The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The lights around the room dim just after 9:00, but the excited chatter persists among the crowd even as things narrow to a single spotlight onstage. A booming voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… Master Hypnotist Steven Powell.” At the front of the room, a guy steps out from the curtains and takes the stage: he’s younger than you would have expected, maybe in his mid- to late 30s. More handsome, too. You expected a guy in a top hat and coattails, maybe with a little cane or mustache, but instead you got a buff dude in a baby-blue athletic dress shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a flash of smooth, firm chest, and tight slacks that leave little to the imagination. Like a lot of Vegas acts, his outfit seems designed as much to arouse as to augment his performance.

“All right, all right, how’s everybody doin’ tonight?” the guy asks boisterously, and you, along with your friends and everyone else in the room, cheer raucously. You can’t believe Jack picked up tickets to this dumb hypnosis show, but now that you’re here and in your seat, the energy of the crowd is infectious. Maybe it won’t be so bad. After all, it is X-rated, and it is Vegas. Who knows what could happen?

“Aww, you guys sound like a Thursday crowd. Did I get hit on the head or is it Friday? I said how’s everybody doing tonight?” The roar of the crowd increases, including you and your friends. You usually hate when entertainers work a room, but there’s no point doing something stupid like this unless you’re gonna throw yourself into it, right?

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is my thirteenth year in Vegas. I do shows five nights a week, forty-eight weeks a year. That makes this somewhere north of my three-thousandth performance.” The crowd claps. Hard not to give the guy props for hustle.

“What I am trying to say is that, while many of you may be new to this, I’ve been doing it my whole life. How many of you here have never seen a hypnosis show?” You look around. Probably 60-70% of the crowd’s arms are raised—including yours.

“A lot of people are nervous before attending their first hypnosis show. That’s all right. But what you need to remember is, this is far from my first hypnosis show. The most important part of hypnosis is relaxation, so I want you all to just take a deep breath in, hold it…” The hypnotist pauses for several beats as the entire room collectively holds its breath. “…let it out, and relax. We’re here to have fun. You’re not gonna become a zombie, I can’t make you murder the president—even if I wanted to—and you’ll be back to your friends right as rain when we’re done. You’re just gonna have a lot of fun out there, and if you come up onstage, you’re gonna have even more fun up here. Now everybody who’s ready say ‘hell yeah!’”

“Hell yeah!” cries the crowd, laughing. This guy certainly did a good job breaking the ice. You feel a lot more at ease, despite having always felt leery about hypnosis.

“I said everybody who’s ready say HELL YEAH!”

“HELL YEAH!!” everyone cries out, laughing.

“All right, this is the time I normally call for volunteers, but I do have one special request tonight: is there a young guy named Dave out there who’s here for his bachelor party?”

“Oh, no, dude, you didn’t!” Dave whispers. He’s speaking not to you but to the other side, to Jack, who’s grinning like a Cheshire cat as a spotlight falls on Dave.

“Everybody give a big round of applause for Dave, tonight’s guest of honor.”

The crowd applauds wildly as Dave blushes. Not one to seek out the spotlight, he’s annoyed being wrapped up in another of Jack’s gambits.

“Mr. Fiancé, we saved you the best seat in the house,” the hypnotist gestures to a chair in the center of the row onstage.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“Come on, bro. Molly wouldn’t let you go to a strip club—you knew I had to do something memorable, right?” Jack laughs. He was right: Molly was the jealous type, and made you, Dave’s best friend since grade school, swear up and down you wouldn’t let him do anything with any girls on this trip.

“Show usually starts at 9…” the hypnotist says, taping his foot theatrically.

“Hey, dude, I’ll go with you,” you say. You’re almost surprised to hear yourself offer, but you figure it is your responsibility to keep Dave out of trouble, and something about the hypnotist’s speech put you at ease. He seems like a chill guy, and what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

“Jesus…” Dave groans, sliding out with you past a sea of knees and trudging sheepishly up the aisle.

“Come on, it won’t be so bad. It probably won’t even work!” you whisper.

“Dude, you know I have stage fright,” Dave sighs, trudging up the steps with you. That was true: despite being an athletic, handsome guy, Dave is one of the shiest people you know!

“Ah, you brought company. This must be the blushing bride,” says the hypnotist, patting you on the back and drawing a chuckle from the crowd. You’re annoyed. Hopefully offering to do your friend a solid won’t lead to an evening of gay jokes.

“I’m just here for moral support,” you offer.

