Disclaimer: The usual: If you are under legal age for your community, or if you are looking to be offended by material concerning male/male sex and hypnotism, then go away! This is forbidden to you. If, on the other hand, you like it, then enjoy, and try writing stories of your own fantasies. But remember, fiction only. Nothing here (or in your stories) may be held to reflect actual persons or events.

Computer Lab

(suggested by a picture manufactured and posted by crickmanus – thanks!)

dedicated to Tom, with thanks for giving my stories a home

by

Hyptrance

They say that if you want good results, plan ahead. Well, call me Mr. Prepared. (Actually, you can call me Joe. It’s not my name, but it’s as good as any.) I am a registered, card-carrying member of that great fraternity, computer nerds. Yeah, I have the glasses and the IBM haircut. But you’re not going to find me without a date on Saturday night, because, other than the above-mentioned characteristics, I’m not half bad. I work out regularly, so my bod’s okay, genetics blessed me with good skin and a handsome (if I do say it myself) face, and I would never in a million years so betray my fashion sense as to wear white socks with black shoes, or a pocket-protector (yup, I’m gay, all right, if you hadn’t guessed that by now). And besides all that, I have a secret weapon. I’m the guy who runs the computer lab at the University here in… well, never mind. That’s more than I want you to know. I got the job right out of college. Oh, I could easily be making more money, even as young as I am (25), being, according to all my profs, a kind of a genius, but I have my reasons, as I’ll explain.

One of the things my job includes, besides rescuing all these hopeless twits from the troubles they get into misusing their computers, and the reason I like it, is issuing the passwords and IDs to all the new students when they sign up for computer accounts. Those little eighteen and nineteen-year-old freshmen are cute! And I make it a point to keep my own record of all the log-on info I pass out to any boy who strikes my fancy. I have a nifty little program, behind a firewall no one here could ever possibly penetrate, that lets me know whenever one of my special interests logs on, and allows me to, how shall I say, add a bit of something extra to whatever he’s looking at. My college major may have been computer science, but my minor was psychology, with a particular interest in mind control, brainwashing, and hypnosis. I have created top-of-the-line KGB or CIA-style subliminal programs that I can arrange to key in every time certain passwords are entered. They’re not as powerful or as exact as hypnotism, but I can use them with great effect as a softening-up agent before I try to put one of these boys into an actual hypnotic trance. And, with the really susceptible ones, I can even get them to alter habit patterns to assist my plans. Let me explain how it all works by telling you about one of my most recent successes.

This fall, during registration, I was following my usual routine of keeping track of the hotties as I set them up with computer service. One of the lads I immediately slated for a domination attempt was Tyler Parkinson. He was just about the sexiest freshman of the year; oh, not in an obvious way, like some muscle monkey, or a football star, but just a really good, toned, average body (like me), not too tall, blond hair, and a terrifically pretty, boyish face. Dressed in sweatshirt, jeans, and baseball cap, he reminded me of young actor Kevin Zegers, all grown up and off to college. Yummm! He’d scarcely walked away before I had hacked into the files and looked him up. Tyler was an English major, with a minor in drama. Perfect! He could hardly know enough about computers to have a clue about what I was going to be doing to him, and I figured he must have both imagination and at least some acting ability, which meant he’d be a lot of fun if I could trance him. Also, English majors have to do beaucoup word-processing. He’d be spending many hours at his computer, giving the program plenty of time to do its job. I immediately began typing the necessary lines of code to link my subliminal booby-traps to his password.

The program I use on these boys does basically four things: it creates in them the mindsets and behavior patterns that will lead to good hypnotic susceptibility – concentration, visualization, and imagination (which are, coincidentally, also good for their studies); it leaves them with a compulsive curiosity to experience hypnosis – no boy who receives my programming ever refuses an induction, even if he doesn’t know where it’s originating from, or why; it fosters passivity and a tendency to yield to authority figures (like, for instance, a hypnotist); and it attacks their sexual inhibitions and conditioning (not that it can turn straight guys gay exactly, or, at least, not until I actually hypnotize them, but it does put them into an open, tolerant, experimental frame of mind). Occasionally, during the first couple of weeks, I’ll get one of my potential victims coming in to complain that his computer screen is “jumping” (although I’ve never yet had one whose vision was fast enough to figure out what was jumping), but by the third or fourth week, either he stops noticing (as the subliminals begin to get to him), or I take him off the data-feed and cut my losses. The program does one other thing, which I added mostly as a marker to flag which boys were being affected: it suggests that the best time, the only really good time, to do ones work in the computer lab is very late at night. By mid-semester, all of those boys that I’m destined to have success with are coming to the lab at pretty much the same time, well past normal hours. Generous soul that I am, I keep it open for them. Oh, they always rationalize (faster connections, fewer distractions), but after a lad has been attending the midnight shift for more than a few visits, I can be pretty sure that he’s ripe for the plucking. Tyler (along with a couple of other guys) had settled into a routine of after hours computer work for about three weeks when I made my move.

