Hypno Harem Read online

  “I what?”

  “Move deh fuhnichuh.”

  “Furniture?”

  “Yah, dot’s vot I said. Fuhnichuh.”

  “So, I move the furniture? Like I rearrange it?”

  “Yah. Vot I mean ist you change tinks around. Maybe you don’t move fuhnichuh. Maybe you paint it. It ist deh dreamvuld. You change tings in deh gel’s mind, make dem better for you.”

  “I still don’t get it. How?”

  “Maybe you take your picture and you find deh room where she haz pictures uf everyone she lufs.”

  “Everyone she loves?”

  “Yah. Her muddah, her faddah, her puppy dog, her boyfriendz.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you put deh picture uf you in der, vith dem.”

  “And that will make her love me?”

  “It vill make her tink she lufs you, for a little while. Deh rest is up to you.”

  “And this works?”

  Popper pointed to a family photo on his desk: himself, his wife, two young couples and their children. “Married fifty-two years. Two children, five grandchildren. Yah, Voody, it verks!”

  Inside Candice Starke

  Woody closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He who dares… Another deep breath, then another. He slowed his breathing, emptying his mind. He heard Popper’s voice. “Take your time, Voody. You haf aw deh time in deh vuld. Yah?”

  After a little, he drifted into a sort of half-dream, aware of where he was, but not entirely present. He was here, in Dr. Starke’s anteroom, but also elsewhere, in some… some fairground. He was standing by a hot-air balloon. What was he doing there? He was selling tickets. It was his balloon and he was taking people for rides. A pretty girl came up. The girl was Candice Starke. They got in the basket and the balloon lifted them up, high above the fair. She marveled at the view.

  Now they were floating… floating where? Floating across the room to where Candice was typing on her computer. They were either very small or else the room was very large. In any case, she didn’t notice the balloon, paying no more attention than if it were a piece of airborne lint.

  The balloon drifted close, closer. It was going to hit her head! Woody was alone in the balloon now. As happens in dreams, his companion had vanished. That didn’t bother him, but he definitely didn’t want to get snagged in Candice’s tangle of blonde hair. She might notice, pluck him out and squash him with her fingers. What an ugly bug. Ugh!

  Woody adjusted the blue flame that heated the air inside the balloon and it began to descend. He steered it toward the side of her head. The balloon, now tiny, easily passed between her blonde strands, big as cables, as it drifted toward her ear. The lobe was huge with an opening deep and dark as a cavern. He floated inside with room to spare.

  A moment later, he was in Candice’s brain! The balloon had vanished. He was standing in some structure, its interior lit by a glowing rosy light. He was so excited he wanted to jump and shout, but he heard Dr. Popper’s cautionary voice. “Remember you are intruder. Be careful, yah? Do not scare your host.”

  Right. Keep calm. Breathe deep. Exactly what kind of structure was he in? A house? Yes, a house. But not an ordinary house. It was more like… a doll house? Yes, he was in a doll house. How interesting. What did that say about Candice? A lot probably, but he wasn’t there to assess her maturity. He was there to plant a token and get out before his presence was detected.

  What could he use? Anything, so long as it was personal, unique to him. Two days ago he’d left his Swiss Army knife in her mother’s mind. Now inside Candice’s winsomely girlish brain, he stuck his hand in his pocket and—whaddaya know?—he still had the knife! Well, of course he did. This was dream reality, not real reality.

  He tucked the blade in an inconspicuous corner, next to some dusty stuffed animals and an old man, probably a grandparent, who was shambling around in circles talking gibberish. Now time to get out before… There was a warmth coming from somewhere in her mind, rising rather rapidly, almost like a fire.

  This worried him a little, although the idea of this dream dollhouse really being on fire was ridiculous. Still, he felt uncomfortable about leaving without first making sure there was no danger. He went in and out of various rooms until he came to one occupied by a big bed with a red cover and satin pillows in valentine shapes, the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a bordello. It was covered with stuffed teddy bears.

