. But in this case, there would be no finesse about it. There are other versions of chemically enhanced trance induction besides the safe and responsible one I normally use (and they’re not too hard to research, at least not since most of the MKULTRA project has been declassified). The most effective ones are emphatically not part of any legitimate therapy, because the list of possible damaging side-effects associated with them is daunting. But frankly, I didn’t give a damn! Those evil, heartless boys were going down and going down hard. I wouldn’t hesitate to fry their bigoted little brains like eggs on a griddle if that’s what it took, and I wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.

 

When Jason and Ray came to my office for their first sensitivity training session, I had everything prepared. At first live contact with the two football jocks all of my worst expectations were confirmed. They were very good-looking certainly, but the arrogance of their demeanor was as palpable as the heat of a summer sun and rather spoiled their attractiveness. There was no sense of responsibility in evidence, let alone any signs of remorse. Their aura, as socially invulnerable football royalty, radiated self-satisfaction and privilege. Like that dreadful rich-boy piece of human excrement who was left unpunished for vehicular manslaughter because some brain-dead (or purchased) judge decided he was suffering from “affluenza” and therefore not liable for his criminal irresponsibility, they were obviously convinced that their exemption from any real penalty in the tragic situation of Bobby Kowalski was no more than their due. 

“Hey Doc,” Jason said, “Let’s get this sensitivity bullshit on the road. I’ve got a date tonight, and I wanna be real sensitive, if you know what I mean!” He and his buddy high-fived each other, both of them laughing like hyenas.

Even though I was seething like Kilauea before an eruption, I answered mildly, “I don’t think that’s the best attitude for what we’ll be trying to accomplish today. Now please have a seat. I need to get some of the official paperwork. I’ll be back in a moment.”

I left the room, allowing the door to shut and lock behind me, leaving them no escape. Then I triggered, by remote control, the canister device I’d planted. It’s similar to those foggers used by exterminators to fumigate for termites and other vermin (singularly appropriate, to my mind). Instantly the room would have been filled with a colorless, odorless gas of such potent anesthetic properties that it could stop a rhino in mid-charge. It’s the potency that is also the reason it isn’t used on humans (other than by those clandestine intelligence operants for whom results are more important than ethics). There’s too great a chance of irreparable mental or physical damage. However, as I noted before, I really didn’t care in this case, and, since the chemical was untraceable in forensic analysis, if one or both of the boys wound up in a vegetative state, it couldn’t rebound on me. And it was, without question, the strongest hypnotic ever discovered. A mind compromised by this drug would accept (hell, embrace!) any suggestion without fail. All of those things that are held (at least by popular psychological opinion) to be impossible to achieve through hypnosis – murder or suicide on command, betrayal of deep-seated principle, of friends, lovers, family, country – can be achieved through the use of this agent if the subject is not destroyed by its application. 

I returned to my office after a brief but necessary interval to allow the gas to dissipate. The two teens were sitting exactly as I’d left them. Apparently the gas had taken them so quickly that they hadn’t even struggled to rise from their seats. Their eyes were closed, and their faces were expressionless as though they were fast asleep. 

First, I need to determine the state of their health. Both boys were breathing regularly and evenly at a rate suggestive of deep sleep. And, as I checked their pulses, both were strong and steady. So far, so good – no seizures or strokes in the offing.

Next, I needed to access their minds. If they were in the drugged state that I was hoping for, this would be easy. If, on the other hand, they’d been fried by the drug, it would be as impossible as trying to make phone contact with a number that has been disconnected. 

“Jason, Ray, stand up and open your eyes.” As though there were springs in the chair cushions, the two boys launched out of their seats. Their eyes snapped open, and they stood as stiffly as soldiers at attention, looking straight ahead. Bingo! They were mine! And I had to admit that, with the cockiness wiped from their blank faces, they were pretty damned appealing: both over six feet, nicely muscled athletic bodies (of course), but honed for speed and agility as befits quarterback and wide-receiver, rather than the bulk of linemen. Jason had a sexy cleft chin, neat light-brown hair, and, although they were currently as dead and glassy as marbles, lovely blue-gray eyes. Ray was blond and very cute in an innocent-faced SoCal surfer-boy way, although his haircut was just as Midwest conservative as his teammate’s. His staring eyes were brown.