My switch from subliminal programming to actual hypnotism is also accomplished via the terminals. It’s university policy for everyone to wear headphones in the lab. It prevents one person’s Internet audio (or even just the dings and bleeps of word processing) from disturbing others. Also, each screen is set so as to be out of sight of other screens, in order to protect passwords and for reasons of privacy. So no one can tell that a boy’s mind is being kidnapped, as long as he’s seated at his computer with the earphones in place. From my station as lab monitor, of course, I can see and access everything (since I’m supposed to keep all these horny teens off the porn sites and on the straight and narrow, tee-hee). And I can send directly to any terminal, virtually take it over, if I so choose. Sometimes, if my targeted boy is on the web, he won’t even realize that he didn’t call up the program himself, by accident. All it takes is a line or two of code typed in, and, regardless of what it was showing before, his screen instantly blossoms into my favorite whirling hypno-spiral, and his ears are filled with my (electronically generated) voice. The spiral is the best one I’ve created so far: deep red, and, in addition to very effectively drawing the eye towards its center (as they’re all designed to do), it also has a gentle pulsing quality, at about the speed of a sleeping human heartbeat. I think it taps into some primal memory of the womb, but whatever the case may be, under its seductive influence my boy will tend to drop like a capture-darted rhino.

On the night in question, handsome Tyler was the last student remaining in the lab. He’d just finished his work, and was starting some idle surfing, when I made my move. Just a few keystrokes, and his screen burst into swirling color. The voice through his earphones said, “Welcome to the hypno-place. Just sit back, watch the spiral, and relax.” Tyler moved his mouse towards the escape, but then, because of his programming, changed his mind, and settled back to see what would happen. I could see the pulsing red glow reflected onto his face, and in his eyes, already beginning to fixate.

“Keep your eyes on the spiral,” the voice in his ears continued, “Let it draw your eyes into it… into the very center. Let yourself go… drift… float into the center of the spiral as you breathe deeply and relax all your muscles… relax… relax…” It’s pretty standard hypnotism. The subliminal pre-programming is what makes it so extra effective, not any particular features of the induction. (This is how it has to be, because the induction can only be pre-set. The really twisty stuff comes later, when I have the guy under one-on-one and can tailor the suggestions to the subject.) I watched Tyler as the he was drawn into the net. Sometimes a boy will struggle against the inevitable; Tyler did. But, in spite of his attempts to resist the spell being woven about him, his face gradually went blank, his rebellious eyelids fluttered shut and stayed that way, and his sexy body slumped in his chair. God, he looked so hot, so sleepily helpless! I had a boner that wouldn’t quit.

The computer had gone on to the deepening exercises. All of these require a typed-in response. I watched Tyler’s sneakered feet shuffle under his carrel as he obediently imagined himself walking down the traditional staircase. When he reached the bottom his bleary eyes opened a crack, he entered the indicated cue, and instantly fell back asleep as the program proceeded to the next exercise.

The last of the deepening drills is a count backwards from 100, with the boy instructed to go so deep as he counts that he will be unable to keep track of the numbers (again, a pretty standard approach). The computer is able to monitor this because the subject is ordered to type as he counts (the screen only showing asterisks rather than numbers). When he can no longer type a coherent sequence, the last correct number, along with his name, becomes his trance trigger. Tyler was a great subject (as I had suspected he would be), and he only made it down to 87 before his poor fucked-over mind lost focus and the numbers vanished for him. So Tyler87 it was.

“When you hear the bell,” the computer voice instructed him, “You will open your eyes, remove your headphones, stand up, and leave this room. You will still be deeply under hypnosis. You will wait outside the lab until a man touches you on your shoulder and says your trance cue: Tyler87. You will then instantly be twice as deeply hypnotized as you are now. You will go with that man, and you will do anything he tells you to do, without question or resistance. You will not pay attention to anything other than his commands.” Ding!

Tyler got up from his computer. As he marched, expressionless as a toy soldier, out of the lab, I quickly logged him off and shut down both of our computers, and turned off the lights. I followed Tyler out, carefully locking the door behind us, and walked over to where he stood, vacantly waiting as instructed. I clasped his shoulder, warm and solid under my hand, and said, “Tyler87. Come with me.” Unresisting, he allowed me, muttering barrages of suggestions into his receptive ear, to lead him to my car, and off we drove.

