O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Inevitable (mm hypno coll)

by Wrestlr

1.

Night had fallen, like a priceless Ming vase dropped by a clumsy burglar. Okay, this story has nothing to do with vases or burglars—I’ve just always thought it would be cool for somebody to start off a story that way. Since I’m telling this story, we start it my way, okay?

Night had fallen, though. That part was true.

It’s hard to believe that I nearly changed the world. By “change,” I mean I tried to affect the course of something already happening. By “the world,” I mean life here at this campus, which for a college student like me pretty much is my whole world. Plus this is the story of how I lost my virginity and got hypnotized for the first time, both of which were sure world-changing for me. Neither event happened the way I expected, and trying to change the world didn’t last long. When you’re just one guy, a thing like that can’t, you know.

I’m in a fraternity with a bunch of other athletes. This university puts a lot of emphasis on the sports programs, and that means the jock frat has some major clout, so I go to all the best parties with a lot of rich boys, the kind where if his name is Bo he spells it B-e-a-u-x , that type of bullshit. But mostly, I spent my time in classes (boring), the library (super-boring), the gym (better), or the frat house. Let’s start there. Let’s peek in on a typical third-floor bedroom at the jock frat house in the middle of the night. See that handsome young athlete studying at the desk there? That’s me. I’ll be your narrator. Hi. Welcome to college. Welcome to the party.

By now you may be wondering how I wound up nearly changing the world—or maybe not. Maybe you wonder how the Internet works and how your favorite websites know when it’s time for an update, or maybe you’re wondering why I haven’t gotten directly to the good-and-dirty parts already. Point is, I don’t see another narrator in this story, so pipe down. We’ll get to the good stuff soon enough.

How did it all happen? See for yourself.

Like I said, a typical third-floor bedroom at the AThL house. At, like, one o’clock in the morning, the frat house was quiet, my roommate was off God knows where, and I was still up studying for a killer chemistry midterm I had coming up. I had the munchies, so I headed downstairs to raid the refrigerator. Most of the guys were asleep already—hey, frat life isn’t always drunken parties every night until dawn, even here at a jock frat like Alpha Theta Lambda. AThL ... Athletics, get it?

So everybody was asleep, and I was trying to be quiet. I headed down the back stairway, mostly because it’s right outside my room and I was too lazy to walk to the front of the house and use the main staircase. I long-legged over the third step, the one that always creaks, got about halfway down, and froze.

Nobody much used these back stairs except me and my roommate Jake, so the guys must have thought they wouldn’t be disturbed back on this side of the house. Not ten yards away from the stairs and off to the side stood Marcel, Peter, and Junior, kinda facing me, and there was this other guy with them with his back to me, between them and the stairs.

My first thought was, Kind of a public place for a circle jerk . I crouched down on the stairs and watched them between the railing slats.

Here’s what I saw, kinda in the order I saw it. They were standing side by side, just about shoulder to shoulder—Marcel on the left, Peter in the middle, then Junior—all facing my general direction. The hallway lights on their floor were still on, so I saw them clearly.

Oh, and they all had their cocks out, hard and stroking—I noticed that immediately too. That’s why I thought they were having a circle jerk.

See? I told you we’d get to the good parts soon enough.

Marcel, our fraternity president, wore a pair of white boxer-briefs, white socks with red stripes around the tops, and a baseball cap pulled down on his nearly black hair and turned backward. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He had his boxer-briefs bunched down at mid-thigh, so his big, super-thick, hard cock soared proudly in the air. He stroked it lightly—index and middle fingers and thumb of his right hand—while his left cupped his balls. He had his knees bent slightly, tilting his torso back, as if displaying his sleekly muscled body. His eyes were closed, face bowed downward at his cock.

Peter looked like he had just gotten back from a date with whatever Miss Slutty McSlutski he was currently boffing. He was dressed kind of nice, kind of preppy: an olive-green polo shirt, loafers, khaki pants down around his ankles. His cock wasn’t as thick as Marcel’s but it was just as long, and he was using both hands to stroke it. He had his eyes closed too, head tilted back, mouth open slightly, enjoying the feeling.

Junior wore his usual white wife-beater tee-shirt and a pair of brick-red sweatpants. He had the bottom of that wife-beater scrunched up a little on his tight stomach, sweatpants lowered to just below his balls. No underwear. His feet were bare. His cock was the longest of the three. He stroked it with his left hand, a good, firm grip, while his right circled the base of his rod and ball sack. He had his head bowed forward too, like Marcel, eyes closed, stroking happily in a world of his own.

Peter with his head back made this weird little sound. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he was snoring softly.

The guy standing between me and them? He had his back to me—didn’t know I was there—none of them did. He was an older guy, seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite see his face. “That’s it,” he told them. “Feels so good. Bring yourself right to the brink, but you can’t cum just yet. Not until I say so.”

I thought to myself, Is this any way to run a frat house, having a jack-off contest in public like this? I had on a pair of boxer shorts and my socks. Now my cock stiffened up inside my boxers, making an obvious tent. I didn’t dare touch it or take it out, ‘cause I’d probably cum instantly if I did; that’s how horny I was.

The man said, “Marcel, how long has it been since you were allowed to cum?”

Marcel panted quietly, “Eight days, sir, since you let me.”

“Peter, how long has it been since you were allowed to cum?”

Peter moaned, “Two weeks, sir, since last time.”

“And Junior, how long for you?”

“Four days, sir, since you let me.”