I ordered them over to two seats I’d arranged in front of a wide-screen television/computer monitor (I sometimes use it if I’m delivering a lecture to interns or residents at the med-school). I called up a standard (but perfectly effective) hypno-spiral and proceeded to hypnotize the shit out of them. Thanks to their drugged state, there was no possibility of resistance. In short order Ray and Jason were helplessly agreeing to absolute and total enslavement. Waking or sleeping, they would be irresistibly compelled to do, say, think, or believe anything I told them to. And no one other than myself would be able to countermand it by any means whatsoever.

“When I return you from this trance state,” I instructed my two helpless puppets, “You will remember exactly everything that has happened here today, and you will dread what you can imagine will follow. But you will be unable to do a thing about it. You will not be able to speak, write, or in any other way communicate to anyone (including each other) that you are, from this moment forth, my mind-controlled slave-boys. You will be constrained to behave in a totally normal manner at all times (unless instructed otherwise by me), despite fear, anger or resentment. You will also not be able to physically act out any of your personal feelings about this. You cannot offer any harm to me, to Bobby and his family, to any gay person, or even to yourselves. If anyone should ask you about your sensitivity training session, you will simply tell them that it isn’t what you thought it would be, that you’re learning a lot about yourself, and that I seem to be an okay guy. You understand all of this and you will obey.”

“I understand and I will obey,” the helpless jocks repeated mindlessly as robots, in almost perfect unison.

“After you leave here today, you will go to the hospital and apologize to Bobby and his mother. You will not ask forgiveness, since there can be none for what you’ve done, but you will show (and feel) sincere contrition, guilt and remorse. Jason, I think it will be appropriate for you to choke up and cry just a little in a manly fashion. Then tomorrow, you’ll be back here again. You will bring your football uniforms with you (everything but the helmet and cleats, which you won’t need). As soon as you enter this room, you will instantly again be under my complete control, your minds blank, hypnotized, helpless, your will totally subservient to my own.”

Before continuing, I gave each boy a brief (but thoroughly naughty) physical examination, stroking cheeks, lips and throats, fondling chests and asses, groping crotches. Their penance was just beginning, and I was wickedly enjoying the anticipation of what was in store for them tomorrow. I snapped my fingers, saying authoritatively, “Wake up!”

Jason and Ray blinked, and then awareness returned to their eyes. Both young men paled as the memories registered, but that was their only reaction.

“So, what did you think of your first sensitivity training session?” I asked with mock innocence.

“It was interestin’, “Ray piped up obediently, “Not what I thought it would be.”

“Yeah,” added Jason, “I think I‘m gonna learn a lot here. You’re okay, Dr. Kearney.” His eyes had almost a laser-like quality (if looks could kill, etc.), but his bland, untroubled facial expression gave nothing away.

If they had not already been stripped of all volitional control, they two young men no doubt would have flung themselves on me and beat me to a pulp. As it was, their helpless bodies obediently walked them out of the room just as though nothing unusual had occurred. They would return tomorrow, football gear in hand, outwardly cheerful, inwardly a churning mass of fear and impotent rage.

 

The following day both boys once again stood in my office, motionless and blank as twin statues. As soon as they had entered the room they were frozen in place, helpless, their duffle-bags full of their football gear falling to the floor unnoticed from their suddenly powerless hands. Jason and Ray were dressed almost identically: sexily tight blue-jeans, pullover tops (Jason’s was gray, Ray’s black), lace-up hiking shoes (it had snowed a little that morning), and their letterman’s jackets in the high school’s black and gold. They looked very masculine, and totally hot.

“Guys, undress each other. You won’t touch your own clothes to remove them; let your partner do it all. But you will cooperate in the process.”

