Bound Arousal

Bound Arousal

z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)

© 2011 by the author



Maybe I’m being cruel to Richie, but he was asking for it. What did he expect? That I would just ignore what he was doing and not do something about it? After all the time I spent hypnotizing him, this is the way he thanks me? I devote hours to helping him learn to concentrate on his studies and improve his grades so that he can remain eligible for the football team. When he’s achieved that goal—with my help, thank you very much—then he asks me could I, would I, help him improve his sex life? He says that with sort of a sly grin, like the thought just occurred to him. As if that wasn’t why he asked me to hypnotize him in the first place. Maybe, he suggests, I could start by making his nipples more sensitive. Notice that “start.” He’s saying this is just the first step. Do this for me and I’ll be back for more.

But, hey, it’s no problem. Always glad to lend a helping hand—that’s me, the idiot nerd. Too nice for my own good. Pretty soon, it just takes a fingernail lightly scratching one of his nipples, and he starts moaning and groaning and getting horny, and his cock jumps up and starts throbbing. Next he asks if I could maybe train him to delay his orgasms so that he stay erect and aroused for longer periods of time. Note that he doesn’t offer to let me play with his nipples now that they’re ultra-sensitive. He reserves that pleasure for himself, and apparently, as I learned today, for his jock friends. He’s like, wow, great, Bernie, now that you’ve done that for me, do this. But, hey, teaching him to delay his orgasms is also no problem. A half-hour, an hour, two hours. Whatever. He’s very susceptible to hypnosis, especially when it’s something he wants to do. I was just taking him where he wanted to go.

I’m such a fool. I really misjudged his feelings towards me. I thought there was something special between us, that he understood I was spending all this time with him because I like him. I thought there was a bond. But it turned out he was just using me to get what he wanted. He was just playing games. Well, he picked the wrong person to play with. I’ll show him. I can do whatever I want with him, whenever I want. He’s learning who’s in charge. Now he’s beginning to understand the power I have over him. I don’t think that’s cruel, not what after he did to me. Besides it’s not as if I’m hurting Richie. I’m not a sadist. He’s the one who wanted to delay his orgasms as long as possible. He’s enjoying my revenge. It’s not about punishing him, it’s about teaching him to be appreciative and thankful and not do stupid things, things that hurt other people’s feelings.

The thing is that I’ve had this much control over him for several weeks, and I didn’t take advantage of it. I thought that wouldn’t be ethical. I was waiting for him to tell me that he was ready. I could have used him the way he’s used me, but I thought that would be immoral. Well, screw that. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m thinking I could make him have a real lech for me. It wouldn’t take much, just a few sentences inserted into my patter and Richie would be my slave forever. Maybe I’ll do that. I’ll think about it. But maybe, just maybe, I don’t want the shithead any more. I haven’t decided yet.

He didn’t even bother to hide what he was doing. That’s what made me even madder. It was like he was proud of himself. He knew I was coming. I show up at his place as always at 10:00 for one of our regular sessions. I knock on the door, and he shouts, “Come on in. The door’s open. I’m back here.” Here being his bedroom.

I walk in and find him sitting before his computer. He’s naked and he’s stroking this big boner. Jesus, he is a beautiful guy. He works out a lot, and he’s got a great body. His cock is huge. He’s got his legs stretched out under the computer table. They’re spread apart and his balls are hanging down between them. God, I wanted to be between his legs, sucking on that cock, with his big thighs crushing me, feeling those hairy balls rubbing against my chest. Fat chance of that ever happening. With one hand, he’s playing with a nipple, stroking it and pulling on it and pinching it. Thanks to me, that makes him feel really good. With his other hand, he’s slowly stroking his cock. There’s an open bottle of lube on the desk. He must have used a lot of it, because his cock is gleaming. It reflects all the light in the room.

He’s oozed a lot of pre-cum. There’s a thread of it stretching from the tip of his cock to his stomach. Every time he strokes his cock, that golden thread moves, getting longer and shorter as he moves his hand up and down. I see that and all I can think of is taking the head of his cock into mouth and licking up all that pre-cum with the tip of my tongue.

