Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.boyfeet,alt.sex.boys,alt.sex.fetish.feet,alt.sex.stories.gay Organization: Illuminati Online Lines: 71 Message-ID: 4ot5r9$rjr@anarchy.io.com NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-96.austin.io.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain; charset=US-ASCII X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.7
I settled comfortably into the padded chair and eyed my new therapist: about 40, with just a streak of grey in his hair, cute, boyish face and an obviously hard, defined body. He was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk, gazing thoughtfully at me.
I was here against my will: my parents had insisted on counseling after they found a gram of coke stashed under my desk. Even though I'm 18, I decided to appease their worries by playing along. Besides, my football scholarship came through yesterday, and I knew the NCAA drug-testing bullshit would probably catch up with me if I didn't clean up my act.
"What do you find most appealing about cocaine?" the therapist was asking. I decided to be honest: "It makes me feel invincible, powerful, sexually superior," I said flatly. "After a toot, I feel like every chick I look at craves my body, and would do anything for me." Involuntarily, I started massaging my massive pecs. Though the therapist showed no apparent emotion, the energy level in the room seemed to rise mysteriously.
"Let's see if we can explore this further," he began. "Hypnosis is a method of bypassing conscious awareness and communicating directly with your subconscious mind. It is a very pleasant, relaxing experience which you will enjoy immensely. Now, make yourself comfortable."
On the opposite wall of the office hung a large picture with a bunch of colorful, concentric shapes, seemingly drawing attention to the center, which appeared to sink into a bottomless void.
"Sink deeply into the padding of the sofa, and focus your eyes on the picture there," he began. "Do not look away from the picture. As you gaze into the center of the picture, you will begin to feel more and more relaxed, as if every muscle in your body is turning to jello. Let go completely."
Then, he began talking about each of my muscle groups, telling me to relax each group individually. By the time he reached my neck muscles, I could barely hold my eyes open. I was relieved when he told me I could close them. He said a bunch of other stuff, but I was too sleepy to pay much attention. Then, he started talking about how light my left arm was feeling. He said it was as light as a feather and would start to rise. I remember thinking I was way too relaxed to move my eyelids, much less my arm, but he just kept talking and talking. Before I knew it, my arm rose without any effort on my part. It felt really good, but strange. Then he said something about an elevator, and some kind of magnet pulling me down and I stopped paying attention again, just letting everything fade away and feeling really relaxed.
Before I knew it, I was awake, trying desperately to remember, but unable to recall anything after the imaginary elevator ride. A quick glance at my watch, and I knew I had been out a good 30 minutes. I felt really refreshed and alive.
"How do you feel?" the therapist asked.
"Not bad. That's really cool. Did I do OK?"
"You did fine," he assured me. Then, he quickly added, "you stud."
As he said the word "stud," I suddenly felt a tremendous rush of power, like I had snorted three lines at once. I looked at the sniveling therapist as he slowly dropped to his knees, and I knew he wanted my body so badly he'd do anything I said. As the feeling of power and superiority swept over me, I slowly removed my shirt and stretched, raising my arms to expose my stinking pits. I raised one of my sneakers up until it almost touched the therapist's nose. "Take my shoe off, slave, and smell the power of my feet." I couldn't believe what I had just said, but the therapist responded greedily, hungrily.
For thirty minutes I ran the show, directing my $100-an-hour professional punk to lick every crevice of my athlete's body, allowing him to jack off, but not cum until I was good and ready. He buried his nose in my armpits, worshipped each of my muscles individually, and stuck his tongue deep into my asshole, all the while pleading and begging to cum. When I finally allowed him to shoot, he fell back on the floor, totally spent.
"Damn," he said, "those post-hypnotic suggestions worked like a charm. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"What's it to you, punk?" I snorted, still enjoying the moment of authority. Then, slowly, I added: "Yeah - that really was better than coke. Do I need more therapy?"
"Oh yes," he smiled, "we're just getting started. I figure you could use the money your parents are paying me to rid you of that nasty coke habit better than I can anyway! Just be sure and keep it quiet, so I can keep my license."
I grinned, realizing I really had him over a barrel now. "Just between you and me," I promised. "My parents can afford it!"