Authors: Morgan Wolfe
Hypno Harem
Hypno Harem
by Morgan Wolfe
Warning
: Most Amazon mind control stories are fun frolics about horny boys and brainy babes turned into hot bimbos. This tale has that too, but it also has an edgy BDSM
dark side
. This 28,000 word book is for mature audiences only. It includes bondage, spanking, domination-submission and dubious consent. Don’t buy it if that sort of thing upsets you.
Hypno Harem
is the story of WOODY, a nerdy grad student in neuroscience, tormented by his graduate advisor, the formidable MILF, Dr. EMMA STARKE, who hates him because he’s a protégé of the late Dr. Otto Popper, her bitter academic rival.
Woody’s in love (or at least in lust) with Dr. Starke’s haughty, beautiful daughter, CANDICE, who snubs him because he’s not a jock or frat. What the two don’t know is that Woody has a
secret weapon
. Shortly before he died, Popper, an Austrian Nobel Prize winner, gave him an unpublished book, the work of a lifetime. “It vill teach you to control minds, Voody. Dangerous it ist. More than atomik bomb! Never must you use it for evil. Make dot promise.”
Woody promises. Well, all right, he can’t resist the opportunity to make Candice
play with herself in public
. That’s not evil though – just a prank, harmless fun.
Whee!
But when Woody learns Candice’s mom intends to kick him out of the graduate program, he’s desperate to change her mind – any way he can.
Will Woody successfully brain-hack Emma? Can he make the cougar and the kitten tame enough to lick out of his hand – and other places? Will he give in to evil? Will you spend $2.99 to find out and risk getting hot and excited reading this at work?
Wheee!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Dr. Popper’s Dark Secret
Chapter 2: Inside Candice Starke
Chapter 3: A Midnight Transcranial Expedition
Chapter 4: Under the Table at the Waffle House
Chapter 5: Dr. Starke’s Dark Secret
Chapter 7: Punishing Little Emmie
Chapter 8: The Imp in the Attic
Chapter 11: Daisy, Happy and Brownie
C
andice
Starke—hair bright as summer corn, eyes deep as mountain pools, heart stony as a stalagmite—pretended not to notice Woody come into the room. He’d arrived early for a meeting with his graduate advisor, who happened to be Candice’s mother, Dr. Emma Starke, head of the Neuroscience Department at Templeton University. Candice was working at the desk of the department secretary, gone for the afternoon, typing a term paper on her laptop. Her eyes flicked briefly to the doorway, then back to her screen.
Woody Goodman pretended not to notice he was being pointedly ignored and there followed an exchange that was full of what his English professor had called “subtext.”
He said, “Hi, Candice.”
(Even though you didn’t bother to greet me, I’m going to be friendly, not because you're the daughter of the person who holds my future in her hands but because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen today, possibly ever.)
She said, “Oh, hi… Woody.”
(You’re so insignificant, I didn’t even notice you came in. In fact, I can barely remember your name.)
He said, “Your mom in?”
(Though I adore you, I’m not here to see you.)
She said, “Dr. Starke is in a meeting
.” (Don’t presume to be even slightly personal with me.)
He said, “Oh. Well, I guess I’ll just sit down here and wait.”
(I’ll take a seat on this crummy plastic chair, all the way across the room from you because I know my place.)
She said nothing, though she picked a piece of lint off her sweater.
(Sit down, leave, stand on your head. Whatever you do means no more to me than this piece of lint.)
Woody sat. He took out his tablet and checked his email, killed time on Facebook. What if he told Candice this particular piece of lint could read minds? That in fact only last night Lintboy here had been
inside
the mind of her own mother, checking out neurons, prowling synapses, eavesdropping on thoughts and poking through memories. Would she be quite so indifferent to him then?
No, probably not. She would think he was either a liar or a lunatic and report his wild claim to her mother, who would use it to eject him from Templeton’s prestigious graduate program, which she’d been trying to do for a year now.
Woody had skipped lunch to prepare for his part-time job supervising a lab. He dug a granola bar out of his briefcase along with a small pack of wet napkins and carefully cleaned his hands. He ate the bar, cleaned his hands again, then put the granola wrapper and napkin in the trash. His mother had drilled hygiene into him at an early age and he was always careful to keep his hands clean. He was in truth a little fastidious, though not to the point of Howard Hughes obsessive-compulsive, more like Felix Unger fussy.