“Good, boys, very good. Just stroke yourselves. Good. Feeling so good, isn’t it. Let yourself go right to the brink ... but you can’t cum. Not until I give you permission. You’ve still got a few important jobs to do first, don’t you. Yes, a few more very important jobs. Cumming is your reward for obeying so very well. Maybe after you complete the tasks I’ve given you, then and only then will I give you permission. For now, that’s enough—take your hands off your cocks, boys.”

They did, slowly.

“Let your cocks soften. Let them go limp. Tomorrow, after you’ve done what I asked, maybe then you’ll get your reward. Cocks going so limp. Bodies so relaxed and loose.”

They did as he said. Their hands fell away from their rods, and their cocks slowly started deflating.

“Time to put your toys away, boys,” the man said.

The three of them bent and pulled up their pants, tucking away their sagging semi-hard cocks.

The man lifted something into the air between them, something dangling from his hand on a thin gold chain. The dangling thing was this faceted purple crystal of some sort, just like the one I’d seen Coach Cox use on Jake earlier.

That’s when I put two and two together. Peter really was snoring, because they were all three asleep.

After what I’d seen at practice that afternoon and now this, I said to myself, What a way to run a college—are all the guys getting hypnotized except me?

The man said, “Open your eyes and look deeply into the crystal again, one last time for tonight.” They did. “So easy to look deeply into the crystal and stay so deeply asleep. Let it relax you more deeply. You have your instructions for tomorrow—feel them lock in, stronger, ever stronger—and I expect you to do your best. Now, it’s time for you to go back to your rooms. Carry this deeply relaxed, deeply horny feeling with you. So easy to walk back to your rooms and stay so deeply relaxed. Nothing will interrupt this peaceful, calm feeling that fills you. Go back to your rooms, and fall into your beds, and you will sleep deeply, sleep until morning, and awake feeling refreshed. Go now.”

Marcel, Peter, and Junior shuffled off down the hallway, their eyes open but obviously nobody home upstairs, like they were sleepwalking or something. Which I guess in a way they were.

I stood up, intending to creep back up the stairs until the man had gone too, like I was never there. The stair creaked a little—damn it!—and that’s when the man turned to me. I recognized him: Professor Johnson, from the Psychology Department, one of our two faculty advisors. I grimaced and pretended I was just now coming down the stairs, not trying to sneak back up. He grinned, like he had known I was there all along—which maybe he had. Who knows?

“You’re up late,” he said.

“Yeah—just heading down to the kitchen.”

“Well, don’t stay up too late. It’s past time for you to be asleep. In fact, speaking of sleep, why don’t you—”

“It’s late—catch you later, Professor,” I said, as I slipped by him and continued on down the next flight of stairs, to save myself further embarrassment.

2.

Lots of porn stories are about colleges, but real college life is hard to dramatize for several reasons: the ecosystem is too vast, and it’s based loosely around tedious lectures and insufferably self-centered kids. But the main reason is that only a small percentage of people have a degree. The majority of readers can’t relate to stories about college life, aside of course from the parts about getting drunk or getting laid, which is what most porn stories imply college is all about. Stories about what college is really like—the lectures, the whiney kids lost in their soap-opera lives—those stories remind readers of experiences they either wish they had or are relieved they didn’t. This story, though, is just me skipping over the dull crap and telling you about the good stuff—it might not be completely centered around keg-fueled escapades, but it’s the story of nobody’s experience but mine, and there’s probably enough sex to keep you entertained even though I obviously wasn’t one of the ones having most of it. You might like this story if you like that porn subgenre where debauchery is college’s sole reason for existing. College is one of those experiences where mundane authenticity is the enemy of entertainment.

Oh, shit—I skipped something. Damn it. I forgot that whole what I’d seen with Coach and Jake before bit. I made a big deal telling you that, and then I totally forgot. Fuck, this is bad narrating—like a five-year-old trying to tell a joke: “Wait; back up—I forgot to say the Martians were purple and had three eyes.” Fuck. Anyway, I don’t know if you want to see it now, but here’s the fucking Coach and Jake stuff. Can I say fuck some more?

I’d been in the locker room after swim team practice. I’d already showered, dried off, and had my boxer shorts on. Jake, my roommate and teammate, was running behind, as usual. He’d been shitting around with some of the other guys and hadn’t done anything except get his locker open so far. He still wore his practice Swimsuit, the same school blue that all of us had been wearing earlier.

Coach Cox, our swim coach and my frat’s other faculty advisor—his office adjoined the locker room, and this side door connected them. The bench where I was changing was right by the door.

From the doorway, Coach barked, “Jake, get in here.”

“Coming, Coach,” Jake said and followed him inside. Jake is captain of the swim team, so it wasn’t uncommon for Coach to talk to him after practice.

Coach pushed the door shut, but it didn’t swing closed all the way. It stayed cracked open a few inches.

“Have a seat,” Coach said. Jake sat down in one of the two chairs in front of Coach’s desk, which put his back to me. Coach sat on the corner of his desk, in semi-profile. There was somebody else there too, sitting behind Coach, at Coach’s desk. All I could see was one of the other guy’s arms.

Coach fingered at something on his chest. In addition to the whistle he always wore dangling between his pecs, there was a purple crystal pendant on a thin chain—I remembered he had started wearing that a few days before—For luck, he’d said.

“You looked good out there,” Coach said to Jake. “You shaved almost half a second off your time. See how your performance improves when you focus?”

Something distracted me over my shoulder—bare feet ran by, somebody’s balled-up towel whizzed by my head. Guys horsing around. When I turned back to the door, Coach had that pendant and chain dangling in the air away from his chest a little. He turned it and it rotated this way a little, then back the other way. “That’s it,” he said. “Focused. Deeply relaxed.”

