You may know my wife, Angela. Quite the exhibitionist, even today. Not that I mind at all--she's gorgeous. But would you believe she wasn't always that way? Fortunately I was able to change her mind about that. And pretty much all in one night, too.
It happened before we were married. I was reading the latest issue of Playboy when Angela walked in the room. "Enjoying yourself?" she said with a tight-lipped smile.
"Actually, yes," I replied. "The article on Democratic presidential prospects was quite informative, the fiction piece was very well done, and the party jokes were actually funny this time."
Angela sat down beside me on the couch, reached over and flipped the pages to the Playmate. "What about her?" she asked pointedly.
I looked at the tastefully posed, porcelain-skinned, wonderfully-curved brunette and nodded. "She's gorgeous," I replied, "almost as gorgeous as you are."
She smiled for a bit, then looked away. "I'm not gorgeous."
I sighed. Here we were going again. "Listen to me," I said lifting her chin gently to look at her directly. "I'm not going to take that from you. No one is going to tell me that my girl is anything less than drop-dead, head-turning, awe-inspiring gorgeous—not even you. Do you understand me, Angela? You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
She nodded—half-heartedly—then looked away again. I sat there playing with her thick, curly blonde hair. I pondered what to do. I was getting tired of this. We had been together for four months, and this attitude of hers just seemed so wrong for someone so beautiful. We'd always made love in the dark—never showered together—and I'd never even seen her in so much as a dress, let alone shorts or a swimsuit. She always wore baggy pants and a sweatshirt, nothing that could even hint at the gorgeous body underneath, the body that I'd glimpsed ever so briefly through whatever light leaked through the bedroom curtains.
But nothing I'd ever said or done made an impression on her, couldn't penetrate the curtain of self-doubt she'd drawn around herself. Flattery, poetry, fancy lingerie—nothing. What was left to try?
Then it occurred to me—all the time I had been talking to her conscious mind. Maybe it was time to talk to her subconscious.
"Wait right here," I said as I got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. There I found a candle I'd kept around for blackouts, and the matches. I set up the candle in its stand and went back into the room and set up a TV tray in front of Angela. Placing the candle on the tray, I lit the candle and turned off all the lights in the room, then sat down beside her.
She was already staring into the candle flame. "What's this for?"
"I told you I'm not going to let anyone say you're not gorgeous—not even you," I said to her softly. "And since my words or actions haven't convinced you that you are extremely, wonderfully beautiful, you've left me no choice but to hypnotize you into believing it."
She reacted about the way you'd expect—she started giggling, and the giggling became full-blown laughter. She calmed a bit after a minute and a half, and looked at me. "Are you serious?"
"Definitely. Now I want you to stare at the candle flame—"
"You think you can hypnotize me?"
"I know I can."
"What if I can't be hypnotized?"
"If it doesn't work, you'll have something to tell your girlfriends to prove what a big idiot your boyfriend is. Any more questions?"
She thought for a moment, then said, "No."
"All right—I want you to stare into the candle flame—stare into it until you can see nothing else but its soft, warm light. And as you stare into the soft, warm light of the candle flame, you will give your attention to my voice and my words as you let your mind and your body become more and more relaxed. . .more and more relaxed. . .more and more relaxed. . ."
I watched her carefully as she concentrated on the candle. Soon her face began to soften, and her eyelids began to droop. I insisted she keep staring into the flame for as long as she could, and I could see her eyelids flutter and her eyes water up as she fought to keep them open. I continued the induction, emphasizing how little by little every part of her body was becoming more and more relaxed. . .more and more relaxed. . .more and more relaxed. . .
And when I figured she was ready, I said, ". . .When you feel you are deeply and completely relaxed. . .deeply and completely relaxed. . .when you are ready to enter into deep, deep hypnosis . . .then your eyes will close, and you will be deeply and completely hypnotized. . .When you feel you are deeply and completely relaxed. . ."
I didn't get to finish, for as soon as I said the word "close" her eyes did just that, and then her head nodded forward and she seemed to list towards me. If I hadn't been sitting beside her, she would have stretched out on the couch and taken a long nap.