  On inspection, he realized the bears were actually stuffed people, boys in fact. One of them, whom he recognized as a frat guy with a bad boy reputation, was literally smoking! And the bed… the mattress was moving as if alive, regularly rising and falling, slowly at first but gathering speed. There was a television in the room which he now realized was tuned to some softcore porn channel. The couple rolling around the screen were recognizable as the frat boy and Candice. She was having a fantasy!

  He watched, fascinated, until he noticed that the frat bear had acquired mobility and was engaged in humping the bed, which amazingly, was responding. Woody had the queasy feeling of watching some X-rated Disney animation. He also felt a surge of jealousy. This was the place Popper had mentioned, where she kept boys she’d met. Somewhere in here would be an image of himself. He began searching and eventually found it, just a blurry wallet-sized photo. He didn’t merit a teddy bear.

  He walked over to the bed, grabbed the frat bear by the scruff of its neck and tossed it into a corner. The thing growled a complaint as it soared through the air but remained where it landed. The mattress was still pushing itself upward, as if the bear were still on top. It may not yet have noticed its partner was gone. That would be the way of sexual fantasies, the physical excitement carrying you over any bumps in logic. He put the photo of himself on the bed face down and watched to see what would happen. Nothing, though the mattress continued its grinding gyrations. He turned to see what was playing on the softporn channel now. The fratboy was gone but Candice had a new partner, though for the moment his face was hidden between her thighs.

  When Woody turned back to the bed, he saw that his photo had transmogrified into a teddy bear version of himself, not as big or robust as the frat-bear but definitely three dimensional. The bed was now making a soft moaning sound. Woody felt things were getting a little out of hand and decided to get out before he himself was somehow stuck in this dreamworld orgy. He took a deep breath, calmed his mind and after a little was back in the basket of his hot air balloon floating across the room toward… himself, seemingly entranced by whatever was on his tablet.

  A moment later he looked up from his tablet. He was back in the anteroom. Candice was staring fixedly at the screen of her notebook, but her fingers no longer hit the keys. Her eyes were unfocused and her breathing was quick and shallow. She was apparently deep in her private bordello.

  Woody took note of her fingers, lying slackly on the keyboard. Wouldn’t it be fun if those fingers could be put to the use of her fantasy? He wondered if now that he’d left a token, he could influence her without making another balloon ride. He stared at her fingers, willing them to move to her lap.

  What had started for Candice as a pleasant daydream had somehow gotten out of hand. She seemed unable to return to her work. This was stronger than any fantasy she could remember, at least a hands-free one. Bob McReddy had vanished for some reason, replaced by a man in a mask. That was kind of cool. She wondered if it was anyone she knew. She’d read somewhere that masked lovers represented people you didn’t want to admit turned you on, like your father or a teacher. Maybe. She didn’t think she’d ever had this kind before.

  That would be okay if she was alone in her bedroom but she was on campus in the anteroom to Mom’s office and not alone, one of Mom’s grad students was sitting on the other side of the room. What really bothered her was that this fantasy had a grip on her. She couldn’t let it go. Her panties were getting wet and she had an unaccountable urge to play with herself.

  Could she? Maybe. She was sitting at the desk
of the Neuroscience Department’s secretary. The student, Woody something, could only see what was above the desk, not whatever she did under it. She casually slipped her right hand from the keyboard and put it in her lap. After a moment she slid it to her thigh. She began to slowly pull her skirt up. Carefully, carefully, Candi. No sudden movements.

  She spread her legs open and slipped her hand inside her panties, sliding it down her pussy until it was right over her clit. She poked a finger inside her folds—God, I’m so wet!—and began to circle her finger around and around. It swelled in response. Jesus! Oh Jesus. I need a cock so bad.

  “Ohhh…”

  Someone made a sound. She had! She’d moaned. Not loud but this was a small room. It didn’t have to be loud. Had he heard? She quickly pulled her hand from her pussy and smoothed her skirt. She glanced in Woody’s direction. His eyes were locked on his tablet, oblivious. Thank God. He had a funny little smile on his face. She wondered why.