The two statues came to life. Moving without haste, as solemnly as though participating in a religious ceremony, Jason turned to face Ray and began to ease the leather letter-jacket off his muscular shoulders and arms. The knitted wrist-bands gave him a moment’s resistance, forcing him to pick up Ray’s limply relaxed hands one at a time to free the sleeves. He then finished pulling the jacket off and dropped it to the floor, after which he stood unresisting as Ray performed the same task on him. The two boys then exchanged removing each other’s pullovers, revealing to me for the first time their naked torsos. As I would have expected, they were very fine – ripped, defined, beautifully proportioned. Jason was virtually hairless. I wondered if he were vain enough to be man-scaping himself (probably!), but if so, it was something more sophisticated in the way of hair removal than mere shaving, for there was no sign of razor stubble. Ray, on the other hand, was rather furrier than I find to be usual among blonds, but, in any case, that did nothing to dampen his sexual appeal. Without pausing the two knelt in turn to remove each other’s shoes and socks. Now, with the jocks clad in nothing but the enticingly form-advertizing jeans (plus whatever as-yet-unseen underwear they wore), things began to get truly interesting. Ray, who was already on his knees from having removed Jason’s shoes, simply stayed their and began to unbuckle his friend’s belt and undo his fly. Since Jason’s fly was button rather than zip, this took a bit of time, and involved quite a lot of hand-to-basket contact. There was, of course, no reaction to this on either side, as the boys were incapable of any awareness of what they were doing (although later I’d make sure they knew and hated every moment of it). Once the buckle and buttons were conquered, Ray pulled the jeans down over Jason’s hard, muscular thighs and calves, and then freed his feet. Jason wore typical straight-boy white, not-especially-sexy, boxer-briefs, but I could tell the package they contained was certainly respectable. The boys again switched positions. Jason had an easier job, as Ray’s fly was a zipper-close, and he wasn’t wearing a belt (his slim waist and perky butt kept the tight jeans in place perfectly well without one). In no time Jason was pulling the jeans down his teammate’s strong, shapely legs and off. Ray’s underwear was a somewhat more fashionable pair of black briefs. He too appeared to be quite adequately equipped. This time Jason remained on his knees, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of the briefs and pulled them down, freeing Ray’s cock and balls to bounce and sway enticingly as he shuffled from foot to foot to allow the underwear to be removed. Like the rest of him, his ass and bush were pretty fuzzy. Totally naked, he knelt and removed the quarterback’s last item of clothing. Both young men, now stark naked but unaware, resumed their motionless statue-poses of attention waiting mindlessly for my next instructions. 

I commenced a leisurely exploration of their bodies. As anticipated from yesterday’s brief fondle, the muscles and shapes were firm, sculpted, and pleasing, and their skins were almost completely free of teenage blemishes, a total tactile delight. Their asses were especially yummy – firm, resilient, perfectly shaped and proportioned. Jason’s butt was as free of hair as his upper torso, and his soft brown bush was modest (making his quiescent cock appear even more impressive). I revised my suspicion about the man-scaping; Jason must be naturally smooth, since I couldn’t imagine any straight-boy ever bothering to depilate his ass!

“Jason,” I commanded, “Tell me your sexual preference.” I assumed I already knew, but it never hurts to ask.

“I’m straight. I only like girls.” This was said with no defensiveness, even though he was standing naked next to a boy he’d just undressed.

“Jason, you will continue to like girls, perhaps even more than before. You will constantly desire beautiful women; you will be obsessed with them… but you will never again be able to function with a woman! You can’t ask a woman for a date, nor can you accept if she asks. You can’t contrive to be alone with a woman, and, if you should find yourself in private with one, you cannot act on it, even if she makes it clear that she wants you to do so. You can never again get an erection or have an orgasm for or because of a woman; not even one in your imagination as you jack off! Repeat that ten times!” I wanted the suggestion as inextricably part of him as his DNA. Now let him get a good taste of what it’s like for the Bobbies of this world, longing for what they are forbidden to have!