“Well, give it up for Dave and Moral Support! Have a seat, guys. I just hope you’re not expecting a very moral evening,” the hypnotist grins. The audience hoots, ready for a wild show.

Not too wild, you hope. You’re happy to help your friend, but you do have your dignity. Whatever. This shit probably doesn’t work anyhow, so if the guy asks you to do anything outrageous, you promise yourself you’ll stop playing along no matter how bad it makes him look.

“As for the rest of you, I don’t ask twice, so come on up!” the guy proclaims, and a number of people rush the stage until all the chairs are filled.

“Very good. Now I want you all to sit back, relax, and prepare yourselves for an evening of imagination. If you’re ready to begin, say ‘Hell yeah.’”

“Hell yeah!” you yell along with the rest of the group—Dave excluded—trying to get into the spirit.

“I said if you wanna get hypnotized say HELL YEAH!”

“HELL YEAH!” you cry again, elbowing Dave. He really doesn’t seem into it.

“Very good. Now I want you to all just fix your attention on those soft mood lights at the back of the theater…”

At that point, the guy launches into his hypno-spiel. It’s pretty cheesy, like you expected. Just stare at the lights. Feel your eyes start to get heavy, starting to water, as you forget to blink, just staring at the lights. Forgetting to blink as you remember to forget and forget to remember… Eyes growing drowsy. Heavy. Sleepy…

This is all pretty silly. If this guy thinks he’s going to get you into some weird mental state just from babbling about stupid lights, this whole hypnosis thing really must be a crock. As a matter of fact, it’s so stupid, you decide to stop paying attention all together, just go ahead and forget he’s talking, deciding instead to remember to forget that he’s talking and forget to remember that you’re listening. Forgetting how heavy your eyelids are getting. All you remember is how easy it would be to close them and forget… to forget to remember to forget, or was it to remember to forget to… forget? But you’d never forget to remember to forget that if you’re forgetting to remember, you can just let your body melt as you remember to forget… or forget to remember… how good the shoulder of the person beside you feels… as you remember to forget… and forget to remember… to sleep… sleep… sleeeep…

You blink your eyes, sitting up in your chair. A strange aroma fills the air, musky yet familiar. You look to your left—holy shit! Uptight Dave is smoking a joint!

“That’s it, take a nice long puff and hand it to your neighbor—puff puff pass,” says someone.

Dave grins beneath lidded eyes, passing what looks like a cigarette to you. “Dude… this is tight...” he slurs, sounding stoned.

Fuck. You hadn’t expected to go past alcohol this weekend. But whatever. It is Bachelorama. And what happens in Vegas…

You grab the joint and press it to your lips, drawing a breath. Despite the fact it doesn’t even look lit, the heady smoke quickly fills your lungs.

“Huh!” you cough, holding as much as you can and trying to exhale slowly despite taking way too big a drag. Fuck. It’s hitting you in an instant. You’re just as stoned as Dave.

“Pass it along, guys, pass it along…” someone says, and you steal another quick puff and turn to the person on the other side of you: a thin young guy with a long flop of dark hair and a baggy black shirt for some metal band. Not to be too stereotypical, but he definitely looks like he knows good weed when he sees it. He grabs the joint and presses it to his lips.

“Tight…” he grins, the THC hitting him instantly.

“Keep it going, guys, keep it going,” someone says, and the kid turns and passes it along.

“That’s some good shit, right?” says some dude. He’s holding a mic out to the kid next to you.

“Ha, fuck man…” is all he can mutter, laughing and shaking his wavy hair.

“Pretty good, huh?” the guy asks the girl sitting next to the stoner. She just bursts out in a hit of high-pitched giggles.

“Pass it along, pass it along…” he hurries her.

“How ’bout you, Mr. Fiancé, you enjoying that thing?”

“Huh huh, yeah,” Dave laughs stupidly.

“I tell you how you know really good weed—people get so stoned they start forgetting everything about themselves. Hey man, what’s your name? You don’t remember,” says the guy, thrusting the mic at you while snapping right in your face.

You blink, annoyed by the snap. Why’s this guy trying to harsh your vibe? Of course you remember your name.

“My name… uh, my name…” you start, trailing off each time. What the hell. You definitely know your name. Right?

“Come on, man, what’s your name? You have no fuckin’ clue,” the guy snaps again. You keep blinking. What’s this asshole’s problem? You’d just say it if he would give you a chance.

“I… my name…,” you babble, confused. “Aw, shit.” What the hell is wrong with you? You know your name. It’s like you’re play acting forgetting it or something.

“Don’t worry about it,” the guy says, tapping you on the forehead and clicking his tongue. Suddenly you find yourself sprawling back in the chair, head over the backrest.