I couldn’t see much of Jake through the crack, just his arm when it slipped off the chair’s armrest and hung there, limp and still.

That’s it, Coach murmured, so quietly I couldn’t hear him over the noise of the showers and the guys fucking around in the locker room—that part I lip-read. Then: Go ahead and take it off, if you want to. You’re going to be taking a shower soon anyway. Might as well take it off now.

I thought, What the fuck? But I got distracted again when somebody’s shoe bounced off my shoulder. “Sorry,” one of my teammates bleated, scooping up the shoe and retreating.

“Watch it, fucker,” I barked at him.

When I turned back to the door, I was just in time to see it click shut. I guess they wanted privacy.

I finished getting dressed and sat waiting for Jake. A while later—by then two-thirds of the team were gone—the door opened and Jake strolled out, smiling a little, naked, thick semi-hard dick swinging, with his swimsuit bunched in his right hand. His eyes looked dazed or distracted. I’d seen his dick before; it looked normal when it was soft, but obviously he was a grower. I’d only sorta-kinda seen it hard before, during rush last year, and technically I wasn’t seeing it fully hard now, but even semi-hard, his cock was pretty fucking big.

I asked him, “So what just happened in there?”

“Pep talk,” he mumbled as he dropped his swimsuit on the bench and picked up his towel, which made his dick swing around some more while I tried not to stare. “Yeah. Pep talk.” And then he strolled off to the showers before I could question him more.

Okay, I apologize. That was a terrible scene. You’re probably thinking, like, Why was that even in this story? Gee, you think maybe it’ll be important later, or something?

3.

In my philosophy class last semester, we read Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer says there’s no such thing as free will, neither in the philosopher who throws a stone nor in the stone itself, although both of them believe otherwise. The stone thinks, as it sails through the air, that its will is free, but that’s only an illusion. Everyone likes to believe that he is free in his individual activities, that at any point he can change his life and begin another one, or become another person altogether. But even though the man thinks about change, he does not change. Necessity rules him, often necessity of which he is unaware. From beginning to end, he acts out his assigned role.

I was in one of the bathroom stalls that morning, with my shorts and boxers around my ankles, taking a piss and a dump. The main bathroom at the frat house was a big, open space with sinks and mirrors over there, a couple of urinals and toilet stalls over here, and a shower area over there. I finished my wiping and cleanup, but I was in no hurry to flush and leave the stall. Why? Well, I’m about to tell you, since that’s a narrator’s job.

Because of the view. Marcel, the president of our fraternity, stood under the shower spray, soaping his back. I kept leaning to the side so I could peep through the crack between the stall door and wall. Marcel’s ass was practically a work of art that belonged in a museum, and I didn’t want to miss that exhibition.

Taz walked in, in shorts and a pair of flip-flops. He hooked his towel over a peg, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, and was naked on one easy drop-and-step-step motion. Taz was on the wrestling team, and while he may have been a huge jerk half the time, he had this really efficient and sexy way of moving that made up for it. Taz started the shower two nozzles down from Marcel, tested the temperature, and stepped under the water.

Marcel said something and Taz said something back. I couldn’t make out specific words over the showers—the acoustics in the bathroom with all that tile made conversation difficult when the showers were running unless you were right on top of each other or hollering or shit like that. But I heard Taz say incredulously, “Here? Now?” He looked around guiltily.

Marcel said something else. He was soaping his groin area. When he turned a little, I suddenly was treated to the sight of his erection poking out of a sudsy fist—poking repeatedly out of a sudsy fist, as Marcel stroked himself.

Taz looked at the door, as if assessing the risk. He was a sadistic Neanderthal, but he was an adventurous Neanderthal. He looked back at Marcel and grinned and nodded. His hand slithered into his crotch and he soaped up his cock. Pretty soon, this column of flesh was rising from the mass of bubbles Taz had made in his pubes—rising, rising, and still rising. Taz’s erection was fucking enormous! He was a muscular wrestler but—man!—that cock nearly dwarfed the rest of him.

They faced each other, one empty shower between them, and stroked. I had a great view of Marcel’s ass and Taz’s cock, and I memorized everything about them. Yeah, I’d be jacking off over this memory again and soon! My cock was already hard. Marcel kept saying something low. Taz kept replying with something curt and hard—from his expression, I imagined he was saying, Dude, shut up and stroke.

Marcel kept droning on. Maybe he turned into a fucking chatterbox when he jacked off—who knows?—but Taz kept replying with that same curt-and-hard answer. But Marcel kept talking, the same drone, too low for me to make out specific words.

Taz blinked, and yawned, kept stroking, and blinked again. Marcel kept droning on. Taz’s head bobbed a little. He blinked again. I might not be the sharpest tack in the seat cushion, but I figured it out. You did too if you’ve been paying attention.

Marcel must have thought they wouldn’t be disturbed, because he was not only jacking off in the showers with Taz, he was trying to hypnotize Taz too, like they had all the time and privacy in the world.

That’s when the idea hit me. I could really fuck with them!

I reached back and flushed the toilet. The sudden loud sound snapped them both back to reality. “Shit!” Taz barked, eyes wide and jaw dropped, and I heard that just fine because he said it so loudly. He and Marcel, back under his own shower again, whirled their fronts toward the wall to hide their hard-ons. Right—as if the guilty, scared-shitless looks on their faces weren’t confession enough. Fucking priceless!

