O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Doing the Laundry

by z119z

I suppose you could say that hypnosis is my real profession. I have a day job, but that’s nothing more than a means of supporting myself. I do it because I need to pay the rent and put food on the table and because I like having the things that money can buy. Don’t get me wrong. I’m good at what I do. My employers profit from employing me. I give them good value for their money. It’s just that my real life doesn’t begin until I leave work. That’s when I feel that I’m in the right place doing the right thing, being what I was meant to be.

A lot of my hypnosis work is helping people—losing weight, quitting smoking, teaching them to focus and concentrate, motivating them to exercise or work better. I like doing that. There’s a satisfaction in assisting people in overcoming their problems and improving themselves. When they get to the stage of asking me for help, they are already halfway to meeting their goal. They want to succeed. They just need an external authority to tell them what to do, to remove the mental barriers they have erected, to convince them that it’s ok to succeed. So I provide that authority, that extra bit of push. They could reach their goals by themselves, but something has convinced they can’t. Maybe they have tried on their own and failed. Maybe they are easily distracted by everything else going on in their lives. So they think they are weak and need outside help. They think hypnosis is some sort of magic art, and that belief lets me get inside their minds and give them the reasons they need to accomplish whatever it is that they want to do.

But there’s no challenge in doing these things. For me, the real challenge is to guide someone into doing something they don’t want to do or don’t yet understand that they want to do. The approach has to be more subtle, and I need to be much more patient. Gaining control over another person’s mind and training it, bending it, along the lines I desire takes time and lots of effort. I have to be constantly alert and on the watch for small shifts in body language—hints of resistance that have to be overcome, indications of inclinations that I can use to entice the subject to follow me willingly toward the goals I have set for him.

What I find most challenging is when the person doesn’t even realize that I’m hypnotizing them. That’s why I search out strangers for my subjects. My friends know about my skills. Some of them are intrigued and half-hoping I’ll try to hypnotize them. Others are cautious around me, as if they fear that I’m going to put them under secretly and embarrass them by having them cluck like a chicken in the middle of a meeting. So I avoid using my friends and acquaintances for my experiments. They know too much about me. I also avoid all the hypnotism groups on the Web—they are filled with people who want to be hypnotized. The willing are overeager and prone to exaggerate the effects of hypnosis and flop about in what they imagine to be a trance.

This can make it difficult to find good subjects. There are some signs I look for. People who can read a book on the subway or a bus or on a park bench and be oblivious to all the noise and movement around them are promising. I found several excellent subjects in a meditation class I took at the local Y. Occasionally I see someone in a store or on the street who has focused on an object or something going on and is so caught up in it that everything else surrounding him has faded from his consciousness. Such people don’t even realize that they are in a trance. All of them are good candidates.

Quinn Thomas is my latest find. I ran across him in the laundry room of my building. One weekend four months ago, I wasn’t able to wash my clothes until late Sunday evening. I hadn’t had a moment to spare that weekend, but I had run out of clean socks and underwear and, even though it was late, I couldn’t put off doing the laundry for another day. The laundry room is tucked away in a corner of the basement. Luckily it’s soundproof, and we can use it at any time of day. When I went down about eleven, I discovered that I wasn’t the only person who had put off doing that task. One of the washers was nearing the end of its cycle.

When I went back downstairs half an hour later to put my clothes in the dryer, a young man was sitting in one of the cruddy, uncomfortable plastic chairs facing the wall of dryers. I thought he had fallen asleep while waiting for his clothes to dry. That was understandable. It was late, and the room is dimly lit. It’s warm, and the sound of the machines is like white noise. He was in his mid-twenties, I guessed. He had on a gray T-shirt and a pair of faded red gym shorts. He was sprawled in the chair, his head resting against the top rim of the chair and his hips barely perched on the edge of the seat, with his arms folded across his stomach and his legs stretched out in front of his body and crossed at the ankles. He was wearing flip-flops and one of them had fallen off his foot and lay upside down on the floor. His head had drooped forward so that his chin rested on his chest. His bare forearms and his calves were lightly covered with black hair, but his upper arms and thighs were hairless. He had had the hair on his head cropped short all around. It was so thick that it looked like he was wearing a black skullcap. He was muscular, but not in a body-builder way. He looked more like someone who jogged a lot and played tennis or swam rather than working out at a gym. His T-shirt swelled nicely over his pecs and the nipples were stiff enough to pucker the fabric. That’s one of the things I notice. I’m rather of a nipple man. And no wedding ring. That’s another thing I look for. Of course, I didn’t pay too much attention to him (yeah right—I barely looked). There was a lot about him that I didn’t notice until later.