“Guess that means dealer’s choice,” he snickers. You just sit there, not really thinking about anything, mouth agape, as you feel him press his fingers against your neck.

“Just the person I’m touching… For the remainder of the evening, you confidently and firmly believe… that your name… is Cocksucker,” the guy says. You remain absolutely still but would be laughing if you had your eyes open. There’s no way in hell you’re calling yourself that.

“Yesss, you’re a proud, genu-ine Cocksucker. You’ve been a Cocksucker your whole life and you’ll be a Cocksucker ’til the day you die. Very, very proud of that name… and you get really pissed if anyone gets it wrong. At the count of three awakening, your name is Cocksucker, one, two and… three,” the guy snaps, and you sit back up, blinking. What was this dude saying? That you had a different name? Yeah, right, pal. We’ll just see about that.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we had a chance to get acquainted,” the guy says to the person on the other side of you, extending a hand.

“Uh, Rory,” grins the kid, taking it and giving it a shake.

“And of course we know Dave, the man of the hour. And—I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name, man,” he says, turning to you.

Ah, this asshole’s trying to set up a little joke. But you’re not playing into that.

“Cocksucker,” you enunciate into the mic, happy to be showing him up. There’s some sort of tittering far in the distance.

“You mean… Charles?” the guy asks.

“No. Cock. Sucker,” you lean forward and enunciate harder. What is this dude, deaf?

“Coco,” he says.

“Dude, COCK—SUCKER,” you say, starting to get pissed. What the hell is so hard? It’s a simple name.

“So, your name is… Cocksucker?” the guy asks.

“Cock. Sucker,” you say clearly into the mic one more time. Hopefully that’ll get this through his thick skull.

“That’s funny, man, do you know a lot of Cocksuckers? I’ve never met a Cocksucker like you before,” he says as the audience chortles. You shrug. Unique or not, it’s the name your parents gave you.

“You known this Cocksucker a while?” the guy asks Dave. “Must be nice having a full-time Cocksucker at your bachelor party.” Dave stares up at him, perplexed.

“Don’t worry about it, Dave. Waaay down…” the guy says, tapping Dave on the forehead. Dave melts sideways, collapsing onto your shoulder as you stare impassively. It should feel weird having some strange guy knock out your friend straight onto you, but for some reason, you just sit there and watch like it’s on TV.

“Dave, at the count of three when your eyes pop open, you went out and got yourself something special for your bachelor party. Yes, Dave, your whole life, you’ve been a breast man. You love big honkin’ titties, bongos, bazooms and melons. You’re absolutely gaga for hooters. So much so, in fact, that you’ve always wanted a pair of your own. Well Dave… tonight, you went on down to the plastic surgeon, and you picked yourself out a big ol’ pair… of titties.” You’re vaguely aware of some kind of commotion from beyond the lights as you notice someone reach from behind Dave and slip a big pair of foam rubber breasts over his neck, like a puffy bikini. This must be some kind of assistant of the guy with the microphone. Whoever it is, they start tying a string at the bottom of the bikini around Dave’s back, affixing the fake breasts to his chest.

“Yes Dave, you love your big, beautiful new titties, and any time you hear me say your name for the rest of the evening, you’re going to want to reach down and play with those hooters and give them a nice, sensuous squeeze. Matter of fact, the more you do that, the better it feels. After a while, it might even start to feel a bit… orgasmic.” The guy pauses for effect as the chatter continues beyond the lights. You just keep staring down at Dave like you’re in La Pieta. He looks so comfortable sleeping.

“At the count of three, eyes popping open… one, two… three!” The guy snaps. Woah. Dave wakes up in an instant. What’s going on with him?

“So, we’ve got Christopher here—” the guy starts.

“IT’S COCKSUCKER!” you scream. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Is he a moron?

“Right, right, Cocksucker. And of course, we can’t forget good ol’ Dave…”

Suddenly, Dave looks like he notices the appendages strapped to his chest for the first time. Reaching down, he starts to squeeze the two squishy orbs, then starts squirming around in his chair, grimacing with pleasure. After letting this go for four or five seconds, the guy with the mic leans down and asks, “Having a good time?” Dave smiles and nods, shaking his head vigorously. “Glad to have you up here, Dave,” the guy pats him on the shoulder, and Dave is back to playing with himself.

“And I’m sorry, man. One more time, you were…?” the guy asks your other neighbor.

“Rory,” smiles the kid nervously.