His mind returned to Candice Starke, herself something of a tasty morsel. The thing was, he really
had
paid a midnight call to the brain of the eminent Dr. Emma Starke – and what a cold, chilly place it was! He wondered whether that of her stuck-up daughter would be any warmer.
Hmm
. She was just across the room, close enough for a quick scout of the neural terrain. He could slip in, leave what his mentor, the late Dr. Otto Popper had called a “token” and slip out in a matter of minutes.
The thought made Woody both excited and anxious. He was still new at this. What if he tripped some psychic alarm, like he had with the kid at the park? He glanced at his watch. Would he even have time?
He raised his eyes from his tablet. She was beautiful, hair loose but for a thin braid hanging next to her ear. No make-up except for lipstick, a soft rosy color. A gold link necklace around her slender neck that drooped almost to her full, tender, ripe, round, luscious, lovely– get hold of yourself, Goodman.
He who dares…
All right, he would do it! He closed his eyes and began his breathing exercise, calmed his mind, mentally repeated his mantra over and over, all the steps necessary prior to a successful transcranial exploratory expedition.
“A
what
?” Woody had said the first time Popper used the phrase.
“Achtung, Woody! Pay attention, pliz. Transcranial… exploratory… expedition,” Popper was an academic—an
Austrian
academic, where PhDs had the stature of judges—and he loved jargon, whatever the language. “Transgressive” was a fashionable word in psych circles. To compound it with “cranium” was irresistible for a man who had coined at least a dozen terms in neuroscience and had three disorders named for him.
“But what
is
it?” said Woody, who preferred plain talk.
“Ist what deh magicians call mind readink.”
“You believe in
telepathy?
” Woody was incredulous. Popper had twice been nominated for the Nobel in medicine. He couldn’t believe the old man had fallen for some quack theory.
“Ist not telepatty, ist not picking up deh toughts in deh air. Ist goink to where deh toughts are comink from.”
“And where is that?”
Popper had a bushy white mustache and a frizz of white hair that looked like he’d just stuck his finger in an outlet. The two together gave him a passing resemblance to Albert Einstein, another scientist with a heavy accent. Woody had seen pictures of the younger Popper, a handsome man with strong features. That was well before his later years, before he’d fallen from intellectual grace in Europe and had come to America to rehabilitate his reputation. Woody suspected that the Einstein impersonation was deliberate.
Popper himself was an irresistible subject for impressions and his students loved to parody his accent, though it was humor driven by affection. The old man was a never-ending source of inspiration, support and tough criticism. He ran Templeton’s Graduate School in Neuroscience as an incubator for out-of-the-box research.
Now Popper pushed his wrinkled face and dirty glasses toward Woody and tapped his bald dome so hard Woody half expected to hear a thump, like you do with a watermelon. Popper scowled at the slowness of his most promising student,
supposedly
most promising. “In
here
, Woody!”
(tap, tap)
“In here! In deh
mind
is where deh toughts are comink from.”
“You mean go inside someone’s head?”
“Yah.“
“That’s impossible. That violates all kinds of physical laws.”
“Yah, so I guess I am deh
outlaw
,” cackled Popper. “Call der cops!”
“What do you mean? You mean you’ve done it?” Privately, Woody was wondering who he
should
call. Popper’s wife was dead. His children maybe?
Has your father ever had, ah, spells of irrationality?
“Yah, twice haf I been in your mind.”
“What?”
“Und a nice mind it is. Very clean, very tidy.”
‘You’re pulling my leg.”
“No. I haf done dis.”
“Well, I don’t believe you. Prove it.”
“Proof it?”
“Tell me something you couldn’t know any other way.”
Popper looked uneasy. “I don’t tink I vant to do dat.”
“Because you can’t. You’re a brilliant—”
Popper’s eyebrows bristled. “Brilliant?”
“All right, you’re a genius, but this transcranial whatchacallit, that’s nothing but pseudo-science. I’m embarrassed for you.”
Popper sat back in his chair, looking somber. A long silence followed. Woody assumed he was about to be thrown out of Popper’s office. He should never have challenged him, not if he wanted a doctorate from Templeton. So what if the old man gone a little batty in his last years, what harm in indulging him?
“Dot boy,” Popper finally said. “Dot vas a long time ago. You should not let it bother you.”
