Hypno Harem (4 page)

He decided to look into the matter on another trip into Emma’s brain. Not tonight though. It was nearly three a.m. and he was bone tired. Brain trekking was hard work, time to float back to his own brain. Before that though, he had to get back to the level he’d originally entered, at least a dozen flights above. It made him weary just to think about trudging up all those stairs.

He walked through several gauzy walls until he found the stairway. He stared at it and sighed,  “I wish you were an escalator.” He began the long walk up and a moment later realized the stairway itself was moving, conveying him upward. It had turned into an escalator! Somehow Candice’s brain had interpreted his thought as her own.

Woody smiled with giddy glee as he effortlessly rose through the levels of Candice’s subconscious. All he’d done was utter a wish and her mind had complied as instantly and fully as a genie in a lamp. So long as he was here, what other wishes did he have?

C
andice
work up early Wednesday morning with a tingling in her pussy. She’d been dreaming about Woody Goodman, of all people. Until yesterday, she’d never given him a thought, just another one of Mom’s grad students. She saw him sometimes in the neuroscience building, a typical shy science nerd. That had been fine with her. She wasn't into nerds.

But since yesterday, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. In the anteroom outside Mom’s office, she’d had a fantasy about him that had gotten wildly out of control, right in front of him! Fortunately, he was deep in something on his computer and hadn’t noticed. Lucky thing, but it made her red with embarrassment just to think about it.

Candice went to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Tiff and Sandra weren’t up yet, so she wouldn’t have to rush for once. She worked up a thick lather and soaped her breasts.
Hmmm
, wish it was Woody’s hands on the girls. That would be—
Stop it, Candi!

She toweled off and went back to her room. She inspected her closet. What to wear today? Something nice, something hot: boy bait. She chose a pleated red skirt and tight red tank top. Shoes? Something red maybe? You’ll look like a stoplight, Candi. Just go with the blue pumps.

She left the house and got in her car. She had two classes today, one at ten and another at three. In between, she’d lurk in the neuroscience building. There was a snack area where the nerds hung out. Maybe she’d run into Woody.

For some reason she took a different route to campus today. She passed a seedy pancake house, then pulled into a parking lot and turned around. She drove back to the restaurant—
Waffles & More!
—and parked. Inside, she took a table and waited for the waitress, a middle-aged woman who looked like her feet hurt.

Setting down a glass of water and a menu, the waitress smiled at Candice. “Know what you want, hon?”

Candice had come in because she thought she was hungry but now she didn’t even glance at the menu. For no reason at all, she said, “Does Woody Goodman come here?”

“Who?”

“Short guy, brown hair, glasses, about my age. Always on his computer.”

“Well, that could fit a lot of fellows that come in.”

Again for no reason, Candice said, “He likes strawberry waffles with whipped cream.” How on earth did she know that?

“Oh! Him. Sure, he’s in here almost every morning about this time. Always takes the same booth.”

“What booth would that be?”

“Over there in the corner. We’re never crowded but that’s the one he likes. I don’t think he’s real comfortable around people, if you know what I mean.”

Candice dug in her wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. She glanced at the name patch on the waitress’s uniform:
Maureen
.

“I want to surprise him, Maureen. Don’t mention me when he comes in, all right?”

“Sure, honey. But you don’t have to pay me.”

Candice talked to her for another minute. The waitress grinned and laughed. She shook her head but took the money.

W
oody
walked into the pancake house. The place was dim and dreary. He wouldn’t keep here but for the waffles. They made great strawberry waffles here. Real strawberries, not jam. Fresh too. Closest thing to Mom’s he’d ever found.

His booth was empty like always. He sat down and opened his notebook.

“Hi, Woody.”

It was Candice’s voice, but he was alone.

“Down here.”

He glanced under the table. She was on her hands and knees, smiling coyly up at him, blonde hair falling in her face.

“Candice! What are you doing down there?”

“Waiting for you.”

“For me? Whatever for?”

“I wanted to apologize. I was rude to you yesterday. I feel bad about that.”

“Oh. Well, no problem. But how’d you know where to find me?”