The guy clicks his tongue again, tapping the kid on the forehead: “Relax, Rory. Eeevery muscle…” He gently guides the kid onto your other shoulder.

Things proceed like that for a while, though you become less involved. Other people get knocked out, given silly instructions, and brought back up again. Rory thinks he smells stinky farts whenever he hears his name, and the girl beside him has to get up and twerk whenever she hears a song. Another guy has to scoot his butt around the stage when he hears a different piece of music, thinking his ass is on fire. The whole time you sit there impassively, watching. It feels like that butt-on-fire thing should be funny, and it is, but for some reason you barely crack a smile, you just sit and watch. Likewise, you feel like you should be getting turned on whenever that girl starts shaking her ass, but it’s like you’re watching through a haze. Maybe you’re still super stoned. You barely protest when Rory starts blaming you for the farts.

During all this, the hypnotist keeps congratulating Dave on his nuptials, and Dave keeps sitting there squirming playing with his big foam titties. But none of it penetrates. You just sit there like this is all totally normal. And all the while, you wonder why this guy doesn’t try that weird knockout thing on you. Maybe he knows you’re too strong-willed for it. After all, he tried playing that name trick on you and you got the upper hand, just like you told yourself you would. You could probably play with some foam-rubber tits like Dave, but there’s no way you’re calling yourself something stupid just so this guy can get a laugh.

Finally, the haze of your reverie is interrupted when you realize the guy is trying to get your attention again: “Hel-looo? Camden? Clark?” Holy shit! He’s so off-base you didn’t even know he was talking to you.

“What the Christ, man, it’s Cocksucker!” you explode, at the end of your rope. How can this be so hard?

The guy turns away and whispers into his mic: “The next time I do it, you call me every name in the book, no holds barred. You cannot leave you chair, but you are pissed.” He snaps and turns back, looking genuine. “I’m so sorry, Charlemagne.”

“YOU ASS-LICKING, DOG-FUCKING PIECE. OF. SHIT. MY NAME IS COCK. SUCKER. YOU CALL ME THE WRONG NAME ONE MORE TIME, BRO, I SWEAR TO GOD. I SWEAR. TO. GOD. FUCKIN’ TEST ME, DUDE. TEST ME.” You glare daggers at him. You have no idea where all that anger came from. You’re not usually a loud guy. You’ve never been this mad in your whole life. But you’re fucking sick of this. This guy is deliberately calling you the wrong name and upsetting you.

You stare him down, daring him to call you something else. If he fucks with you again, it’s blood. You’re not kidding. But he stares right back, unmoved, and seemingly unafraid. You could give a shit. You’re almost eager to hand this guy his ass the next time he tries something.

Yet instead of provoking you like you expect, he simply smiles, marches over, slides a hand around the back of your head, pulls you forward, and whispers, “Sleeeeeep.” You collapse, all the energy gushing out of your body, all the anger gone in an instant. You just fold into your lap, lying there like you’ve been meditating for years.

“Sleeeeeeep,” he whispers again. Joke’s on him, though, since you’re not asleep at all, you’re just lying here. He must think he can knock you out like these other chuckleheads.

“Just the person I’m touching, the person I’m touching only,” he says, a couple fingers pressing onto the back of your head. He must be talking to you, though fat chance of you’re gonna do anything this asshole says.

“At the count of three, when you awaken… Any time you hear anyone in this audience yell out the word… Mai Tai… Any time you hear anyone yell out ‘Mai Tai’ for the rest of the evening…” You vaguely remember the name of that drink figured into one of the other girls’ skits, but you can’t imagine what it has to do with you…

“Any time they yell Mai Tai, the strangest thing will happen: the most compelling urge will overcome you, to stand up out of your chair, walk to the front of the stage, turn around…” The guy stoops down and leans in right next to your ear. He’s so close you can feel the hot tickle of his breath and smell his Binaca. “…pull your pants down, moon the audience, stay there four or five seconds. You will make sure they cannot see the family jewels.” You remain motionless, but scoff in your head—this guy really thinks he’s gonna make you moon all these people? Yeah, right! You can’t wait to see the look on his face when this goes south.

“After that, pull your pants back up,” he continues, then switches back to the mic from his whisper: “head back to your seat, forget you ever did so, continue doing this for the rest of the evening. Wide awake on the count of one… two… three.” Snap.

You sit back up in your chair, blinking in a daze as the guy makes a “come on” motion to the blackness.