I had to fight to keep from laughing my ass off! Nah—I had to play this cool, real cucumber-cool. I stood up, pulled my underwear and shorts up, tucked my hard-on away. As I opened the stall door, Taz zipped by, nearly collided with me, flip-flops slapping his feet, towel around his waist, shorts bunched in his hand. He disappeared into the hallway. I tried to act all nonchalant as I strolled out of the stall, paying no attention—nope, none at all—like I hadn’t seen a thing, certainly not a two-man circle jerk that almost ended in hypnosis. I played it Mister Casual style and strolled out of the bathroom without even glancing at Marcel.

Upstairs, with my erection mostly subsided, I ran into the Professor in the frat house hallway. He usually wasn’t around this time of day, and almost never on the top floor where my room was.

“Well, hello.” He snaked his arm around my shoulder and ushered me back toward my room. “I’ve been thinking,” he said,” it’s time we had a talk.”

“Uh, okay.” I said, hoping the remnant of my Marcel-and-Taz erection wasn’t too noticeable in my shorts.

“Have a seat there on the bed.” I did, and he sat in my roommate’s desk chair. He fingered this little purple crystal. “Don’t worry—you’re not in any trouble. You’ve probably noticed some things happening.”

“Uhm, yeah?”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Have you ever thought you knew what was going on, then you turn around and it turns out to be something completely different? Like maybe you only knew a little piece of a bigger picture?”

“Yeah—sure.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“I dunno. Kinda dumb, I guess.”

“That’s understandable. No one can know everything that’s going on. We all sometimes feel like things are going on around us we aren’t fully aware of. Like your arms there. Sometimes you pay attention to one thing, like my voice, and you forget what your arms are doing or what they feel like. Or maybe your legs, the way they can feel all heavy and limp sometimes.”

So the Professor was trying to hypnotize me too now, huh? I wasn’t sure what to make of that. While I thought hypnosis was pretty damned sexy as fantasy fodder, my frat brothers didn’t know I batted for the gay team, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into a situation where they might find out.

“Listen,” I said, already up and heading for my door. “It’s been great talking to you, but I gotta be someplace. Maybe later?” Meaning: never, no way, nope. And that’s how I made my escape and left him sitting there, probably pissed off at me now.

I might be in the closet to my frat brothers, but I’m no dummy. In all of these porn stories—and the fact that I not only know these stories exist but have read enough of them should tell you how much of a turn-on I found all this to be—in all of these stories some professor-slash-mad scientist-slash-circus clown, whatever, walks into a fraternity house and brandishes his pocket watch-slash-experimental formula-slash-magic spell, and he doesn’t stop until the whole frat is naked and jacking off at his feet. It’s inevitable. Hot too, right?—If you’re into that, I mean, which you probably are since you’ve read this far already, and for that I thank you. But what all those stories lack is realism. Sure, they’re porn. But where’s the reality? Where’s the dramatic tension? You never once doubt that the professor-slash-whatever is going to be successful in his master plan of hypno-seducing the whole frat.

Hypno-seducing. Like it? I just made that word up. Narrators can do that sort of thing, and nobody cares until the narrator starts calling your attention to it.

Sure, I’m nineteen years old and only recently de-virginized—which, don’t worry, I’ll tell you about soon—and way too sarcastic for my own good, but I’m perfectly capable of making up a word like hypno-seducing..

Well, I decided two things right then and there. First: If somebody was going to write a porn story about what was happening at my fraternity house, it was going to be me. Why should some other author-slash-jerk get all the credit? That way I’d know the writer got it right. Second: Fuck Schopenhauer—my story was going to have dramatic tension, even if I had to provide it myself. I knew there probably wasn’t much I could do to stop or even slow down the inevitable. Hell, I’d be going up against a mad scientist-slash-whatever who probably had that whole master plan bwa-ha-ha speech thing already thought out, and I’m just a college student who couldn’t manage to schedule his laundry day far enough in advance to always have fresh underwear in his drawer. And when did society decide we have to change and wash a tee-shirt after each individual wearing, anyway? If it’s not dirty and doesn’t smell too funky, I’m gonna re-wear it. Whatever. But at least I could introduce a little chaos into the proceedings. That’s the role usually performed by the villain, but I’m too big a meathead to be a real villain. Real villains could probably pass chemistry, a class where I was not doing so well, especially if I didn’t ace my upcoming midterm. I’d make a lousy villain. No, mischief was more my speed. I’m more fun-loving than evil.

Oh, sure—everybody says they want to play for the Big Dramatic Hero, but I don’t have enough internal conflict to make a convincing hero—well, aside from that closeted gayboy thing nobody but me knew about. Anyway, heroing sounds like a lot of work, and I’d rather have fun. Maybe I’d even manage to get my dick sucked along the way, which isn’t exactly a heroic aspiration. You want a fascinating play about moral ambiguity as the hero strives to overcome his human failings?—Go read Shakespeare instead. So what other major character type is left? That’s right—the trickster. An online encyclopedia says a trickster is a character “who plays tricks or otherwise disobeys normal rules and conventional behavior.” This is an otherwise conventional porn story, so the trickster’s role would be to disrupt the inevitable proceedings, and I was the man for the job. Hell, messing with Marcel and Taz in the showers had been fun, and messing with the Professor in my room had been kinda fun too. Playing the trickster is always more fun than playing the hero or the villain. Ask anyone.

4.

Speaking of laundry ...

See how all these parts fit together? This narration shit is easy.

I hauled my laundry—all nice and clean again—from the far end of the basement where the little laundry room was, down the hallway to the stairs, and I passed by the door to the big room where most of our Hell Week and initiation stuff happens. It’s a big unfinished basement room with a concrete slab floor, so any spillage “accidents” involving massive quantities of beer, puke, or other bodily fluids can get cleaned up and don’t ruin anything.