“What are you talking about?” said Woody, though he had an icy feeling he knew what Popper was talking about.
“Deh two of you vere… vot? Fourteen? Boys experiment. Gels too. So vot? One time. It does not mean anytink. Nuttink. You are a fine young man. Some gel vill see dot.”
“I don’t understand.” Popper had to be guessing. Likely any number of young men had some kind of homosexual event in adolescence, even if it was no more than hurried groping. The suggestion was just the sort of thing that would seem knowledge of an uncanny kind, though in fact what gave it impact was no more than secret shame. “What boy?”
“His name vas… oh yah. Hugh.”
Woody felt dizzy. He
had
been thinking of Hugh Danley lately. The week before he’d been turned down for a third date by the second girl in four months. In times of self-doubt, his worries of latency predictably came to the surface.. He hadn’t been in touch with Hugh since his sophomore year of high school. He’d never mentioned him to anyone, never put the experience in writing. No way Popper could know about him! None. Unless…
“I am sorry, Voody,” Popper said with what seemed to be true contriteness. “Dot vas none of my business. You know, you are not deh only boy to experiment. Udder boys haf too. Boys everywhere, even when I was a boy in Austria, they did.”
Woody wasn’t sure whether Popper’s hint that he’d once done something similar was true or not, but it was obviously an attempt to mend things. Popper was looking for a protégé, someone to carry on his work. If he’d settled on Woody, this was a heaven-sent opportunity.
“All right, so maybe this transgressive stuff is more than a theory. How does it work?”
Popper folded his hands over his ample stomach. “I vill give you example. Ve vill say you vant a pretty gel to like you, all right?”
“All right.”
“So maybe deh two uf you aw in deh class uf deh great Dr. Popper. Blah, blah, blah. He ist borink you to def. Her too.”
Woody laughed. “No, you’re not boring!”
“Vell, I am not so excitink as deh pretty gel. So she ist sittink in front uf you. She haz deh pretty long brown hair and you tink, ‘I vant to get inside dot pretty head.’ So deh first ting you do is calm deh mind. Vot do you know about meditation?”
“I took a night course in it once. Also I’ve done yoga. Is it like that?”
“Vell, it ist deh same but different. A year I spend in Nepal, learnink how. It takes deh practice.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bulging folder that he handed to Woody.”
“What’s this?”
“My book, but it ist not yet publish. I vant you to read it.”
Woody looked at the title page.
Theory and Practice of Transcranial
Exploration and Influence
by Karl J. Popper, MD, PhD
“What does the word ‘Influence’ mean?”
“It means dot you can read vot people tink, und you can also make people tink vot you
vant
them to tink.”
Woody looked wonderingly at Popper. “Mind control? Are you talking about mind control?”
“Yah und no. To control deh whole mind, dot ist impossible. But to control toughts, dot ist possible. If you control deh
right
toughts, deh mind vill go along.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Vell, it ist complicated. Dot ist vy I vant you to read deh book. Nine years I verk on it.”
“Do you have a publisher yet?”
“No und I never vill.”
“What? Whyever not?”
Popper took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Because it ist dangerous, Woody.”
“Dangerous?”
“Yah. Like deh nuclear scientist who do deh book called “How to Make Homemade Atom Bomb.” Dis ist just as dangerous.”
“Well, how do you know
I
won’t put it to bad use?”
“Dot is vy I vent inside your mind. To see vot you are made uf. You are good und true, Voody. Like deh, uh, dobbit?”
“Dobbit?”
“Yah, in der
Lord uf deh Rinks
.”
“Oh, hobbit! You mean Frodo?”
“Yah. Him. I am Gandalf deh vizard. I gif you deh Vun Rink, deh Rink uf Power. Do not use it for Evil.”
Five minutes before, Woody would have thought Popper was joking. He wasn’t sure how dangerous the book actually was, but a look at the old man’s face told him Popper was utterly serious. “I won’t,” he said solemnly. “Never.”
Popper pushed smelly tobacco into his pipe and lit it. “All right, ve vill go back to deh pretty gel. So you calm deh mind. You go into deh dream state.”
“I fall asleep?”
“No you must learn to dream vide avake. Und you send
your
mind to
her
mind.”
“How do I do that?”
“You
dream
it. Dis ist like playink deh piano, Voody. To know how to do it, you haf to practice it. Dot ist deh only vay. Read my book.”
“All right. Go on.”