When I stepped closer to him, what really caught my attention was that his eyes were open. He wasn’t asleep, as I had first supposed. He was staring unblinking at the glass door of the dryer he was using and watching the clothes go round and round. He was in a trance, insensible and oblivious to anything but the motion of his clothes in the dryer. He didn’t even budge when I removed my clothes from the washer and put them in a dryer.

I’ve known other people who are put into trances by repetitive motions. I have a friend who no longer drives when it is raining because the windshield wipers put him into a trance. He once left work in a rainstorm. He had his wipers on and was following a semi down the interstate. He came to an hour later, about fifty miles past his exit, still following the same truck. He woke up only when the semi slowed down and signaled a turn.

The entranced man in the laundry room was too good an opportunity to pass up. I put three more quarters into his machine so that his load would not finish until after mine. Then I stood off to one side and began to talk to him. I pitched my voice low at first—just a murmur barely audible over the sound of the dryers. I didn’t want to startle him and wake him up. I talked about how relaxing it was to watch his clothes as they tumbled. I didn’t say anything more than that. Just how relaxed he felt and how good it felt to relax and how pleasant and how much he enjoyed it. Just some gentle patter insinuating itself into his mind. Nothing more. As I said, you have to be patient. Toward the end, I suggested that he was enjoying watching his clothes dry so much that he would return the next night at the same time and that it would be so easy and comfortable to watch his clothes as they tumbled dry and to relax and drift off.

I stopped my machine a few minutes before the cycle was due to end to keep the buzzer from going off. I removed my clothes and left. His machines still had another ten minutes to go. The buzzer would wake him up.

The next night I went down to the laundry room about 11:30. Of course, nothing is guaranteed at these early stages. I was carrying a box. If someone else was doing laundry or if the young man wasn’t there or if he wasn’t in a trance, I would head for the storage compartments, using the box as a prop to explain my presence. If the young man had returned and was alone and was again in a trance, I would repeat the session. If not, then nothing lost. I could hear a machine running as I approached the laundry room. OK, I don’t suppose you have any doubts about what I found. I wouldn’t be telling you about this if I hadn’t been successful. There he was, sitting in the same chair, watching his clothes spin round and round, slack-jawed, with his mouth hanging open, in a sexy trance. (Well, I find them sexy.)

That second night, I repeated the lessons of the previous night. The only difference was that I specifically identified the state he was in as a trance. I spoke of how relaxing he found trances, how much he enjoyed them, how much he wanted to be in a trance again, how he would have no memory of my presence—and how much he looked forward to being in the same place at the same time the next night. Tuesday was even easier. I spent the rest of the week gradually introducing him to the pleasures of trancing and instilling in him the thought that he really enjoyed having me trance him. He must have washed every item of clothing he had several times. He was such a good subject that on Friday night I suggested that the next night when he did his washing, if he was alone in the laundry room, he would take off all his clothes and throw them in with his laundry. No one ever washes on Saturday night, and I figured we would be safe.

I was right. When I arrived, Quinn was sitting naked watching his clothes spin dry. The rest of him was as attractive as the parts I had already seen. I had been wrong about the gym or at least about the way he exercised. His nicely defined abs could only be the result of a lot of sit-ups and stomach crunches and leg lifts. His body was a feast for the eyes. His torso was hairless except for his pubes, which he had trimmed. His cock and balls looked to be a bit bigger than normal, but the cock was flaccid. I would have to wait to find out until later how large it became when erect. The only disappointment was that the areolas surrounding his nipples were so small and pink. I like large dark areolas. Well, one can’t have everything. Quinn’s nipples were rigid and stood up off his pecs, which was a point in their favor (two points actually). I made a mental note to enhance the sensitivity of his nipples. Quinn was definitely going to become a lover of nipple play. He would learn to squeal every time I touched those nipples.

I reinforced his growing addiction to trancing and told him that he would always want to be naked around me (a little reward for myself to repay me for all the time I was spending on him). I was also growing tired of meeting him in the laundry room. In any case, the next stages of his training required more privacy. So I suggested that he found my voice as relaxing as the clothes dryer and that the next night he would show up at my apartment at 8:00. All in all, I was quite satisfied with the progress Quinn had made in just one week.