I did a few of the standard trance-depth-indication exercises—you know, arm levitation, arm stiffening, eyes stuck shut—that sort of thing. I also desensitized her right hand to pain, and held it over the candle flame. No response. I put down the candle and re-sensitized her hand to normal. Then I smiled at the hypnotized Angela, and at my own success.
Pretty darn good for someone who had never hypnotized anyone before.
Oh, I had seen it done on stage shows, and in how-to videos, and in watching my college psychology instructor (who was a big fan of the stuff) hypnotize my class mates, but I'd never done it myself. But Angela didn't know that, and I saw no reason to tell her—and right now it made no difference. Angela was hypnotized, and I was the one who had hypnotized her. Now came the tricky part. "Angela—listen carefully. I want you to stand upon your feet while remaining deeply hypnotized. You know you can do this, and you know you want to do this. Stand up now."
Angela took a deep breath and rose to her feet, her head still slumped forward and her eyes still closed. With two fingers I pushed her head upright, and waited to see if it would fall over. It didn't—and that's when I realized; this was the first time I'd seen her asleep. Yes, we'd made love, but she always went home afterwards or sent me home afterwards, depending on whose place we were at.
She looked really beautiful when she was asleep.
Time for step two. "Angela, I want you to come with me. We're going to the bedroom. I want you to walk with me and still be deeply hypnotized."
"Are we going to do it?" said Angela in a whispery voice.
"Certainly," I replied smiling, "as long as you remain hypnotized."
"Great," she smiled back.
With the candle in one hand I led Angela by her arm to the bedroom. I took her over to the bed and stepped back. I thought of our first time together—she invited me over for pizza and videos, and when the sun was down she invited me into her room to "show me something." Now she was about to show me something more.
"We're going to make love, Angela," I said. "We're in my bedroom, the lights are all off, and you can remove all your clothes so we can make love."
Still smiling, and still with her eyes closed, Angela removed her shoes first, standing on one foot, then the other to take them off. She then pushed her sweatpants down around her ankles, then stepped out of them and pushed them aside with her foot. Crossing her arms in front of her, she grasped the edges of her sweatshirt and pulled it over her head, letting it fall to the floor as she removed her hands from the sleeves. She then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, and it almost came off by itself as her considerably large breasts were let loose. Finally, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and lowered them around her ankles, stepped out of them, and dropped them on the floor next to her bra. She then straightened up again and stood there in the candlelight—still smiling, still with her eyes closed, and still deep in hypnosis.
It was all I could do to keep standing. I knew she was gorgeous, but this was beyond every expectation I had a right to hold. Did I mention Angela's breasts were huge? The French say the perfect breast should fill a champagne glass—Angela's could each fill a mixing bowl. Her hips and thighs were just as round and full, giving her a well-defined hourglass figure—maybe a two-hourglass figure, but still, a figure more than worthy of adoration and adulation.
And she was my girl.
"You can sit on the bed if you wish, Angela," I said, and she did so—still smiling, and still with her eyes closed. I set down the candle and sat beside her.
"Am I still hypnotized?" she asked.
"Yes—and you will remain deeply hypnotized until I tell you to awaken. Do you mind?"
"Not at all."
A question occurred to me. "What does it feel like to be hypnotized?"
She smiled a little more. "It feels really good," she said, dwelling on the word "good" for a moment. "Like being stoned, but not as smelly."
This was something she hadn't told me about. Maybe she figured I wouldn't approve—I didn't smoke or drink, after all. But I didn't hypnotize her to find out her deepest secrets. Maybe some other time.
"Lie back on the bed, Angela," I whispered into her ear, and she did so. I laid down beside her and continued whispering sweet, soft suggestions to her.
"I'm going to make love to you, Angela. Already you can feel my face between your thighs, pressing against the soft, sultry wetness of your pussy, feel my tongue licking the guardian of your heavenly gate. I'm eating your pussy, Angela—eating it just the way you like it—"
"Mmmm—yes—that's real nice," murmured Angela as she writhed on the bed, playing with her nipples with one hand, running her fingers through my hair—that is, the hair of the imaginary "me" eating her pussy—with her other hand. I could almost see my hair wrapped and twisted in her fingers, pulling and yanking it slowly. Yes, it was painful when she did it for real, but it also told me she was close to orgasm.