I had completed Tyler’s trance training, and now he sat immobile on my bed, ready to obey absolutely anything. “Tyler,” I said to the zonked young man, “You have no recollection of Tyler Parkinson as a student You are still Tyler Parkinson, but you’re no college freshman,” I continued, beginning to create my fantasy scenario du jour. “You are a rent-boy, a sex-toy stud, a straight boy who’s gay-for-pay, and you have accepted a very good fee from me to spend the night. As a self-assured street hustler, you just assumed that you’d be the one in control, with me pathetically grateful to be allowed to swing on your hetero cock. But you didn’t know you’d hired yourself out to a hypnotist! In a moment I’ll tell you to wake up. This will only be a cue to open your eyes. You will not wake up yet. However, you will think you are awake. You will have no idea that you are still under my hypnotic control, other than that you will find it impossible to disobey me in any way, regardless of your own feelings about the matter. Whatever I tell you to do, you will do. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” (I always like to have my boys call me sir, so I demand it specifically.)

“Even though you don’t realize that you are still hypnotized, you will be aware that you have been in a trance, although you won’t be able to remember anything of how I accomplished that, nor about what has happened while you were under. You will find that a little alarming, although not enough to make you panic. And, no matter what happens, you will never be able even to think of harming me in any way.” (If this all seems a little too evil for you, I should tell you that, as I dug through Tyler’s preferences and vulnerabilities in order to deepen my hold on him, I discovered that one of his most treasured erotic fantasies involved having sex without being able to control any aspect of it. Now, of course, his original idea involved a dominatrix, not a master, but the subliminal programming had made him open to accept the gender switch without it diluting his excitement. Deep down, he was going to love this, and that’s why I knew it would work. Nevertheless, the safety clause was necessary to me. Otherwise, in the heat of his role-playing, he might try to land a punch or two. Not good.) “Tyler, wake up.”

His eyelids cracked open, and then shot wide as he looked around himself with alarmed confusion. “What the fuck just happened, sir?” he blurted, and then added, even more disconcerted, “Why the hell am I calling you ‘sir’, sir?!” This second ‘sir’ was too much for the remaining shreds of his composure. He jumped up from the bed. “You hypnotized me, you sneaky shit!! I’m outta here, s-s-s-sir!” Tyler struggled mightily against saying that last word, but he couldn’t stop it from coming out. He stalked towards the door.

“Tyler,” I called to him, “Your feet are stuck to the floor. You can’t move them.” The boy stopped in his tracks, almost losing his balance, and then he began to strain and twist, trying to force his feet back into motion. He might have been nailed down for all the good it did him. They remained obstinately uncooperative.

Finally he growled in frustration, “Let me go, damn it! S-s-s-sir. Shit!!!”

I gave him my blandest smile. “Come back over here, Tyler.” The words were scarcely out of my mouth before the boy’s legs marched him back to the bed. He was trying so hard to make himself walk the opposite direction that, for a moment, I was almost afraid he’d damage his back. He stopped when he was standing directly in front of me. “I paid you a very handsome fee for services tonight, and you’re going to honor your agreement.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ll give you your money back, sir,” he said sulkily. (Well, at least he wasn’t trying to hold the ‘sir’ any more.)

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ any longer, unless I tell you to again.” (It didn’t quite go with the persona.) “That was just to prove a point. And you can’t give me back my money, because I don’t want you to. Take off your shirt.”

Remaining true to the character of the hustler he now believed himself to be, Tyler didn’t show any particular shyness, or any additional anxiety when his hands, moving as if by their own accord, pulled his sweatshirt up over his head and off. He dropped it to the floor and just stood waiting to see what would happen next; the boy learned quickly. I sat back and admired. Tyler’s torso is perfect! As I may have mentioned earlier, he’s not a gym clone, so there was no Olympian mass of muscle. But everything about this pretty young man is tight, tanned, and toned. Also, though I’m accustomed to blond boys (at least the natural ones) having chest hair so fine and light-colored that it doesn’t really show, it seemed that Tyler had even less apparent plumage than most. I don’t know whether for some reason he had used a depilatory (maybe his drama commitments?), or whether his gene pool was just really smooth, but my first glimpse of his sleek golden body made me want my tongue all over it. And, heck, why not? He sure couldn’t stop me.