He showed up right on time the next night. I do value promptness, and I checked it off my list of traits to develop in him. He looked slightly confused about why he was at my door, but as soon as I spoke he relaxed and went into a light trance. The trigger of my voice was working perfectly. As I closed the door behind him, I told him to make himself comfortable. He promptly removed all his clothes. I hadn’t seen his backside before since he had always been sitting down in the laundry room. It was worth the wait, smooth and well rounded, with a deep crack to entice and stimulate the imagination.

It took only a couple of minutes to put him into a deep trance. I ran him through the by-now usual reinforcement of his enjoyment of trance, specifically his enjoyment of being tranced by me and only me. My project for that night was to find out more about him. I told him that he enjoyed talking with me and was extremely comfortable discussing any subject with me fully and frankly.

His responses to my questions demonstrated that he had absorbed that lesson. As I suspected, he was straight but he appeared to have no homophobia. He wasn’t interested in men sexually but he had nothing against gay men. Of course, heterosexuality is no great barrier to what I wanted to do, and it made his training more challenging. He would soon get over whatever qualms had kept him from developing sexually. He had no girlfriend. His family lived in Denver and he saw them only a few times a year. He went out with his friends rather than having them over to his apartment. Those facts made my task easier. There were few personal ties that would have to be accommodated, and the chances of his life intruding on my plans were minimal. He had sex two or three times a month and jerked off almost every day. We were making so much progress that I almost overreached myself that evening, but I pulled back in time. I knew I would get there eventually. I didn’t want to risk everything I had accomplished just because of a surge of desire.

The next two weeks I focused on deepening Quinn’s trances and making him feel extremely good when I tranced him and being totally comfortable with me. If the smile on his face when I opened the door to him each evening was any guide, he found these sessions very pleasurable and looked forward to them. Of course, I had programmed him to feel that way, but still these signs of success were gratifying.

At the end of two weeks, I tried a small experiment. Quinn was deeply relaxed and in a trance. He was lying on my couch, with his head resting on a pillow and his eyes closed. I told him he was horny, very horny. His cock was hard, very hard. Immediately his cock sprang up, rigid and bobbing. He felt no embarrassment at being hard in front of me. I told him to begin stroking himself—slowly. I gradually increased the speed of his stroking, talking all the time about the great pleasure he was feeling and how much he enjoyed it. It was too soon to begin controlling his orgasms, and so I contented myself with suggesting that he would enjoy his orgasm even more if he delayed it as long as possible. His body began to shake and his heels pressed down on the cushions of the couch. He raised his hips off the couch and thrust his cock forward. His breathing grew hoarse and ragged. When he came, he let out a sharp grunt of pleasure, and cum spurted over his stomach and chest. At my command, he relaxed instantly and totally. I took him down into a very deep trance. As always, I told him that he would remember nothing but that he would return the next night at the same time. When I brought him out of the trance, he stood up, put his clothes on, and left. I wondered what he would make of all the cum over his body when he undressed.

Every night for the next month, I led Quinn through an orgasm. Gradually I exerted more and more control over their length and intensity. I trained him not to cum until I signaled him that he could. I increased the pleasure he felt and instilled in him the certainty that no one else could give him orgasms like the ones he was experiencing with me. An orgasm without me was a pale shadow of those he had in my presence. The final week of the month, I introduced him to the idea that his orgasms would be ten times as pleasurable if I were the one stroking his cock.

His moans when I finally took his cock in my hand were proof that he had mastered that lesson. I almost moaned myself. His cock is very hot and very hard, altogether a pleasure to stroke. The second I touched his cock for the first time, a golden drop of pre-cum appeared at the tip of his penis and slowly oozed in a sticky thread to fall on his stomach. I gently stroked his cock with my hand and fingers, all the while talking to him about the immense joy surging through his body as I touched him. His body grew rigid, his eyeballs vibrated rapidly beneath his eyelids. He gasped with each breath, reluctant to let the air from his body lest he interrupt the pleasures he was feeling. His stomach muscles rippled beneath the skin, and his legs flexed and trembled. He lifted his hips and thrust his cock against my hand. His balls were churning when I finally told him to cum.