I stuck my head in, just to see how the proceedings were going, and by ‘proceedings” I mean all the wicked shit we make the pledges do in theory to “prove” how much they want to become brothers—we don’t call it “hazing” anymore.

I stuck my head in and there’s my sort-of buddy Taz putting this year’s crop of pledges through the usual fraternity shit that stops just this side of outright sadism.

Taz, this year’s pledgemaster, was easy to spot—in room where all the men, even Taz, were shirtless, he was the only one wearing pants. He was also the one hollering orders.

Most of us got into the frat because we were good athletes who were also good guys to party with. Taz—see, he’s a different matter. Some might say he got into the frat on account of his big dick, which I already showed you in the showers, but in my opinion, dick-schmick, Taz was destined to be here. His fearlessness and latent sadism made him the perfect pledgemaster. Taz had been pledgemaster last year too, when I went through rush, and sometimes I still resented him for the sick shit he made us do. But I gotta admit, seeing the pledges being made to do that sick shit was worth having been made to do it myself.

“Keep it up, pledge—you’re doing good. Suck that dick. You like sucking that dick, pledge? Suck it harder. I know you like sucking that dick, pledge. Now, switch!”

Did I say latent sadism?

Taz called them all pledge because he said he didn’t want to bother learning their names if case they dropped out before initiation, but I think it was because he wasn’t smart enough to remember that many names. The pledges were the ones in boxer shorts. He had three of them on their knees, with the rest lined up in front of them. The standing pledges had their boxers pushed down, and the kneeling ones were sucking the dicks of the pledges standing in front of them. I couldn’t see the details from way over by the door, but I remembered the drill. Every time Taz yelled switch, each kneeling pledge moved down to the next dick.

“Yeah, that’s right. Suck that dick. Suck it! Deeper, pledge!”

Now, an outsider walking in and seeing this might think, Wow, how far has this hypnosis thing spread already? But trust me, that wasn’t hypnosis—making the pledges suck cock is just normal Hell Week behavior around this frat house. Taz still had his pants zipped, but once he thought they’d gotten the hang of it and once he figured out which pledges were good at sucking, he’d probably haul his dick out too and show those pledges what a real man’s cock was like by getting himself some of that oral action. I suspected Taz wasn’t entirely heterosexual.

What I was watching was supposed to be sexual but not sexy, if that distinction makes any sense. Just a bunch of pledges being made to gross sexual stuff. It was all about humiliating them. If one of them seemed to think it was sexy or seemed to like it—or heaven help him, if he climaxed—he’d have been ejected immediately. Sucking cock was not about cumming, but about making the pledges do something they hated, over and over again. Still, I remembered when Jake and me were pledges last year. Sucking dick like that for the first time was a secret thrill that led to me admitting to myself I’m gay. But I hadn’t admitted that to any of the others.

Just a quick look—just enough to store up “inspiration” for a jack off fantasy later. Anything more might seem like I was enjoying the view too much, and I didn’t need rumors getting started.

I was stashing my clean laundry in the closet when Peter walked into my room. Peter’s one of my frat brothers. What sport did he play?—Well, it involved a ball and it didn’t involve water, so obviously it wasn’t one of the important ones. He wore a sky-blue tee-shirt and a pair of light gray shorts, dark hair partly sweaty and tousled, a volleyball tucked under his arm. “Well, well—It’s about time you were getting back,” he said. The way he wolf-grinned made me nervous—like something was up that I wasn’t supposed to know about.

I decided to play dumb—which definitely wasn’t that difficult for me. “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

He tossed the ball at me, fast. “Sleep!”

By reflex, I caught it, right before it would’ve hit my chest. “Huh?” I said. I shoved it back at him. “Sleep yourself. Whatever, dude.”

He snatched it out of the air, eyes slitting just a bit, that grin widening, more predatory. “Mmm,” he said, savoring something. “Nice try, but say it like you mean it.” He snapped the ball back at me again and barked, “Sleep!”

I caught it. Did he think the Professor had managed to hypnotize me earlier? Maybe he didn’t know I’d slipped away before the Professor could seal the deal. Or was he trying to hypnotize me himself? I pitched the volleyball back, hard and fast. “Sleep!”

Peter snagged the ball out of the air. “Mmm, yeah—That’s better—I almost felt it that time.” He snapped the ball back at me again. “Sleep!”

I was a millisecond too slow that time—fast enough to block it, but the ball ricocheted off the side of my hand instead of me catching it. Fucking ow!

Peter bent and scooped it up in mid-bounce.

“So what’s going on here?” boomed a voice from the doorway. Marcel leaned against the door frame.

“Just playing around is all,” Peter said. “Want to join us?”

Marcel scowled and stalked over. Was Peter doing something he shouldn’t? I’d figured out the hypnosis but I still wasn’t clear on everything else going on here. Marcel jerked the ball out of Peter’s hands, saying, “You know that’s against the rules. Nice use of props, though. Let’s see how you like it.” He poked the ball against Peter’s chest and commanded, “Sleep.”

Peter blinked. That wolf-smile softened—it stayed just as wide but became a smile of pleasure. “Mmm ...”

“Sleep,” Marcel said authoritatively as he poked Peter’s chest again.

“Ahh ...” Peter’s eyes closed, and his head drooped forward.

“And you,” Marcel said, bumping the ball against my chest. “Sleep.”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” I decided to play dumb.

Marcel frowned at me a second, then poked me again. “Sleep.”

I swatted the volleyball out of his hand, and it bounced out into the hallway. “Uh, I’m kinda in the middle of something here. Why don’t you two go somewhere else. Seriously.”