Then I step further into his bedroom and see what he’s looking at on his computer. He’s got a slideshow of all these muscle freaks. I mean those really gross huge guys. You know the kind—all mounds of muscles and veins popping out all over their bodies and the fake spray tans and the shaved bodies.

“God, Bernie,” he says, “this is so great. I’ve been watching this and jerking off for over an hour now. All thanks to you. Used to be I couldn’t get past the first ten pictures before I came, but now, I can watch forever. Oh, look at this one. His name’s Franco Esperanzo. Don’t you just love the pecs on this guy? And those nipples? I could suck on those for hours. That’s the type of guy I want. Except I need more muscles. People like that won’t look at me unless I’m as big as they are. Can you do that for me? Make me work out more effectively? I’d really like that. Be a pal, Bernie, and work that into your suggestions. Make me want to do lots and lots of weight training.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. He doesn’t even look at me when he’s talking to me. Ok, I’m not a muscle god. I’m just an ordinary guy. I’ve got better things to do with my time than spend it in a gym making myself into a roided up monster with a freaky body. I’m happy with my body the way it is. Yeah, yeah, so maybe I could lose a few pounds. But I’m not that bad looking.

“Give me a couple more minutes, Bernie. Yeah, just a couple more minutes.” And he starts pulling at his nipple even harder and stretching it out, twisting it between his fingers. He speeds up his stroking of his cock. He begins to pant and his stomach begins to contract and heave. He’s biting his lips and closing his eyes and throwing back his head. He’s bouncing up and down on his chair, and he’s pressing his thighs together convulsively. Finally he lets out this shout and he comes, great white ropes of cum across his belly and chest, up to his shoulders. Even the last bit jets out and hits his abs instead of dribbling over his pubic hair the way mine does. He’s got this shit-eating grin on his face, like he’s done something really great. Like he’s the first guy who ever had an orgasm. I know it felt great to him. I programmed him that way. It’s just that I thought I would be the cause of it and not some pictures of guys with 60-inch chests he spent god knows how long collecting.

And it doesn’t even bother him that I’m standing there watching him. He knows that I’m always prompt and show up at 10:00. He could have finished and cleaned up and been waiting for me, but, no, he has to show off, be the big cock tease for the little runt who’s helping him achieve mind-blowing sex and keep his grades up. He knows I’m gay. He could have asked me to suck him off. I wouldn’t have minded it if he continued to watch his pictures while I did so. But, no, he doesn’t want some nerd like me sucking on his precious cock. He’s so conceited and confident about his attraction for me that he thinks he can do anything and I’ll put up with it.

He just sits there, with his chest heaving and his toes curling and uncurling, for a minute. Then he grabs some Kleenex and wipes off the cum. He tosses them toward the wastebasket, stands up, and goes into his bathroom and takes this long piss. Finally he comes back. He pulls on sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he says to me, “I’m ready.”

Wrong, Richie, oh so wrong. I was the one who was ready. You weren’t ready at all for what was about to happen to you.

“Don’t you want to shut off your computer?” I don’t know about him but seeing those pictures cycle every three seconds is not my idea of a fun time.

“Nah,” he says, “I’ll look at them some more after you leave. A guy from the gym might be coming over later. I’ll stroke myself until he gets here and then he can suck me off or I’ll fuck him. I’ll see how I feel.” He shrugs. “If he doesn’t come, I’ll play with myself until I cum.” Then he smirks at me, letting me know he ain’t wasting any of that cum on me.

I shrug too, letting him know I’m not impressed. “Let’s get started. I’ve got some work to do.”

He stretches out on his bed, his arms and hands by his sides and his legs apart, like I’ve trained him. It doesn’t take much time to put him into a trance now. He’s so accustomed to my technique. I take him deeper by making him open his eyes as he breathes in and close them and relax as he exhales. It takes about ten reps of that cycle to put him deeply under. He trusts me completely. Well, he can’t help that. That was part of his programming. How comfortable and how safe he feels with me—a few hundred reps of that, and Richie can’t conceive that I might get angry with him and do something about it.