“Lift your arms up over your head, Tyler, and then don’t move,” I commanded. As he obeyed I added, “You’ll feel perfectly comfortable in this position for as long as I want you to hold it.” I put my hands on either side of his slim waist to brace him, savoring the soft warmth of his skin, and then buried my face in his armpit. He smelled fabulous. It seems nearly impossible to find scentless deodorants these days, so there was a slight spicy perfume, but, as he evidently hadn’t reapplied it too recently, it was faint, his natural male smell predominating. The Old Spice (or whatever it was) had just controlled the odor enough to keep it from being unpleasantly sharp and funky. I licked and lapped like crazy, trying to absorb every last, elusive molecule of that wonderful musk.

“Ugh, that’s nasty,” Tyler complained.

I paused in my banquet. “On the contrary, it’s delightful. And you love it. Every time my tongue touches you anywhere, it will feel as incredible as an orgasm. You won’t actually cum, of course, since you can’t cum at all, until I tell you to, but it will feel that way.” Then I went back to my oral body search, this time working the other pit.

“Oh, God. OH, GOD! OOOH!!!” Well, at least he wasn’t complaining anymore. After the first outburst, Tyler’s speech centers seemed to have been short-circuited by the new sensations he was experiencing, and he could only moan incoherently. His body vibrated as is from chills, his hands, still suspended above his head, clenched and unclenched spastically, and, in spite of my suggestion to hold still, from time to time his hips would thrust involuntarily. When I looked down for a moment, I could see a small wet spot darkening at the peak of the tent in his jeans. I’d told him he couldn’t cum, but I hadn’t said anything about pre-cum, and young Tyler was dripping like a leaky faucet - by the appearance of things, a large faucet. I had to smile. Then I left the thoroughly bathed armpit, and began some serious tit-work.

Tyler’s nipples had already hardened and contracted until they were as stiff as little pencil erasers, and incredibly sensitive. When I flicked one with my tongue, his entire body convulsed as if I’d touched it to a live battery, and as I continued tonguing, sucking, and nibbling, first one and them the other of those adorable little pink nubs, his lustful howls reached a whole new level. I was glad that my nearest neighbors don’t live all that near, and are rather hard of hearing to boot. I kept it up until I was afraid Tyler’s head would explode, and then licked down his solar plexus and stuck my tongue in his navel. His body jumped again as with galvanic shock. (In passing, let me note that I love bellybuttons. They don’t get the sour smell of nervous sweat, so most guys keep the damn deodorant away from them, but they do collect some perspiration. The resultant savory treat, particularly in boys where there isn’t too much hair to complicate matters, is second only to cock for succulence and pheromonal impact.) I rooted like a hog, lapping and nuzzling until my nose was well anointed with the heady mixture of boy-smell and my own drying saliva. My cock (which had been rock-hard for some time already) was now leaking as much as Tyler’s forming my own sticky damp trouser mark. Licking on down from his navel, I finally encountered some (nearly invisible) hair, a little treasure trail that led down to the waistband of his yellow and blue plaid boxers, proudly displayed a full two inches above the site where his low-riding jeans defied gravity on his slim hips. I stuck my tongue under the elasticized cotton and pushed down until I came to where the hair grew thicker. Tyler groaned even louder and his hips gave one of their reflex twitches. I backed off and began to remove my clothes.

When he realized I had stopped the tongue bath (and it took him a moment, so crazed with passion had he become), Tyler whimpered, “Dude, don’t leave me like this!!” From both the desperate tone of his voice and the flush to his face, it wasn’t clear whether by that he meant, “Let me move,” or “Get me off.”

I finished undressing and then went back to Tyler. I casually undid his jeans and let them drop to the floor. “Step out of those and kick them aside,” I ordered. Tyler obliged. Now freed of the resistant weight of the denim, the tent in his boxers was even more prominent. No doubt about it, the boy was hung. I pulled the underwear down, and Tyler’s erection bobbed out and stood at quivering attention. I knelt.

“Oh yeah, dude,” he groaned, “Put it in your mouth. Suck it!” I took aim as though to comply, and then, at the last minute, deviated to lick the insides of his thighs, going on up until I was tonguing his ball sac. A fresh burst of pre-cum dripped down onto my forehead, the warm, bleachy, yummy smell filling my nostrils, as he wriggled helplessly. “Please, dude!!” he begged.