“Yeah ... Well.” Marcel practically dismissed me, even though this was my room. He turned back to Peter, standing there, gently swaying, asleep on his feet. “Come with me,” Marcel hummed in Peter’s ear. His hand, lightly in the small of Peter’s back, guided him forward, toward the door. Peter didn’t seem to mind and went along quietly.

When they were gone, I pushed the door shut and looked down at the crotch of my pants. I had one hell of a boner!

5.

Coach called for another special evening practice, the second one in a row, but I had to miss it again because I had a chemistry study group meeting every night that week. Coach knew I had to pass that big midterm—he’d understand.

The next day, though, Coach called me aside near the end of our regular practice and got all on my case about missing the special practices. He was calling another one for that evening, he said, but this time he didn’t want me to be there. Instead, he told me I needed to go see Professor Johnson right away—go, go, go.

Well, there was no way I was going to go all the way to Professor Johnson’s office in nothing but my wet swimsuit and track suit, so instead I went back to the locker room with team.

Coach whistled for practice to be over, and he led the team as we trotted back to the locker room and through the double doors. Usually Coach veered off to his office—but this time, pulling his shirt off over his head, he kept going directly back to where the showers were. The guys were shedding their track suits and goggles and swimsuits too, so I did the same thing.

As he toed off his shoes, Coach hollered, “Listen up, guys! What comes after one hundred?”

“Ninety-nine!” we all shouted back in unison, still shedding our own gear. I wondered, What kind of question was that?

And before I knew it, the rest of the team hollered, “Ninety eight! Ninety seven! Ninety-six!”

Coach and the team, everybody naked now, including me, crowded into open shower area. There were only eight shower nozzles and about twenty-four of us team members, twenty-five counting Coach. Usually we spaced out our shower intervals ‘cause there was enough space or shower heads for all of us at once, but right then we were jammed in there three or four to a shower.

And still the guys kept chanting under the spray: “Ninety-three! Ninety-two!”

“That’s it,” Coach hollered out over the spray as the team called out the numbers.

I decided this must have been something they’d covered in the special practice sessions. I played along.

“Eighty nine! Eighty-eight!”

“Focus.” Coach said. “I know you’re tired after a hard practice. So tired. So focused. Just like before. Let it happen all over again.”

Over there, one of my teammates yawned. Over there, so did another. We were all tired, but I wondered if more was going on.

“Eighty! Seventy-nine!”

“So focused. So sleepy. Together. Teamwork.”

A couple of the guys looked really sleepy. They weren’t jostling each other anymore, just kind of standing there, waiting, letting something happen.

“Seventy-three!”

“Returning to that deep sleep you enjoyed last night.”

A couple of voices went quiet. Not intentional—they just didn’t join in anymore. One guy leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, and his body sank down until his butt met the tile floor.

“Seventy-one!”

“Falling so deeply asleep with the team.”

Two others leaned against each other, wet and slippery from the water spraying down on them, then both sagged until they were on their knees. They toppled, slowly, to the floor.

“Sixty-nine!”

“It’s part of you now. Part of being part of the team.”

All of the guys looked groggy, even Coach. More and more of them were dropping out of the chant. One by one, their eyes closed. They sank against the wall or to the floor. They seemed to be falling asleep.

I figured out what was happening. I figured out what I’d missed during those “special” practice sessions.

“Sixty-five!”

“Sleep now.”

The guys already asleep looked so peaceful. The ones who hadn’t yet weren’t fighting it. Coach didn’t seem to notice I was there with the team instead of off with Professor Johnson—or maybe he didn’t care.

“Sixty-three ...”

“Sleep now. Overwhelming you. Sleep now.”

Only a few voices were left, and they were slowing down.

“Sixty-one ...”

“Deep sleep. Irresistible. It’s part of being a team.”

“Fifty-nine ...”

Another teammate slumped down onto the floor, brushing me on his way down. I decided the time had come for me to pretend to be hypnotized too, so I closed my eyes, stopped chanting, and sank down onto the tile floor too—but not up against any of my nearby teammates’ naked bodies. I’d have thrown a woody for sure if that happened.

Finally the last voice went silent.

“That’s it,” Coach’s groggy voice congratulated them. He seemed to be reciting the words, slowly, voice almost sleep-thick himself. “Deeply asleep. Deeply relaxed. Feel the sleep becoming part of you. Part of all of us now. It’s part of being part of this team now. You love being part of this team, and you love being this deeply relaxed. It feels good, doesn’t it.”

A couple of guys murmured.

“Being this focused helps you feel part of the team. It feels good. Anything that happens when you’re this deeply relaxed, this deeply part of the team, feels good and helps you feel more connected to your teammates.”

What the fuck is he talking about, I wondered, waiting to see where this went.

“When you’re part of a team, it’s only natural to want to help the team succeed.”

What was it Jake had said about a “pep talk” after I saw him in the office with Coach? Yeah, I was pretty sure I knew where this was going, and my dick started expressing its interest. Down, boy, I thought to it, just in case I was wrong.

Coach said helping out the team was a major part of being a team. There was nothing more important in our lives than this team. If a teammate needed help with something, anything, we had a duty to provide, just as our teammates would help us when we needed it. No boundaries, no secrets, and no shame. Each one’s need was everyone’s obligation. One goal. One team.

I lost the fight against an erection, and my cock continued to swell, heading toward full mast. I regretted going down against the wall where I could peer through nearly closed eyelids at what was going on, because it meant my boner was on full display.