“Little bird. Actually, I don’t know
how
I knew. I just did. Telepathy maybe. Do you believe in telepathy?”

“Not sure. Why don’t you come out from there and join me?”

“I kind of like it down here. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Well, it’s a little weird, but okay.”

“See, I had a dream last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I dreamed I was under a table, sort of like this. And you were sitting at the table, just like you are now.”

“That so?”

“Uh-huh. And then…”

“And then?”

“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Well, don’t tell me then.”

“What I’d rather do is
show
you.”

“Show me what?”

“What I did in the dream.”

“Uh, all right.”

“You just go on and do what you do every morning when you come here. Eat your waffle. Check your email. Whatever. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

He arched his eyebrows. “You want me to act like you’re not here?”

“Yeah. Ignore me.”

He laughed. “That’s a little hard to do but I’ll try.”

“Thank you, Woody. You’re so sweet.”

Woody turned his attention to his notebook screen. He glanced at the headlines on Yahoo News, then went to one of his favorite neurology blogs.
Hmm
, scientist in England has a patent on an oxytocin compound administered through a nasal spray. Claims the drug improves empathy in people who are socio—

He felt hands on his crotch, his zipper being pulled down.

Back to the blog. English guy did a lab trial of his drug on convicts, said it changed their behav—

Hands inside his pants, fumbling with his jockeys. Very weird, this. But sort of exciting too. He felt a stir between his legs.

Hands next to him, setting down water and menu. “Hi there, hon!”

“YAHH!” Woody jumped.

“You all right, hon?”

“Yeah, uh fine. Just startled me is all.”

“Must have been a million miles away.”

“Yeah, uh, guess I was. I’ll have the—”

Hands on his cock! Pulling it outside his pants.

“Have what, hon? The usual?”

“Yeah, the strawberry… you know.”

“Extra whipped cream?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure love that whipped cream, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah. Sure do.
Jeees
…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… love that…”

“Cream?”

“Yeah.”

“How about coffee?”

Tongue!
Tongue
on his cock!

“Hon?”

“Huh?”

“You want coffee?”

“Yeah.
Oh yeah!”

“Cream?”

“Huh?”

“Cream.”

“Not yet.”

“What?”

“I mean, no cream. God no.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a jiffy. You be good now.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, hon.” Maureen walked away. This was the longest conversation he could remember having with her, oh God. She wasn’t usually so… Sweet Jesus! She must be in a good mood today, had a big smile.
Fuck, that feels good.
Candice was licking down the length of his cock now. Rock hard! He was rock hard. He’d never been this hard before. But then he’d never had Candice Starke giving him a blow job under the table in a public restaurant before. That probably had something to do with it.

A loud moan from under the table. “YUMMMM!”

“Candice?”

She stopped licking for a moment. “Call me Candi, will you, Woody? That’s what all my friends call me.”

“Oh. Okay, Candi. Say, listen.”

“Yes?”

“Try not to make noise, okay?”

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?” she said anxiously.

“No. No, go on with what you’re doing, but, well, we don’t want to attract attention. There are other people eating here.”

“Okay. I’ll be quiet.”

“Good girl.”

He felt her mouth on the crown of his cock, her lips closing around him. Little sucking noises came from under the table. God, she was hot! Any minute now, he was—

“There you go, hon!” A steaming strawberry waffle was set down in front of him.

“YAHHH!”

“You all right?”

“Yeah, okay. Just startled me.”

She set down a mug of hot coffee. “Kind of nervous today, aren’t you, sweetie?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, let me know if you want anything else.”

“Huh?”

“You want anything, sing out. Okay?”

“O… kay.”

She turned and walked away. New moaning from under the table. “MMmmm.”

The waitress turned back to him. “You say something, hon?”

Woody hastily speared a strawberry with his fork. “No! I mean
yes
. The strawberries, so good! Mmmm.”

Candice started to moan again,
“mmmm.”
He moaned louder to cover her. “MMMMM!”

“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy waffles so much,” said Maureen, clapping her hand over her mouth and walking horridly off.