“Oh, all right,” I said, “But remember, you can’t cum until I give you permission, Tyler87,” and settled down to enjoy his fat, juicy sausage. The sound of his trigger phrase froze him for a moment, but as soon as the hypnotically enhanced sensation of the blowjob registered on his eager cock, he unfroze again immediately, writhing, and moaning, and urging me on with pathetic gratitude. I was doing most of the physical work, since Tyler, due to my hypnotic command to stand still, couldn’t really control his hips to thrust. But as I bobbed back and forth, the firm girth in my mouth, and the salty, sexy taste, made it more than worth the trouble. I stroked my own sausage at the same time, but not too much, since it had an appointment with Tyler’s ass later on. Finally, when my jaws were beginning to tire, and Tyler looked as though he were about to blow a gasket, I said, “Tyler87 cum now.”

I nearly drowned. All I can say is, “Wow!” All my hypno-boys cum hard; it’s part of the training. But Tyler must not have been getting any for a very long time (not even from his hand), because he had a load stored up the likes of which I’ve seldom seen. When I finally finished swallowing enough to catch my breath, I stood up, my face covered with what I hadn’t been able to swallow. “Kiss your cum from my face, Tyler87,” I commanded the panting boy. “You’ll find it as delicious as anything you’ve ever tasted.” I put my arms around his slim, sweaty body (his arms, still in the air, preventing him from following suit, if he might have wished to), pulled him close, and let him go to town.

Tyler’s smooth, soft lips hoovered over my face, his tongue darting in and out. This lad’s girlfriend (if he ever gets one) is going to be one lucky lady! He doesn’t just gobble and smack. He has finesse. By the time most of the cum was gone (although both of our faces were now sticky and damp), his kissing had turned me on so much that I grabbed his face and got a lip-lock of my own on his pretty mouth. Thanks to the hypnotic inducement concerning the touch of my tongue, Tyler instantly got into the kiss. He sucked my tongue into his mouth and frenched it like there was no tomorrow. The boy tasted delicious: a combination of Tyler cum, sexed up young man, and just a tiny, tiny, tiny trace of my aftershave.

By now, I was so hot and bothered that no more delay was tolerable. If I didn’t get down to business right away, my cock was going to manage by itself, and I didn’t want that. I worked quickly. “Tyler, you can lower your arms.” He did so with a sigh of relief, since, even though he was under suggestion to find the position comfortable, still, they’d been up there a long time. “Tyler87, lie down on your back, put your legs up on my shoulders, and relax your ass. I’m going to fuck you, and your asshole will be as sexually sensitive as your cockhead. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he said (Oh ho, ‘sir’ was back, was it?), and docilely assumed the requested position, his slack limbs moving slowly and heavily, his handsome young face completely vacant from mind-blown trance and spent passion. I slathered some lube on my cock, lodged its head against Tyler’s sweet little rosebud, and drove on in. He grunted a little, but there was no reflex pain spasm, and soon he was meeting my vigorous thrusts with abandon. I’ve trained myself with self-hypnosis to hold off a climax, and as a general rule, it works like a charm. But this time, as soon as I felt the warm, moist sheath of my new toy’s boy-pussy, a perfect, clingy-tight fit around my cock, I knew it wouldn’t help. His charming, boyish looks, the simple perfection of his young body, the shear energy and imagination of his athletic contortions as his butt milked my shaft, were all just too compelling to resist. I lasted less than a minute before it was over and I was pumping what felt practically like my immortal soul into Tyler. And yet, I’d been so turned on, for so long, that I can’t say I felt unsatisfied, quick though it had been. Besides, I knew I could always engineer a rematch any time I chose. Exhausted, I let myself fall forward onto my slave, kissing him again and again. Tyler began to wriggle harder at the touch of my tongue in his mouth (oh, yeah, I hadn’t removed that suggestion yet, had I?).

The one part of my routine that bores me (so I won’t bore you with it) is the cleanup, both physical and mental. Suffice it to say that I returned Tyler to campus no worse for wear, clothed as before, hetero as before, non-hustler as before, and with all memory of what we’d been up to removed to where he could never access it. Of course, he was still totally programmed with his trigger phrase, and he’d still be receiving continuous subliminal reinforcements every single time he went on line, but his day-to-day existence was all set to continue just as it always had.

So now you understand why I stay at this less-than-thrilling job, even in the face of more lucrative offers. No think-tank could ever match the perks. And, as I look out into the lab of an evening (usually late in the semester), and see the entire place empty accept for my trained boys, all of them glued to the red spirals on their monitors, getting refresher hypnosis training, the rush of power and arousal is unbeatable.

And besides, if I ever did need more money, I have a ready-made brothel for the asking. Tyler isn’t the only lad who became a hustler at my command. What they did to act out my fantasy, I could make them do for real, just as easily.

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