“MAI TAI!!” you hear an enthusiastic scream echo through the room, and before you’re even thinking about it, you rise out of your chair, stride to the front of the stage, turn around, and unbuckle your belt. A chorus of expectant “oooh”s and stifled chuckles fill the air as you bend over and slide your pants down. Not even thinking about it, you stand there for four or five beats, ignoring the roar of sound washing over you, then rise, slide your pants back up, and march back to your seat, plopping down where you were.

“MAI TAI!!!” another roar of laughing calls comes in, and almost as soon as you’re down, you’re back up again, marching back to the front of the stage and resuming the position. This happens three or four more times before you sit back down and once more feel the hand of that guy on the back on your neck, pushing you into your lap. “Sleeeeeeeep,” he rumbles, adding, “you’ll not respond while you’re sleeping…,” which is okay by you.

You lay there in your lap for a while, ignoring the commotion and enjoying taking the time to relax and let go. You next become aware of that guy’s voice some time later, when he’s saying to sit back up in your seat with your eyes closed, and that you’re back in your college dorm. He says it’s a hot spring afternoon, and you’re lying in bed feeling horny. You haven’t been laid in weeks—maybe months—and it’s getting to be too much. Your roommate’s out for the day, and you’re feeling very randy…

He’s not kidding. You certainly are. He says to reach down and start beating your meat, and you do, moving your hand down in front of your pants and miming a stroking motion. God, it feels good. It’s just like you have your hand on your cock. The voice says you can start picking up speed, it feels really good, and in just a second, if you feel a tap on your shoulder, you will feel comfortable sticking your hand down your pants.

You keep pantomiming stroking and hear a series of tongue clicks until finally a firm double-tap on your shoulder lets you know you too can join the fun. Sliding your hand straight down, you find the top of your jeans open for some reason, providing easy access. Your hand slides into your undies and grabs hold of your semi, starting to jiggle it. You’re not 100% sure how great it feels beating off inside your Jockeys, but there’s something super satisfying about just making that stroking motion.

“Yeahhhh, this feels good,” the voice continues. “But you know what would really hit the spot? Popping a bit of porn on your roommate’s big screen TV. Go ahead, turn it on, no one’s gonna know…”

You reach out with your free hand, pointing the remote. Click. Ah yeah. Fuck that’s hot. Just the way you like it. Look at them pounding away…

“Oh, shit, that’s grandma porn. Change the channel!”

Grimacing in disgust, you hammer at the remote, switching feeds. Yeah, that’s more like it…

“Oh, fuck, that’s your mom and dad!”

Ew!! Holy shit. What are your parents doing in a porno? Things must’ve been rougher than you realized during the Clinton years. Christ, your stomach is turning. You’re completely revolted.

“Ah yeah… There we go. That’s the stuff. Just how you like it. Yeah, this is that good shit. Keep spankin’ that meat…”

Fuck yeah. This is the life. This is seriously the hottest porn you’ve ever seen. You continue rummaging around in your Jockeys, flogging the bishop with your fly splayed wide. Your cock isn’t actually that hard, but you don’t care, this is the fucking life.

“Oh, holy fuck. Isn’t this one of those new TVs, where you can reach in and touch the action? Go ahead, reach out that free hand and do it…”

Shit, really? You didn’t realize that. Man, technology is out of control these days. Setting down the remote, you stick your hand forward and pet a bit of warm flesh. Unbelievable! It’s just like real life. You reach out further and squeeze a titty.

“Yeah, fuck yeah, this is great. Matter of fact, isn’t this one of those TVs you can crawl into and get in on the action? Take your hands out of your pants and crawl forward, opening your eyes carefully. All around you are some of the hottest girls you’ve ever seen!”

Pulling your hand out of your undies, you open your eyes and slide forward, plopping to your knees and crawling around. All around you, you see a bunch of people. You’re not really paying attention to who, but damn, they are all stunners. Right next to you is this chick who looks like your friend Dave, and you’re pretty sure she’s the most gorgeous chick you’ve ever seen. Reaching forward, you place your hand on the back of her neck and pull her in for a kiss. Damn, does she French good.

“All right, guys, remember, you’re in a porno. Why don’t you get in your number one position?” Don’t have to tell you twice. Never improved on a bit of doggie style. Guiding the lady forward onto her hands and knees, you line yourself up behind her and begin to thrust, grabbing the back of her hair—surprisingly short, one of the things that reminds you of Dave. Ah, fuck, it feels good. That guy was right. It sure has been forever since you’ve been laid.

“Try another position!” the guy calls out, and you pull back, trying to decide what to do. In the meantime, the girl rises up and guides you onto your back. All right… a bit of cowgirl certainly wouldn’t be unwelcome… But instead, she grabs both your legs and hoists them so your ankles are over her shoulders. Leaning forward, she starts pile diving into you. Definitely a new one in your book, but it’s kind of kinky and you’re weirdly into it.