And then he creamed, a real gusher! He heard Candi cough as she struggled with his hot spurt of man love. Then there was the sound of gulping as she swallowed. And swallowed. Every drop. Good girl, Candi!

He slouched limply in the booth. “Umm, that was… nice.”

“Did you like that?” Candi asked from below.

“A lot. Clean me up, will you?”

“I don’t have anything to clean you with.”

“Lick me off.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Then wipe me dry with your hair.”

“My hair?”

“Yeah. Go on. Get to it.”

“Okay.”

He took a sip of coffee and then dug into his breakfast. After a little Candi finished and he told her to join him. She scrambled out from under the table and sat next to him’

He shared his waffle with her. As they ate, a thought occurred to Candi. “Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?”

“Great idea. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, white rolls, iced tea. Six o’clock.”

“Uh, I was thinking of spaghetti and meatballs at seven.”

“Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, white rolls, iced tea. Six o’clock.”

“I’ll need time to fix all that and I have a class at three.”

“You can cut it, can’t you?”

Why not?
Candi thought. She’d never cut a class before but it seemed a logical solution to the time crunch. “Okay!” she said brightly.

“Good girl.”

C
andice
hadn’t much experience cooking a full meal, but Tiffany and Sandra pitched in and together they had everything ready by the time Woody arrived. Tiff and Sandra ate with them. Sandra was an economics major, a self-professed “nerd” with oversized glasses, although there was nothing nerdy about her looks. She had shiny hair that she liked to wear in a
chignon
and a plump, voluptuous body. Tiffany was a drama student, small and thin, with red hair that she wore in a pixie cut and a flair for outrageous fashion and bawdy jokes. They all had a good time.

After dinner, the table was cleared and Tiff left to visit friends while Sandra retired to her room. The two of them watched an episode of
Game of Thrones
. It was too violent for Candi’s taste but Woody was really into it. “It’s all about power,” he said, “how it’s acquired and used and the consequences of power used for the wrong ends.” He talked at some length, explaining the characters and their mythical land. She didn’t find it all that interesting but like most females, she was adept at feigning absorption in male preoccupations.

Just before ten o’clock she got a phone call from Bob McReddy. She wasn’t going to answer but Woody encouraged her and said to take the call in her room so she would have some privacy. Bob, in a rare display of attention to her own interests, had gotten ballet tickets for Saturday, assuming that she would want to go. In the past she would have been touched and delighted but this time she was annoyed at his presumption she had nothing better to do. She declined and when he showed annoyance, told him abruptly that she was seeing someone else; their relationship was
so over
.

She hung up. He called back but she didn’t pick up. She went back into the living room to rejoin Woody, reading something on his tablet.

She snuggled next to him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, eyes still on his tablet.

“Miss me?”

“You break up with Bob?”

She sat up. “Were you listening at the door?”

He looked at her, a disdainful look on his face. “Of course not.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Same way you knew I’d be at the pancake house.”

“Telepathy?
Really?
”

“Sort of.” He stared at her without saying anything for a long moment. It made her nervous and she looked down at her lap. Out of nowhere, she had the urge to play with herself. Unlike yesterday, though, Woody was sitting here beside her, watching her intently. No way he wouldn’t notice. Still, it would be so nice to slip her finger into her hair and… Ugh! All that hair. She had a great big hairy beard down there. Something occurred to her. What if Woody disliked public hair? In fact, now that she thought about it, she was
sure
he did. Better do something about that.

She stood up. “Uh, I’ve got to go take care of some, uh, girl stuff. I’ll be back in a little.”

He smiled. “Oh. Okay. Don’t cut yourself.”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘Fine. Don’t be too long.’ What did you think I said?”

“Uh, nothing. Never mind.” She ran off to the bathroom. 

Shaving her pussy took longer than expected and before she was done she’d nicked herself several times. She looked at her smooth cunt in the mirror though and decided she liked the new look. She hoped he would too.

Then the thought came to Candice that although her pussy looked nice and smooth and clean on the outside,
inside
it was kind of yucky and smelly. No worse than any other girl’s but still… She decided she’d better douche.