Richie’s one of those subjects who experiences complete amnesia when he’s deep in a trance. He just doesn’t remember anything. When he’s under, he barely breathes. He’s totally relaxed. Sometimes, it’s hard to bring him out of a trance. I guess he enjoys being in a trance. Oh right, I forgot. I had something to do with that too. All that talk about how great it feels to relax completely, how much he loves being in a trance, how the deeper he goes, the better he feels. Yeah, I’m really devoted to making Richie feel great.

So I take him through the usual routine, and he’s deep, really deep. He’s ready for programming, ready for me to take him further.

“Now, Richie,” I say when he’s ready. “Nothing excites you more than the thought of having sex with a muscleman. You love to look at their bodies. You love to look at pictures of them. You love to dream about touching them. You love to think about them taking you in their strong arms and crushing you with their power. You dream about kissing them. It excites you so much. You dream about sucking their dicks. It excites you so much. You dream about them fucking you with their monster cocks. It excites you so much. Everything about them excites and arouses you. Everything about them makes you horny. You love to spend hours looking at their pictures. Nothing makes you feel better than looking at their pictures.

“When you look at pictures of musclemen, you want to play with your nipples. When you look at pictures of musclemen, your nipples ache for attention. When you look at pictures of musclemen, you want to touch your nipples, you want to stroke them, you want to pull on them, you want to pinch them. When you look at pictures of musclemen, you want to stroke your cock. When you look at pictures of musclemen, your cock aches for attention. When you look at pictures of musclemen, you want to touch your cock, you want to stroke it. The longer you look at their pictures, the hornier you become. And the hornier you become, the more you want to look at picture of musclemen.”

I continued talking in that vein, over and over. I had to stop several times and calm Richie down. Even in a trance, the thought of being with a muscleman was making his cock get erect and tent the crotch area of his sweatpants. When I was satisfied that I had programmed him fully with that theme, I took him even deeper. I was talking directly to his subconscious, his now very obedient and very submissive subconscious. That bit of programming took longer. I had him under for almost an hour, reiterating the same themes until I was satisfied he had learned his lessons.

I let him drift gradually back to full, waking consciousness over a period of about ten minutes. He didn’t register that I was there in his bedroom with him. Well, I had told him he wouldn’t see me, that he wouldn’t remember that I was there. When his eyes fluttered open, they immediately focused on the slideshow on his computer. He ripped off his T-shirt and pants and threw them on the floor. He sat down in front of the screen, never taking his eyes off the guys in the picture show. One of his hands reached toward his nipples, the other toward his already erect cock. He didn’t see anything but that parade of musclemen on his computer screen. He wanted them so much.

And that’s when the second part of his programming kicked in. Suddenly he puts his arms behind his back and clasps his hands together. That was the twist I programmed into his mind. He wants to look at the pictures. Looking at the pictures makes his nipples and cock ache for attention. The longer he looks, the more they ache for attention. And the more they ache, the hornier he gets and the more he wants to look. It’s a feedback loop, and he gets hornier and hornier. But he can’t do anything about it. His nipples and his cock ache for attention, but his hands are bound behind his back. So he sits in front of his computer helplessly. And he’ll continue to do so until I release him.

When I left him this morning, he was whimpering with frustration, struggling to pull his hands apart so that he could get at his nipples and his cock. Each picture made him just a bit hornier. Each picture made him want to play with his nipples just a bit more. Each picture made him want him want to stroke himself just a bit more. But he couldn’t, because the hornier he got, the tighter his hands clasped together behind his back.

That was about twelve hours ago now. Unless there’s been a power failure, he’s still sitting there unable to stop watching those pictures, unable to do anything but look and lust, his cock erect, his nipples hungry for stimulation, his hands bound behind his back. He can’t even call out for help—I couldn’t have him disturbing the neighbors. Someone might hear him and come to his rescue. All he can do is moan behind clenched teeth. If his friend ever showed up, he probably thought Richie had stood him up.

I should go back to Richie’s and say the magic words that will end his torment. But it’s getting late and I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep on it. That will give me more time to think about the next step in Richie’s training. I wonder what Richie will be like after enduring twenty-four hours of growing horniness over a bunch of musclemen. Well, he asked me to help him with his “wait training.” And I’m always ready to oblige Richie.



(This story is partially based on ocntrl’s Bound Arousal file. If the themes in this story appeal to you, give it a try.)