  In fact, now that she thought about it, she was kind of pissed that he didn’t look up or notice her. She was hot! Guys were always trying to hook up with her. Why wasn’t he interested? Like, was he a fag?

  Her clit was demanding attention. She closed her legs tight but it was no good. She had to get her hand back in there. If she could just cum real quick she could go back to her paper. She slipped her hand into her panties, along the slit. There you are, you hot, wet, needy little cunt!

  But this time it wasn’t enough to just play with her clit. Her pussy needed a cock! Woody was kind of cute. What kind of cock did he have? Be nice if he just got up, walked right over here, grabbed her and threw her over the desk. Oh God, yes, Woody! Take me from behind! Do me, do me!

  Candice thrust her hand halfway inside her pussy, pulled it out and shoved it back in deeper, jammed it in! Deep, deeper, deepest! Do me deep, Woody!

  Her free hand was on her breast now, pinching, squeezing, stroking. She threw a quick glance at Woody. He was still staring at his screen. A good thing because she couldn’t stop now. It would take two strong men to pull her hands from her breasts and pussy. Four strong men! It would take one gripping each arm and leg to keep her from pleasuring herself. Then when they had hold of her, they could lay her on the desk and take turns using her!

  “Ohhhh, God!”

  She’d moaned again! She couldn’t keep quiet, didn’t want to keep quiet. She wanted the world to know how hot she was. She felt like she was going to scream. Oh God, oh God.

  “Oh God, oh God…”

  Woody raised his eyes from his tablet in disbelief. Candice’s own eyes were closed, oblivious to anything outside herself. She sprawled in her chair, head thrown back. One hand was busily fondling her left breast, now fully exposed. The other hand was out of sight, somewhere under the desk, but judging by the wet sounds and rapid movements of her arm, it was engaged in pleasuring her vagina. She was moaning too, though not so loud she could be heard by her mother… yet.

  He was shocked. He’d only meant to have a little fun, but this, this had gotten out of hand. Yes, Candice Starke was a stuck-up bitch, but she didn’t deserve to be publically humiliated. And it would be public any minute now. Someone would walk in from the hall. Or her mother’s meeting would break up.

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered. “Woody, fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

  This couldn’t go on. Whatever fun Teddy Bear Woody was having in Candice’s subconscious, he regrettably had to put a stop to it.

  He took a deep breath, calmed his mind…

  It took him nearly ten minutes to extricate Candice from her runaway fantasy and by the end he was sweating almost as much as she. She was just returning to reality when the door to the inner office opened and another grad student walked out. Before it closed, Woody could see Starke at her desk. She saw him too but said nothing. The door swung shut and Woody abruptly realized he was alone in the anteroom. In the brief moment his attention was elsewhere, Candice had bolted, doubtless for the women’s restroom. He was glad. He hoped that she thought he was too much of a nerd to have even noticed her public masturbation.

  He waited for Starke to open the door and invite him in. This was a scheduled meeting. After several minutes he finally rose and knocked. No response. He sat back down. Five minutes later, he knocked again. This time, there was a curt “come in.”

  “Have a seat,” she said grudgingly. Emma Starke was a tall, handsome woman in her early forties. She had brunette hair that she wore in a short pageboy, feminine but not fluffy, the kind of cut favored by serious professional women. She had a sharp nose and blue eyes and simple pearl earrings. She kept her make-up to a minimum, enough to smooth over the laugh lines and wrinkles that came with middle age but no more. Today she wore a navy blue power outfit—jacket and skirt—over a white top. She handed him a heavy folder, his dissertation. “This will need to go through another draft.”

  He was disappointed, though not surprised. “What’s wrong this time?” This was his fourth draft.

  “I’ve marked the problem areas. Basically, the line of argument is unsound. There’s nothing in the literature that supports your proposition. Frankly, in my opinion, it’s, well, loopy. Original thinking is well and good but it has to be backed up by research.”

  “Last time, you said I borrowed too much from the literature.” In fact, she’d all but accused him of plagiarism.