No boundaries, no secrets, and no shame. Coach kept coming back to that part. Everything that happened was teammates helping out teammates and would bring us closer together, tighten our bonds as a team. He told us to open our eyes and look around at our teammates.

Uh-oh! I was seconds away from the whole team seeing my erection!

I opened my eyes, thinking I’d find some discrete way to use my hand or arm to hide my dick.

I opened my eyes, and I saw Coach standing across the showers, the only one of us still on his feet, naked except for that little purple crystal pendant around his neck. He wasn’t paying attention to me. He was looking at the mass of swim team members in front of him. And Coach had himself a fat erection too! His dick stuck directly out in front of him, thick, crimson-headed.

Somebody’s arm reached up from the shower floor and a hand wrapped around Coach’s cock and stroked it slowly.

Somebody else’s hand slid across my hip and circled my shaft. I jumped and sucked in a breath, reminding myself I was supposed to be all relaxed and hypnotized.

I reached out and touched a butt cheek. My fingers followed it around and found a navel, then the erection below it. I wrapped my hand around it and tugged on it, slow and gentle. My other hand wandered out and found another cock, already being jacked, so my fingers stroked the nut sack instead.

Everything was a mass of writhing male flesh on the shower floor. Somebody pulled Coach down into the tangle, and he willingly let himself be drawn in. Hands were on cocks, and across the way I saw a couple of my teammates, including Jake, going at it with their mouths. I wasn’t sure who I was jacking, or who was jacking me, because all I could see was a shoulder, part of an arm or two, and somebody’s calf as the bodies squirmed in front of my face. Besides, I thought it best if I didn’t appear too interested-or awake.

Coach told us it was okay to cum. Okay to help a teammate cum; okay to cum ourselves. That last part he got kind of strangled, like he was cumming. I could see part of his torso, his head thrown back and mouth open, orgasming, definitely orgasming. I heard a couple of the guys groan as they probably climaxed too. That did it for me. My balls pulled up. My dickhead fired off that first blot of pleasure, and I gasped, and then my dick sent waves of ecstasy through me while my balls squirted out my load. My body bowed, muscled clenched as I came, and then everything went loose and helpless as my orgasm was spent. The warm shower spray rinsed away my semen.

So there you have it—that’s the story of how I lost my virginity in the showers with one of my teammates. I’m not sure which one, but I’d like to take this opportunity to say: Thank you, anonymous teammate.

But this little event was not yet over. Coach told us how easy it was to stand up, and we did. He marched us out to the locker area, had us sit down on the benches. He walked the team through an induction to strengthen the trance. I wasn’t hypnotized, but I just played along. I recognized what Coach was doing from my Internet research.

I played along like I was just as hypnotized as my teammates—and maybe Coach too from the way he looked—because I was thinking I might be able to get some clues to why this was happening. I didn’t pick up on anything useful about their larger agenda though. Mostly I was fascinated by this lingering pearl of cum dangling unnoticed from the head of Coach’s fat cock.

It seemed to be just Coach reinforcing the hypnosis, reminding us that we were not to jack off or have sex, that cumming was restricted to our team-building “pep talks.” Connecting what was happening here up to what I’d seen at the AThL frat house, I decided the strategy was to hypnotize the new “recruits” and give them lots of sex to get them indoctrinated, then to use withholding sex to get them to accomplish tasks. That would make their orgasms become a powerful incentive to encourage obedience. But it still left the big question of why. Why were they doing this? Why the swim team and the AThL fraternity? Who else were they pulling in? Okay, that last question is a who rather than a why, but you get my point. Maybe stories don’t tie off all the plot threads they raise, and maybe narrators don’t always have all the answers. You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?

Anyway, at the end, and by then we were mostly air-dried, he told us to wake up, get our asses dressed, and get out of there until that night’s special practice session. So that’s when I officially “woke up.”

So if you’re thinking, That’s it?—Is that all that happened? Let me remind you: I lost my virginity in that scene. That’s a plenty big deal. Trust me—I waited nineteen years for it. It wasn’t how I imagined my first time would happen, but I’ve got no complaints. None at all. Let’s move along, shall we?

6.

My roommate Jake dreamed about fucking—a lot. Some nights I’d look over and he’d be pumping his hips a little under the sheet as he lay on his stomach, maybe grinding his cock into the mattress, sound asleep and fucking some dream girl. Other times he’d be on his side, and I’d watch his hips thrust—fast, then slow, then fast again—against the sheet. The boxer-briefs he always wore to bed and the sheet over him kept me from seeing anything definite about his hard-on, but I imagined every vein and detail about it. I liked watching him on his stomach best, because sometimes I’d dream about climbing onto his bed with him, pulling the sheet back, sticking my hard dick up his butt, and fucking him while he fucked the mattress under us, fucking him while he begged me at first to take it out, it’s too big, it hurts, gradually changing to deeper, fuck me, harder, don’t stop, deeper, more, please.

Yeah, I had a wicked crush on him. I figured that part out a long time ago.

After that time with Peter and Marcel, I figured out what was happening too. It wasn’t the crystal. It wasn’t the ball or any of the props. It was the voice. The authority. Say it like you mean it, and they respect the authority. Obey it. Fall under its spell.

I figured it out from watching, plus some research online. How the hell did people manage to find out stuff before the Internet?

I thought about this a while. If the Professor and his minions were trying to hypnotize me, it was probably just a matter of time until one of them did. I was okay with that. I was kind of curious what it would be like. I’d been thinking about getting my dick sucked by a dude for a while now and was scared about what would happen if my frat brothers found out. Sure, they made me suck cock when I was a pledge, but that was different—they made all the pledges suck cock to prove how much we wanted to join the frat. But now I was thinking I wanted to get my dick tongue-waxed by a guy just for the fun of it. Maybe sucking cock would be okay if I was hypnotized into doing it. But hey, before the Professor or Coach managed to nail me, maybe I could turn the tables and take advantage of the hypnosis they were doing with some of the others. I bet they weren’t planning on me fucking with their plans!