After Jason completed his hypnotized litany, thereby sealing that aspect of his sexual fate, I continued, “But you will have a sex life. From now on your physical sexual response will be triggered by handsome males only. Regardless of your mental preference for women and your total distaste for homosexuality, your body will react with overwhelming arousal every time you see any good-looking guy. You will instantly have a powerful erection which you will be unable to prevent or conceal, and an irresistible need to engage in sexual activity. In spite of yourself, you will be compelled to suck his cock or be fucked by him at whatever opportunity arises. You will service men in any way they permit you to, as blank and unemotional as a robot, even while you are inwardly revolted by what you are doing. And you will do so to the very best of your ability and imagination, for the only way you yourself can orgasm ever again in your life is to have a man cum all over your face, or in your mouth, or up your ass. Now repeat that ten times as well.” I listened with utter satisfaction as the previously cocky, alpha-male quarterback helplessly committed himself to become a compulsive, submissive cum-dump.

I turned to his partner-in-crime. “Ray, you will tell me your sexual orientation.”

I have never been more astonished and flummoxed than by hearing Ray blandly answer, “I’m gay.” I simply didn’t know what to feel. My anger at him escalated abruptly. Considering what had happened to Bobby (and how much of the high school and surrounding community seemed perfectly fine with it), I had no trouble understanding why Ray would do his best to pass for straight. But how could one gay man be so lacking in comprehension or compassion for another? There’s a world of moral difference between covering your own tracks and joining the hunting pack when it moves on another member of your own species for the kill! Nonetheless, this put a real spoke in my plans. I could hardly balance his karma by making him a compulsive sex-slave as I had Jason; he’d enjoy it! And likewise, forcibly switching his sexual response to girls, rather than evening the score would solve all of his issues with the world in one stroke. As Shakespeare phrased it in Hamlet, “that’s hire and salary”! What to do?

I finally decided that my original plan was still the best choice. Ray certainly wouldn’t be as miserable as Jason, but he’d be ejected from his closet forthwith and have to deal with the fallout. “Ray,” I commanded, “You’re no longer going to be able to conceal your sexuality. You’re a gay boy, and you’re going to be acting openly and obviously gay from now on. You will dress in tight, sexy clothes suitable for a hustler. You will never again conceal or make any pretense concerning your sexual preference. You are obsessed with guys and will make that crystal clear to anyone. You are especially turned on by football players, and most especially by Jason Stamp.” That, at least, should provide some justice; knowing that the boy he wanted most, who could not refuse him sexual service, loathed everything they might do together and would surely and quickly come to detest him, would definitely become painful.

“Now we’re going to have a little dress-rehearsal. Put on your uniforms.” When they were suited up and once again standing at mindless attention I continued, “When I snap my fingers you will be in the locker room after practice - time to take off your uniforms and shower.” I snapped my fingers and the two football mannequins came to life.

At first, it was as though both Jason and Ray were simply behaving as they normally would in the situation I’d created in their minds. But then, as Jason pulled off his jersey, leaving himself, but for his shoulder pads, bare from the waist up, Ray’s eyes locked on his teammate like heat-seeking missiles, his expression suddenly and openly lustful. Under that hot stare, Jason started to fidget uncomfortably, finally blurting out, “Fuck you lookin’ at, Tuttle?”

“Just admirin’ the scenery, stud.” Ray licked his lips and winked. I had to stifle a laugh. His lazy drawl was one hundred percent southern faggot. He could have been auditioning for the role of Blanche DuBois in an all-male version of Streetcar.

Jason’s eyes widened with shock. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Ray? You’re no faggot!”

“Yeah, I kinda am, Jase.  And you’re prime!” As he unlaced his padded football pants, his hips thrust forward in blatant invitation, the tight end continued to ogle his frozen, horrified teammate. Ray made quick work of shucking off the pants and his jock-strap revealing a very impressive cock at full erection. 

True to the unbreakable hypnotic conditioning, Jason, at the sight of his handsome teammate naked from the waist down, immediately began to tent out the front of his own pants. (I’d prevented the boys from using the cups in their athletic supporters when they suited up, so it was quite obvious.) His face was a study in embarrassment and misery.

