From: Milehi@io.com (Milehi)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.fetish.boyfeet,alt.sex.boys,alt.sex.fetish.feet,alt.sex.stories.gay
Subject: M/M Story: The Naughty Hypnotherapist
Date: 2 Jun 1996 22:50:17 GMT
Organization: Illuminati Online
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	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!"