“Male volunteers, you cannot touch each other… WIDE AWAKE!” the voice yells, and suddenly, your senses are blazing, acutely aware of your surroundings. What… the fuck?

“Ew, bro!” Dave yells, hopping off you. He’s got his shirt off for some reason, and his muscles are dotted with sweat from exertion and the heat of the stage lights. Also, he’s got a pair of giant foam tits strapped to his chest.

“Dude, what the fuck?!” you yell, scrambling back. Your fly is open for some reason, and you quickly reach down to fix it.

“Volunteers, back to your seats. Returning to a deep and relaxing state of sleep as you sit down…”

You climb to your feet, noticing that kid Rory climbing up from all fours, where some buff frat dude had been railing him in the ass. Across the stage, a few other couples are extricating themselves, and one thruple at the front in nothing but their underwear looks like they have a lot of explaining to do.

Plopping back in your chair, you instantly feel a wave of relaxation roll over you as your entire body begins to sag like a rubber band, collapsing down…

You remain like this for a while, oblivious to more commotion and racket around you. It just feels good to drift and relax, relax and drift, feeling so warm and comfortable letting your body melt.

Finally, after a long time being vaguely aware of a bunch of other stuff happening, you feel that powerful touch on your back again, and the strong, authoritative words: “At the count of three waking, the ‘Mai Tai’ suggestion still with you… One, two, three.” Snap.

You sit up, blinking, and before you can even get your bearings, you hear another thunderous call of “MAI TAI!!”

Rising up out of your chair, barely even able to keep your head up, you shuffle to the front of the stage, reach down and discover your barn door already open, turn around, bend over and drop your drawers. You wait a few beats and then stand back up, pulling up your pants and shuffling back toward your chair.

“The next time you hear that word yelled out, you’ll stand up out of your seat, come to where I’m standing, pull your pants down, moon the audience, and stay frozen like that with your butt exposed,” you hear the booming voice echo, and already it’s being drowned out by loud calls of “MAI TAI!” before it’s even done.

Rising back out of your chair, you head to where the guy with the mic is standing, next to another seated figure toward the front of the stage, slide right into his place as he moves out of the way, turn around, and lower your pants again, freezing just as instructed. A roar of noise comes from the darkness beyond the lights, but you just stand there, immune to it. You have no idea what it means.

“Just like that, frozen in time. Frozen in time…,” the voice says soothingly, laying a firm hand on the small of your back. You do as commanded, staring at the ground.

“Sleeeeeeeep... The gentleman I’m touching, Mr. Groom…” the voice continues, and you assume it must be talking to whoever’s beside you since it’s not touching you but still sounds close.

“You’ve just gotten married. You’re up on the altar right now. The priest has read the vows, and you’ve exchanged rings. You feel wonderful. There’s only one thing remaining, and that’s to give your beautiful, blushing bride a big, romantic… kiss, right on her beautiful rosy cheek. At the count of three, your eyes will pop open, and you’ll hear the whole crowd at your wedding yell those words you’ve been longing to hear. One… two… three…”

“YOU MAY KISS THE BRIDE!!”

You’re barely paying attention to what’s going on, but you do feel a hand on your left ass cheek, followed by a long, soft, wet sensation on the side of your right. The room is absolutely roaring with noise, but none of it means anything to you. You’re just waiting for that voice to speak again.

“SLEEEEEEEP, man, deeper and deeper. Save it for the honeymoon. Fuck, Cocksucker, pull your pants up!” You hear a snap, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re standing in the middle of the stage ass out with your pants around your ankles. Pulling up your jeans, you shuffle back to your chair as you feel that guy following you, one of those powerful hands on the back of your neck once more pushing you down in your chair: “SLEEEEEEEP……”

The next time you open your eyes, you’re pissed. You’ve been sitting up here an hour with this guy trying to get people hypnotized, but not a single person has gone under. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel like you can vaguely remember running around doing something, but it definitely wasn’t hypnosis. You were just goofing off since this guy couldn’t get anyone to fall asleep.

True to form, this asshole is up at the front of the stage, strutting around with his mic, talking about what a great show it’s been and what great volunteers everyone was. You snort. Typical Vegas showmanship. Now you’re probably supposed to go talk to all your friends about how amazing it was, or act like this guy was actually able to make anything happen. All these Vegas shows are a crock. You should’ve seen some showgirls or something. This is the last time you let Jack pick the entertainment.