When she was done, she smelled as spring-like as a meadow after a rain. Well, maybe not
that
fresh but nice. She was about to rejoin Woody when the thought came into her mind that Woody might want to fuck her in the ass. She’d never been fucked that way and wasn’t sure she wanted to be but that wasn’t really an issue. If he wanted to, he would, like it or not. What bothered her was that she was dirty down there, no more than anyone else, but Woody was fastidious and would be upset if he got shit on his cock. 

She decided she’d better give herself an enema. She didn’t have an enema bag so she had to make an excuse that she was going to the drugstore to buy some “girl things.” He nodded absent-mindedly, deep in some manuscript he’d toted in. Guys don’t want to know too much about women’s plumbing. Say “girl stuff” to any of them and they don’t ask for details.

She bought an enema bag and a sodium phosphate solution. Back in her bathroom, she gave herself an enema, her first ever.
Whoooeee!
If Woody liked anal sex, this was going to take some getting used to.

The enema left her a little drained, so to speak. She was about to rejoin Woody on the sofa and collapse when a thought came into her mind that he might want another blow job. She’d read somewhere that there were more germs in your mouth than your rectum.
Ewww!
And she hadn’t brushed her teeth since this morning! Woody hadn’t complained about her mouth at breakfast but she’d surprised him. He’d expect her to keep a clean oral cavity for his cock. She brushed her teeth twice, then used a mouthwash, then gargled with warm salt water.

She was about to go fall on the sofa when the thought came into her mind—Where the fuck were all these thoughts coming from?—that although she’d shaved, douched her pussy, flushed her asshole and thoroughly cleaned her mouth, she hadn’t had a shower or bath since yesterday. God, good thing she thought of that! She got in the shower and turned the water up really hot to kill any stubborn germs.

She shampooed and scrubbed her body all over. The hot shower make her kind of limp, like being in a steam bath. She toweled off and dried her hair, then brushed and arranged it because her hair was her crowning glory and she wanted to look nice for Woody.  She put on her white Terrycloth robe and opened the bathroom door. Fortunately, no more thoughts came into her mind before she staggered into the living room and toppled onto the sofa.

He looked up. “You were gone a long time. What took you?”

She was leaning limply against him. “Had to get clean.”

“Oh. Must have been pretty dirty.”

“You said it.”

“Well, about time for bed. I think I’ll sleep over.”

“Okay,” she said tiredly.

“It’s late and I’m pretty tired.”

“Okay.”

“So I think we’ll put off fucking until tomorrow night.”

“Okay.”

“Just give me a hand job.”

“Oh. Okay.” She fumbled with his zipper.

“Wait.”

“Okay.”

“Are your hands clean?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Better go wash them anyway. Wouldn’t want to pass any germs, would we?”

“Uh. No.” She got up and headed toward the bathroom.

“Use extra soap.”

“Okay.”

“And hot water. Really scalding!”

“Okay,” said Candi wearily as she headed to the bathroom.

I
t was
one o’clock by the time Candi was done with Woody’s hand job. He was nice and relaxed, more than ready for another transcranial expedition. He sat cross-legged on her bed, doing his mantra. He’d given Candi a pillow and told her to sleep on the floor. She made no objections, just a mumbled “okay,” drifting off in minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Woody was inside the stony subconscious of Emma Starke. Like Candice, she had multiple levels. He had confined his previous excursion to the top few floors but this time went deeper, unsure exactly what he was looking for, except that it might have to do with her girlhood, maybe copying another child’s homework.

A dozen flights down, he stumbled into a scene between a very pregnant Emma and a young man who to all appearances was her husband. This was interesting, the first time that Candice’s father appeared in her mother’s mind as anything but a shadowy, distant figure. The scene was swathed in memory mist but gradually cleared and Woody realized the two were in a hospital room. The man was recovering from surgery. They were both distraught and after listening for a little, he realized that the husband—his name was Paul—had terminal cancer, apparently a very fast kind.

Woody felt uncomfortable. He was spying on two people at a painful and private moment. He was about to leave when he heard Paul loudly moan, “All my work, all my hard work!”