To these lessons, I added other pleasures for him. He came to love the touch of my hand and fingers on all parts of his body. I made his entire body an erogenous zone, but only when I touched him. No one else could give him such pleasures. Quinn learned the pleasure of caresses that whisper against his skin. He learned to love the sharp electric reverberations throughout his body of a hard slap to the ass. From there it was a short step to kissing and licking. Quinn learned the joys that my lips bring to his body. He learned to crave the warm moist tongue licking his balls, wet against his perineum, thrust between his ass cheeks.

I didn’t forget his nipples. He learned to have nipple orgasms so intense that his cum would splatter over our faces and bodies when I sucked on his nipples and brought him to a shuddering ejaculation. After a few times, I didn’t even need to touch his cock to bring him to orgasm. I could by sucking on one nipple and using my fingers on the other bring him to simultaneous double nipple and cock orgasms that left him mindless and his body trembling for several minutes.

The next step was to convince Quinn that he loved blowjobs (as you can imagine, that was not a hard task), and then specifically that he loved blowjobs from me. The first time I mentioned this, he stiffened. As I said earlier, you have to be alert to the clues the subject is giving you. I backed away a bit and approached the idea from a different angle.

“You love having me jerk you off.”

“Your orgasms are so much stronger when I am involved in them.”

“You love blowjobs. Blowjobs are ten times as pleasurable as hand jobs.”

“No one gives you as much sexual pleasure as me.”

I repeated these statements over and over until he made the connection himself. The next time I mentioned that he wanted me to give him a blowjob, he smiled with pleasure at the thought. I let the desire for a blowjob build up in him for several days. When I finally took his cock in my mouth, he came within a minute. I nearly choked there was so much cum. My lips and mouth were coated with it, and I was gasping with the effort to swallow all of it. His cock remained hard and erect while I licked it clean and sucked the last drop from the slit.

I spent the next week training him to delay his orgasms until I signaled him that he was ready. Since my mouth was otherwise occupied, I had to train him to respond to hand signs. With a little encouragement from me, he really got into thrusting his cock deep into my throat. I taught him to vary the speed and the depth of the thrusts. He proved to be a good pupil. He quickly learned to appreciate the different forms of pleasures afforded by the pliability of the lips, the maneuverability of the tongue, and the suction of muscular mouth.

Thus far he had been a passive recipient of pleasure. It was now time to make him into a more active lover. His mind had been tamed and was so malleable that he readily accepted new commands and new programming. Over the next month he learned to find great pleasure in touching me, kissing me. He came to desire my moans of pleasure more than he desired his. Under my tutelage, he grew almost empathic in his ability to understand how to drive me crazy. He learned to stroke my cock and then to suck it. Finally he began having orgasms when I had mine. His orgasms grew more and more intense. His muscles and his mind writhed in ecstatic convulsions as I came.

The wonderful thing is that throughout my experiment he has remained oblivious to what is happening. I have passed him in the lobby of our building. He barely spares me a glance. He does not know who I am. His conscious mind has no idea that he has sex with me every night now. But his subconscious knows and wants and craves. His subconscious mind is greedy. It is addicted to the pleasures I give him. His subconscious mind delivers his body to me every night at 8:00.

Tonight we will complete his training. He will undress and we will stimulate each other’s bodies. We will caress each other. We will hold. We will grasp. We will pull. We will squeeze. We will kiss. We will lick. We will suck. We will consume each other. His body will glow with arousal. His skin will shine with a patina of sweat. Our bodies will glide together. He will hunger for the final step in his training. His body and mind will ache more and more the longer I deny him the final pleasure. When he is ready, I will have him kneel on the bed on his hands and knees. I will lube my fingers and then slide one slowly into him, letting him savor the sensations I have trained him to want. A second finger will join the first, He will gasp with pleasure and lower his head and shoulders to the pillow, elevating his ass and spreading his cheeks. His mind will empty of all but one thought. He will groan. He will speak. “Please,” he will say.

And I will enter him. As my cock swells inside him and penetrates deeper and deeper until my pubes are pressed against his ass, he will moan as more pleasure than he has ever felt in his life overwhelms his mind and body. I will press my thumbs and fingers into his glutes, denting his flesh and holding him tight. I will watch as my cock slides in and out of his ass. I will let the repetitive motion put me in a trance, put both of us into a trance. He will gasp with pleasure with each thrust. His eyelids will flutter and he will cease to see. His body will tremble and spasm uncontrollably as my belly slaps against his ass driving my cock ever deeper into him. His head will tilt backward, his throat will be held taut, his mouth will open in a silent scream. He will roar when I cum.

Quinn is mine.

END

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