“All right guys, now as we say goodnight to our volunteers, I want you to bring the house down for each and every one of them, because they, not me, have been the real stars tonight. Ma’am, can you come up here?” The guy gestures to a woman at the end of your row and then toward an empty chair in the center of the stage. You watch as she awkwardly walks over and sits down, before the guy extends his hand: “Great having you with us tonight.”

“Ooo-OoooOOoooo-Oooohhh!” she yelps, shuddering and leaping out of her seat like electricity is flowing through her body. Pretty quickly, she slaps her other hand over the hypnotist’s, clamping his palm against hers and continuing to vibrate until he has to forcefully yank it away. Suddenly, an extra light comes up on her and a cliched “Hal-le-lujah!” plays over the speakers, and she seems to come out of whatever weird state she was in, sitting there blinking before blushing crimson.

“Give it up for Veronica!” exclaims the guy, and she staggers out of the seat as he pats her on the back. You don’t know what’s going on, but it seems ridiculous. This guy must have plants up here in case his whole routine falls apart.

The “hypnotist” next points at a young guy with shaggy black hair wearing a baggy t-shirt: “You’ve been great tonight, man, why don’t you come up?” As the kid trots to the chair at the front of the stage, brushing his hair back, you notice he has what looks like a pair of blue boxers pulled up over his baggy jeans, making them bunch out like a diaper.

“Thanks for volunteering,” smiles the guy, and the second the kid grabs his hand, he slides back in the chair and his eyes roll back in his head, mouth dropping open and gaping as his whole body convulses. Grabbing the guy’s forearm with his free hand, the kid pulls himself up close against him, continuing to shake and groan until the guy finally wrenches his hand away.

“Huge round of applause for Rory!” he yells, patting the kid on the back as he breaks into a nervous smile, stands, and then awkwardly bows. Finally looking down, he does a double-take as he notices what’s up with his undies.

“Might wanna head to the restroom and get that taken care of,” the hypnotist smiles, and the kid shakes his head like he’s remembering some drunken antics from the night before.

“Fuck…” he laughs.

“One more huge hand for this guy. Miss, you’re next…” the emcee continues…

Things progress like that for a while, with the various volunteers getting called up one-by-one. Each time, the second the “hypnotist” grips their hand, their bodies start to convulse and they moan like they’re having a very theatrical orgasm. First, it’s a kind of chubby lady that looks like she’s with a bachelorette group, then a buff frat dude in cargo shorts and an unbuttoned dress shirt. The showman tries to mix in women evenly, but there are probably twice as many guys onstage. Toward the end, there’s a chain of three men, all in their underwear: one by one, the second the handshake stops, they come to and dash back to their seats, scrambling to grab the pile of their clothes sitting beneath. Finally, when there’s only a few people left onstage, the “hypnotist” points at you.

“Thanks for coming up, man.”

You rise out of your seat and make your way over to him, plopping down. This guy’s in for a rude awakening if he thinks you’re gonna play along with his reindeer games.

“Put ’er there, man, you were fantastic,” he smiles, extending a hand.

Begrudgingly you take it, before feeling an electric jolt surge through your body. Fuck! It’s like you’re getting blown and fucking and cumming all at once. “Ooooo-hooo-ohhhh…” you groan, sliding back in your chair. In your shoes, you can feel your toes curling, and your pants start to tent as you buck your hips.

Suddenly, the guy yanks his hand away, and you’re coming to, grabbing the sides of the chair for support. Fuck. Wait a minute, what’s going on? Weren’t you just trying to get hypnotized? Why aren’t you sitting next to-

“A huge round of applause for Cocksucker!” yells the guy beside you, and suddenly, a bunch of memories come rushing back: Dave playing with his tits, you humping something or someone onstage, and, worst of all, screaming at this guy to call you that demeaning name.

You stagger to your feet, the dude placing a hand in the small of your back to help you. You just stand there blinking, trying to process all the memories flooding your mind.

“Thanks for coming up! You were amazing, dude. Now listen, everyone: I don’t want you cracking any jokes about this guy tonight, all right? He was brave enough to come up here and that takes butts- I mean guts!” The crowd bursts into laughter. You blink, unsure what the hell he’s talking about. Then you start staggering off the stage, wanting to get back to your friends as quickly as possible.

A few more memories—small ones—come back as you make your way up the aisle while the hypnotist is finishing with one more person. As you sit back down, the only volunteer still onstage is Dave.