Ray smirked, “Well, well, well, looks like I’m not the only one here who sees somethin’ he likes. Why don’t you come on over here and get better acquainted with Little Ray?”

“Please, no,” Jason whispered aghast. But his eyes never left Ray’s cock, and, his face quickly losing all expression, he walked as though in a trance (well, technically he was) to kneel between the blond boy’s knees. His mouth fell open.

“That’s right, Jase, go on and suck my pecker.” 

And Jason did – reluctantly, awkwardly, but thoroughly cooperating in his own rape. I’d left him no choice in the matter. Fighting his gag reflex, he swallowed Ray right down to the pubes. Tears started from Jason’s eyes as Ray began to pump in and out, moaning with pleasure. It didn’t take long at all before the blond boy gasped ecstatically, pulled his dick from the sucking mouth and shot a huge load all over Jason’s face. 

Jason froze in shock, but then, as the last of his trance-conditioning took hold, he too spasmed, pumping his own load into his jock-strap. Then he began to cry helplessly, tears and Ray’s cum dripping down his cheeks. “H-how could you do that to me?” he sobbed.

Ray’s eyes widened in horrified remorse. “Dude, Jase, calm down! Please! I thought you wanted it! Oh God, I’m sorry! I’d never hurt you. I love you!” He tried to help Jason up from the floor, but the quarterback flinched as though Ray’s hands were red-hot and turned away, crying even harder. Ray’s eyes teared up as well and he began to sniffle. Soon he too was crying full-bore and had collapsed onto the floor. He looked especially pathetic, since he was naked from the waist down; like a little boy after a severe spanking.

Now, from what I’ve told you previously, I’ve probably come off as a real hard-ass. And certainly, at the height of my fury I’d been dead to pity. But there’s something about a guy sobbing his guts out that hits me at a place I can’t defend. I swear, homophobic, pseudo-religious asshole that he is, if Pat Robertson were crying in front of me, I’d probably try to comfort him. And besides, the bottom line is that I’m a healer, damn it! I went into psychiatry to help people. I just couldn’t go through with this. I snapped them back into full trance-mode, got them cleaned up and dressed, and went to work.

It took the rest of the afternoon, but I returned Jason and Ray to their normal state, but with a few notable exceptions. They still were going to remember everything about their little sojourn in slave city, and be unable to say or do a thing about it. “Jason, if you ever again even consider using your social position or your physical strength to abuse a gay person (or a woman, for that matter), you will instantly remember this day as vividly as if you were experiencing it all over again. You will feel, as sharply as you do right now, the anguish of having your natural sexuality forcibly overridden by someone who has the power over you to do so in spite of your preferences or desires. And Ray, even though you no longer have the compulsion to act obviously and flamingly queer, you are homosexual, and you will stop pretending. And if you ever again abuse another gay person merely to bolster your own spurious heterosexual credentials, you will remember today and re-experience every bit of the pain of being hated for what you most love. As football stars, you are a power in your town, and from now on you will use that power responsibly and humanely. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” In their totally hypnotized helplessness, there was no question of disagreement, but I thought I detected perhaps just a tinge of shame through that bland and mindless response. Possibly I was just projecting. Or just maybe I’d achieved some actual sensitivity training after all.

 

A few weeks later, it was front page news in the local paper when the football coach suffered a nervous breakdown and exposed himself to the girls’ basketball coach. He was forced out within three days. The judge took a little longer, but he was caught in a bribery sting and indicted. He’s been disbarred and won’t see the outside of prison in less than ten years. 

What? You thought just because I softened on Jason and Ray, I gave up on my mission of vengeance for the sufferings of Bobby Kowalski? Hell, those men were much guiltier than the boys. They were the ones who had created the social climate in which the two young hooligans could believe they had the right to do what they did. I took special and completely guilt-free pleasure in engineering their downfalls.

END

So whaddya think? Type in the code
Reset code