"Now I'm entering you, Angela—my cock is hard and ready for you, and I'm putting it inside your sweltering, willing pussy. Can you feel it inside you, Angela—thrusting and pushing, more and more with each second, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. You're very close to coming for me, Angela, and I'm close to coming for you. Do you want to come for me, Angela?"
"Yes-sss—please—I want to come for you—"
"Then come for me now."
She announced her orgasm with a sound that was something between a moan and a whine; her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and her legs were clenching shut as well. (But not completely—after all, "I" was still between them.) The orgasm passed after a few beautiful moments, and she laid on the bed completely relaxed. "That was real nice," she said with a sleepy smile. "Can we do it again?"
"Of course we can," I replied, fighting my own urge to take her then and there. What I had in mind was risky enough without adding accusations of attempted rape to the equation. "But there's something I want you to do first." I went and got the candle and had Angela sit up on the bed. "I want you to open your eyes, Angela, and remain deeply hypnotized as you do. Open you eyes now."
Angela opened her eyes, and I moved the candle close to her face, but not close enough to burn. She immediately zeroed in on the candle flame—which is what I wanted.
"Continue to focus on the soft light of the candle, Angela—let it take you deeper and deeper into hypnosis. And as you go deeper and deeper into hypnosis you're going to forget all your inhibitions and pre-conceived notions about yourself, and listen carefully to my suggestions."
Angela nodded slightly, and I continued. "In a moment I will count from one to three—and when you hear the count of three, you will become a centerfold model, just like in Playboy and all those other magazines. You will enjoy being photographed in the nude, and you will willingly and gladly participate in the centerfold photograph session we're having this evening. We're shooting your next centerfold spread tonight, and you cannot wait for it to happen. Do you understand?"
She didn't answer right away, and I feared for a moment she might turn me down. But the hypnotically-induced orgasm and the hypnosis itself had loosened her up quite nicely, more so than any licit or illicit substance. "Yes—I understand," she said in a sleepy whisper.
"What will happen when I count to three?"
"I will become a centerfold model."
"What will we do then?"
"Shoot my latest centerfold spread."
With that I had her close her eyes, and wait for the count of three. I then turned on the lights in my bedroom, and doused the candle. Then I went and got my Polaroid camera, and the dozen packs of film I'd bought on sale. Then I got a few of my Playboys—after all, I'd never shot a centerfold spread before, and I needed some inspiration. With all this I went back to my bedroom, and my own personal centerfold model. I was ready—and hopefully, so was Angela.
"Now, once again—what will happen when I count to three?"
"I will become a centerfold model."
"And what will we do then?"
"Shoot my next centerfold spread."
I took a deep breath. "Then open your eyes and be my centerfold model on the count of one. . . two. . . . .three."
Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at me and smiled. Then she saw the camera in my hand. "Are you ready?"
"I'm ready if you're ready," I replied.
"All right," she said as she sat back on the bed propped up on her elbows, one leg drawn up, the other half-dangling over the edge of the bed. "Let's do it!"
I flipped through the pages of my Playboys and looked for poses to put her in. Angela, as it happily turned out, was a natural at this sort of thing. I posed her reclining on one side, then the other. I had her kneeling on the bed with her back arched and her hands behind her head, and then the same pose with her holding up her breasts. I had her pose on her back with her hands on her inner thighs, then the same shot but with her legs spread wide and her hands on her pussy. I shot her Playboy-style, Penthouse-style, and even Hustler-style. I took close-ups of her breasts, her pussy, and one really good close-up of her face with her hands on her cheeks. I used up all my film, and it was worth every shot.
I let the pictures develop, and I had Angela dress herself and brought her back into my front room. I sat her down on the couch and told her to close her eyes. I watched her sleep for a moment, then prepared to bring her back to reality.