I went downtown to this woo-woo New Age-y spirituality and incense shop that sold crystals, and I’d found a purple one not quite like the ones Coach and the Professor used but close. I bought it for ten bucks and tried it out on my roommate Jake. I bought something else while I was downtown too, and I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but right now I’m telling you about trying the crystal out on Jake.

In our room at the frat house, late, nearly bedtime, we were winding down. The Professor hadn’t dropped by tonight. Seemed like the perfect time. I held up the crystal and said, “Look what I got.” I made it turn back and forth just like Coach did.

Jake, digging through the bottom drawer of his desk, glanced over and said flatly, “Cool.” Not the flat tone of being hypnotized, but of being completely uninterested.

So that’s when I figured it out, and I came up with a Plan B on the spot.

Jake shut the drawer, having not found whatever he looked for. “Hey, Jake,” I announced in my best Voice Of Authority. “Sleep!”

He turned to face me. “What?”

I poked his chest with the crystal. “Sleep!”

He looked at me, confused, and blinked.

“Sleep!” Poke.

He blinked again, a couple of times, quickly.

“Sleep!” Poke.

“Whaaa—” His voice sounded sluggish, thicker.

“Sleep! Sleep now. Sleep!”

His eyes closed.

I poked him again just for good measure. “Sleep. That’s right. Sleep.”

He swayed, asleep on his feet. I’d seen this enough by now to know.

Jake wore a white tee-shirt and a pair of red shorts, drawstring in front, white stripe down the sides.

“That’s it, Jake. Focus on my voice. Sleep deep, buddy. Just let yourself sleep. Maybe you’d be more comfortable if you took your shirt off. Maybe you’d be able to sleep deeper. You’d like that, I bet. Go ahead and take your shirt off, Jake.”

And he did. His hands moved slowly. They took hold of the tee-shirt and lifted, pulled it up and off smoothly, and dropped it.

“It’s time to sleep. You’re ready to sleep. You need to sleep. You need to get comfortable to sleep. It’s time to take off your shorts. Go ahead, Jake. Take them off.”

I reached out and pulled one end of the drawstring, because I thought that was sexy, and the knot unfurled. Jake hooked his thumbs under the waistband, and his shirts dropped to his ankles. He stepped his bare feet free of them.

That left a pair of white boxer-briefs. “Take your underwear off too, Jake. You’ll sleep much more deeply, more comfortably, if you take off your underwear too. Take it off.” So he did. His cock was half-hard. I’d seen it hard before, of course, but not this close-up, and not just for me.

“You sucked my dick a couple of times when we were pledges, didn’t you, Jake. Did you like it?”

He sighed, “Yeah ...”

“You want to suck it again?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Okay, enthusiasm is fucking sexy. Even hypnotized, he sounded like he wanted it. Hearing Jake say he wanted to suck my cock was fucking sexy!

I’ve got to admit: When Jake’s eyes closed, I started boning up. Now, my cock was hard in my underwear. I sat on the edge of his bed. All I had on were my briefs. I pulled the front down, tucked the waistband under my balls, and spread my legs.

I told Jake to kneel between my knees, and he did. I told him to lick my balls and he did. I told him to suck my cock, and he did—badly. I mean—man!—somebody was obviously a rank beginner here! Enthusiastic, but a beginner.

“Teeth,” I warned quietly as that somebody’s teeth rasped painfully on my shaft. “Ow!—Teeth ... Watch the teeth ...”

This was one of the worst blow-jobs ever. Fuck!—Didn’t he remember anything from our pledge Hell Week last year? Hadn’t I seen him blowing one of the other swim team members in that shower scene I just told you about? How the hell was Jake so bad at this?

“Teeth!” I hissed again. “How about you just jack me off instead.”

Jake’s mouth slid off. His hand replaced it, sliding spit-slicked up and down my shaft. The warm, wet grip felt a lot better than the mouth, and I moaned appreciatively. What he lacked in cocksucking skills, he sure made up for in the hand-job department.

I let him jerk himself off with one hand while he jerked me with the other. After a while, I was ready to give him another shot at blowing me and told him to kiss the head. “Lick the shaft. Now lick the head. Open your mouth and put the head inside. Don’t try to take so much at one time. Watch the fucking teeth, dammit.”

Soon he was managing the basics—mouth riding up and down on my cock, one hand playing with my balls or the base of my shaft, other hand playing with his dick.

Figuring out how to take advantage of the hypnosis was risky. I knew the Professor would probably be mad as hell if he found out I’d even done this much! I let Jake suck me a while. I could tell he was ready to cum from the way his hips were bucking, fucking the air as he jacked—he was close. All he needed was my permission. I didn’t care if Professor Johnson got pissed at me. Jake deserved some relief. “Cum, Jake,” I said in my Voice Of Authority. Yeah, the Professor would be really pissed if he found out I told Jake to cum, but I didn’t care. “Cum,” I ordered again.

Jake had my shaft in his mouth at the time. “Nnnnph,” he said, and his torso stiffened. His dickhead spat out his cum in hard, fast bursts, so hard I heard them strike the floor.

I pulled my cock out of his mouth and jacked it in a hurry. My load spurted out and most of it landed on the floor. A couple of drops landed on Jake’s discarded tee-shirt.

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