“Now after this, I want you to absolutely bring the house down for Dave, he’s been such a great sport. Dave, congrats on the wedding, and when you kiss your wife, don’t tell her where those lips have been,” he winks, extending a hand as the crowd titters. You can’t figure out what this guy is talking about.

Still topless and wearing his giant foam tits, Dave starts screaming at the top of his lungs the second the handshake connects. The hypnotist leaves him there writhing and groaning for at least thirty seconds, interjecting little cracks like, “After tonight, the honeymoon’s gonna be a letdown, right Dave?” After he says this, Dave starts squeezing his foam boobs and moaning even harder.

When the hypnotist finally yanks his hand back, you imagine Dave’s face looks pretty much like yours must’ve a few minutes ago. He sits there blinking and panting like he just ran a marathon, as the hypnotist runs through a bit more patter:

“How you feel, man, do you remember anything?”

Dave just shakes his head no.

“Well, don’t worry, it’s all on video! Guys, if you liked what you saw tonight, I’m here five nights a week! And if you didn’t enjoy my show, my name’s Chris Angel. Everybody have a great evening and get home safe—good night!” The guy quickly beats an exit behind the curtain as Dave is still staggering to his feet, pulling off the foam bra in bewilderment and looking for his shirt. Your friends continue rolling in the aisles as he makes his way back to you, half the crowd already leaving.

“What was it like, man?” “Dude, I can’t believe it worked!” Your friends pepper him with questions the second he returns. You get some of the same as you and everybody else make your way up the crowded stairs: “Shit, man, you were really out of it.” “Yeah, can you tell us your name? Do you want a mai tai?”

You blink in confusion, still feeling groggy. “I’m fine, let’s just hit the club, this shit was stupid.” Why are they all offering you some girly drink and asking your name? You can still only half remember what happened, but you know you regret going up. The more time goes by—and the more stuff people ask—the more comes floating back, and all of it you wish you could forget…

Over the rest of the evening, you try to put the events of the show out of your mind. Unfortunately, more and more details keep fading in, like basically having a big gay orgy and making out with Dave in the center of the stage, and of course the myriad times all these assholes made you expose yourself. As your group hits the clubs, you start self-medicating with beer and tequila, and even throw in a few edibles for good measure. Within a few hours, the events of earlier are miles from your mind, and by the time you and Dave and everybody else are staggering back to the hotel, you couldn’t even define hypnosis, much less remember what you may or may not have done while under.

“You sure he’s all right, man? You guys are both pretty wasted,” says Jack, who along with another friend has made sure you got back to your door safe.

“Yeah, dude, we’re good. We’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” you say, patting him on the shoulder and helping Dave stagger into the room.

Bidding Jack goodnight, you lock the door and watch as Dave makes a bee-line for the toilet. As a symphony of puking starts to emanate from the bathroom, you turn on the TV to cover up the sounds of Dave’s concerto, then stagger back toward your bed. Trying to take off your pants, you unzip your jeans and yank them down, pulling your underwear half down your legs with them as you trip and collapse on the bed, ass in the air. Groaning and waving your hands in frustration, everything fades into a stupor as you drift off dreaming of breakfast…

“…fuck. Fuck FUCK!”

You’re jolted awake by the feeling of a body yanking itself away from you, paired with the obnoxious blare of a ringtone. You recognize that tune—it’s that fucking jingle Dave uses just for Molly. You blink your eyes groggily as you watch him dash across the room, yanking on a pair of boxers as he goes for the phone in his pants pocket.

Squinting as you fight back your hangover, you survey the room: the dawning sun blazes through the half-open curtains, and against the wall, the TV is blaring some stupid morning show, a trio of brightly dressed anchors jabbering some nonsense. Trying to remember if you’ve just woken up from a dream, you find yourself having the strangest thought: Wait? Isn’t this one of those TVs you can climb into?

“Hey babe… Yeah, I’m doing great. We’re actually just about to go to brunch…”

You shake your head, blinking. It’s only just hitting you that the usually-shy Dave is stumbling around in his boxers. And come to think of it, didn’t he just dash over there while pulling them? And didn’t you feel someone yanking away when you woke up?

Pulling back the covers, you look down and see your own soft dick staring back at you. Shit. Where the fuck are your underwear?

“No babe, we were good, I promise. We just hit up a show and went out for drinks and called it a night. I swear I didn’t touch a single girl.” Dave looks over at you, eyes shooting daggers.

Fuck. Closing your eyes, you roll over on your back, suddenly aware of an aching in your ass to rival the one in your head. Oh shit, poor Molly. Oh well. What happens in Vegas…