“I’ll see it gets published, darling,” Emma answered. “All the data is there. I’ll do the last chapters myself and submit it. You’ll get your doctorate, even if it has to be awarded…” Unable to finish the sentence, she began to sob. Woody hurriedly departed.

Descending another level, he came upon Emma, no longer pregnant, at a desktop computer, printing what looked to be a very long document. A baby wailed and she left the room, returning a moment later with Candice in her arms. “Look here,” she said, picking up a page from the printer. “Daddy’s dissertation! Isn’t that exciting?”

There were more scenes and moments of early motherhood and academic life, mostly featuring a very tired and harassed Emma trying to bring up her child, finish her own graduate studies and hold down a series of part-time job. He looked for more about Paul’s doctorate but found nothing. He descended another flight. It was like going through a pile of old photo albums, seeking one revealing picture. Instead of pasted photos, though, he was witnessing holographic videos from the past.

Finally he came upon what looked like a graduation ceremony, maybe five years after the scene in the hospital. Students and teachers wore the traditional cap and gown. It wasn’t a big ceremony, just a few dozen people. After a little while he realized PhD’s were being awarded. Emma strode across the stage to accept a diploma. This must be the payoff for Paul, a posthumous degree.

There was something a little off about the way Emma was walking though. Her head was down, eyes fixed on the floor. She was slightly hunched, striding faster than most of the others, as if this was not a proud moment but something to get over with – almost as if she were ashamed. The presenter, a tall, silver-haired man, gave her a rolled diploma and shook her hand. “Congratulations,” he said, “
Dr.
Starke.” She mumbled a thank you and hurried off the stage.

Suddenly it was all clear to Woody. For some reason, Emma had never submitted her late husband’s dissertation. She must have transferred to another school’s graduate program, one where Paul’s research was unknown, and passed off his work as her own. She was ashamed, deeply so. That explained her outsized reaction to Candi’s cribbing.

Woody departed the graduation ceremony and continued his search. What he was looking for now was another, more private kind of ceremony. A small bonfire perhaps, or a visit to a dumpster, or a maybe even a briefcase weighted with stones and dropped in a lake. Whatever form it took, at some point Emma would furtively destroy the paper original of Paul’s dissertation, the only evidence that she had plagiarized his work.

Two more hours of searching produced no such damning moment. Nothing. What the fuck
had
she done with it? Of course she could have just stuffed it in the trash but he had a feeling that she had too much feeling invested in his work to dispose of it so casually. The guilt of that moment would surely create a vivid but deeply repressed memory. Yet he’d found nothing.

There was one other possibility. Maybe…

Woody went to the stairs and summoned his private escalator to take him to the top story of Emma’s subconscious. What he wanted now was not something deeply buried and half-forgotten, but a place easily accessed by the conscious mind, a storeroom for the names and locations of insurance policies, home mortgages, bank accounts and—Yes! Here it was!—the very thing he was looking for.

T
he next
morning Woody tried to swallow Candi’s attempt at strawberry waffles. Not very good but it was only her first attempt. He gave her a quick peck as he went out the door. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?” she said with disappointment.

“No. I have a lot of work to do. Big meeting to prepare for.” He drove to the pancake house for a real breakfast, then went to a branch office of the credit union that serviced Templeton University faculty and opened an account. Once he’d done that he rented a safety deposit box. The junior officer that managed that department was a friendly young man, thin and prematurely balding, named Ted who turned out to be a fan of
Game of Thrones
. The two of them spent several minutes chatting about the show. Afterwards he went to the university library and found the section where faculty research was kept. Not to his surprise, Emma Starke’s dissertation was there and he spent the rest of the day deeply absorbed in it.

At 1:00 that night he calmed his mind and opened his Third Eye. He saw the familiar bluish glow of Emma’s Starke’s brain and Candi’s rosy one. There were also two other glowing lights, one a tepid brown and the other a bright yellow. He visited the brown one first, then the other. Slightly more than two hours later, Woody ended his transcranial expedition where he’d begun it, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his studio apartment. He got to his feet, stretched and yawned and crawled in bed, dead tired. No question, mind control was hard work.