  “Yes, well, you still do.”

  “How can my line of argument be both too original and too ‘borrowed?’”

  “To quote Dr. Johnson, ‘Your manuscript is both good and original. Unfortunately, the parts that are good are not original and the parts that are original are not good.’ I want to see another draft from you in ten days. If your dissertation isn’t substantially improved, I’m afraid I’ll have to formally reject it. You may appeal of course.”

  Of course. It had been a year since Popper had died of a massive coronary. Within the department, Starke was feared, respected and liked—in that order—and a logical successor to his position. She was, however, not only deeply critical of Popper’s work but disliked him personally. Within a month of her appointment, she’d begun purging the graduate program of his students while moving her cronies into positions of power. He wouldn’t have a chance in such a kangaroo court.

  He had expected Starke to demand something like global revisions accompanied by an impossible deadline. She hadn’t disappointed. This was it. Now or never. He took a deep mental breath and gave it a shot. “I’ll need more time. Give me a month.”

  A Midnight Transcranial Expedition

  Popper’s death a year earlier had left Woody in uneasy possession of his final work on the brain, and he didn’t know what to do with it. His son Karl, a CPA and top executive with a big European accounting firm, flew in from Austria to wrap up the estate. He had little interest in neuroscience and gratefully accepted the university’s offer to take his father’s papers. Woody had debated whether to give the unpublished manuscript to him, but ultimately decided to keep it. Karl would likely hand it off to the university, which would go about getting it published by an academic press. Popper had been very nervous about the book falling into “deh wrong hands,” as he sometimes melodramatically put it. Woody owed it to the old man to keep it safe from prying eyes.

  Little worry of that. The fact was that neuroscience had moved on since Popper’s day. He was an important historical figure but no longer one of influence.

  Woody had only finished half the book, which was slow going. In the classroom, Otto Popper was an engaging teacher, fleshing out points with anecdotes and leavening his lectures with humor. As a writer, he was stodgy and colorless, and his premise—mind reading and mind control—was so fantastic that if Woody had not a personal demonstration, he would have called it nonsensical – or as Dr. Starke would say, “loopy.”

  The truth was that he’d been so engrossed in finishing his dissertation and then defending it from Starke’s relentless attacks, that he’d given little thought to the b
ook’s topic. It was only two weeks ago, when he finally realized the hopelessness of ever satisfying Starke, that he entertained the notion of changing her mind by stealth.

  Only desperation could have impelled him to such a course, but his career was hanging by a thread. Kicked out of Templeton, no other reputable grad school would take him. He’d wind up with a dubious degree from some Florida for-profit college and end his days teaching high school science classes.

  He reread the book’s key chapters and one morning actually tried out a “transcranial exploratory expedition” of his own. He went to a nearby park and sat on a bench with an old lady feeding pigeons. Except for a polite nod, she paid no attention to him. He calmed his mind and after a while entered a mild trance state. He imagined a sort of suspension bridge between the woman’s head and his own and saw himself crossing over. To his amazement he found himself in a misty landscape full of celebrities and songs from the 1950s and 1960s, “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.” Kids that he assumed were the woman’s children and grandchildren, since their ages kept changing, wandered in and out of various doorways, usually demanding a meal. There was also a handsome young rogue with an Elvis haircut whose pompadour grew gradually grayer and thinner until it was gone altogether. Woody slipped out of her mind when he wandered into a space filled with caskets, all occupied.

  He’d left the bench and roamed to the park playground, where he got inside the mind of a preschooler on a swing. He’d just begun exploring when the child suddenly began to bawl. As the girl’s mother knelt to comfort her, the tyke pointed at Woody, leaning nonchalantly against a nearby tree, and screamed, “Bad, bad!” The mother cast a baffled but angry look his way. He’d shrugged—Who me?—and had strolled off.

  The experience was unnerving but it proved to him that Popper was on to something. You really could read someone’s mind, even their memories. You had to be close though, no more than a dozen feet away. And reading a mind wasn’t the same as controlling it.