"When you hear the count of three, you will become completely awake, aware, and ready for anything," I spoke softly into her ear. "You will remember being hypnotized, but you will not remember what you did under hypnosis—not until you hear me say the words, 'If you want to remember, you will.´ Then you will remember everything you did while hypnotized, and why you did it. Do you understand, Angela?"
"I understand," she said in a soft murmur.
"What will you remember about being hypnotized?"
"Nothing—until you say the words."
"What words are those, Angela?"
"You'll say, 'If you want to remember, you will.´"
I took a deep breath, and said, "All right, Angela—you'll come completely out of hypnosis, feeling really great, and awake, and aware, and ready for anything on the count of one. . .two. . . . .three."
Angela lifted her head and her eyes fluttered open as the hypnosis left her. She looked at me and smiled. "How do you feel?" I asked.
"I feel great," she replied. "I don't remember what happened, but I must have had a good time."
"Would you like to see what happened?"
"Sure," she said, nodding.
This was it. I went back into the bedroom and stacked up the Polaroids as neatly as I could, then brought them back into the front room.
"Did you see the time?" she said as I entered. "It's almost one A.M.—I must've been out for—" Her voice trailed off as I put the pictures in front of her. She took a handful and studied them, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping in horrified disbelief as she saw herself—the uninhibited centerfold model she didn't yet remember being—posing nude for the camera. "This—this isn't me—this can't be me! I would never do anything like that! When—where did you get these?"
"I took them just now—while you were hypnotized."
"Great—so I was your mind-controlled centerfold slave when you took them."
"Look—hypnosis doesn't work that way. There must have been some part of you that wanted to do this, otherwise you wouldn't have done it. All I did by hypnotizing you was give you permission to do what you wanted to do already, but couldn't because you believed, for some ridiculous reason, that your body wasn't beautiful enough to be photographed naked. I didn't take control of you—I let you loose of your control over yourself."
Angela calmed down a bit—she was still mad, but what I said apparently made sense to her.
"Of course," I continued, " you could go on believing I took control of you under hypnosis, and made you pose for those pictures, if that's easier for you. Or you could accept responsibility for your actions—and the less-inhibited part of yourself—by remembering what you did under hypnosis."
"How do I do that?"
"You have to ask yourself—honestly—if you want to remember."
She studied the photos in her hand, carefully considering the centerfold model that wore her face and body, as if trying to ask herself if that was really her. Already I think she had figured out that I could have made her forget all about the hypnosis and never told her that I'd photographed her, if I were the kind of absolute sleazebag who took photos of drugged or hypnotized women against their will. But if she'd wanted these photos taken—what did that say about her?
There was only one way to find out. She put down the photos and looked at me. "Yes—I want to remember."
I smiled and looked her straight in the eye. "If you want to remember—you will."
Her eyes fluttered and she let out a brief sigh, as though she'd entered a hypnotic trance again for a fraction of a second. Then she stared at me with her eyes wide and her jaw dropped in utter astonishment. "I remember!" she blurted out. "We had sex together, except we didn't—you just told me we were having sex, and I believed it. Then you told me I was a centerfold model—and I believed that too! I can't believe I believed those things! But I wanted to believe them—and it wasn't really like you were lying to me, was it?"
"All I wanted was for you to see how beautiful you were for yourself. Those photos are the proof of that. Take a good look at them, Angela—see your self the way I see you."
Angela picked up the photos again and studied them with an interest she hadn't had moments ago. She put one down, then considered the next photo, and then the one after that. Several photos later, a smile came across her face. "I do look really hot in these, don't I?"
I smiled and relaxed. Finally, I relaxed. "That's what I've been saying all along."
She patted the couch beside her. "Sit down," she smiled, "Let's go over them together."
I accepted the invitation, and as my seat hit the couch Angela said, "Let me get comfortable here." And with that she slipped off her shoes—then pulled off her sweatshirt and removed her bra. Topless, she snuggled close to me, and it was all I could do to tear my gaze from her chest to catch the mischievous gleam in her eye.
She smiled back at me, and picked up a photo. "Now this is a good one. I like this. . ."