Intermission.

The applause has died down, the lights have gone up, and Founders Circle is virtually empty. Temporarily abandoning their expensive seats, the well-heeled patrons of the arts have quickly filed up the aisles into the relative openness of the Dorothy Chandler's public areas. They line up for the bar or the rest rooms, get a bit of air out on the terrace, or just stand and chat inside. Business suits and elegant dresses are the order of the evening, with several tuxes at one end of the scale and a few men in shirtsleeves at the other. The pillars of society stand in groups of twos and threes and fours, sharing gossip, talking business and boats and babysitters--and occasionally even opera. Some in this most elite section of the house are actually here to enjoy the performance, but many more can't tell Verdi from Vivaldi and couldn't care less. They've come to see and be seen, because everyone in their circle has a subscription to the opera, and it's opening night, and . . . that's what one does.

A strikingly handsome young man in a dark suit stands by himself away from the thick of the crowd. He's a trim five-ten, with glossy black hair, electric-blue eyes, and perfectly proportioned features--a "Black Irish" matinee idol. From time to time he strains to catch a glimpse of his attractive wife, who's languishing in a ridiculously long line on the other side of the bar, waiting her turn to use the ladies' room. The line isn't moving. What the hell do they do in there, the young man thinks. Thank God he's a male. He glances impatiently at his watch, considers getting a drink at the bar or returning to his seat, decides to stay put. He looks around, finds nothing interesting for his eyes to alight on, and winds up staring off into space, a picture of imperious boredom.

Unbeknownst to the young man, he's being observed with great interest.

At the other end of the hall, an older man lounges against a railing with a brandy snifter in his hand, staring intently at the dark-haired young god across the way. He doesn't take his eyes off him for a moment. He studies the young man with total concentration, following his every movement like a naturalist observing a new species--all that's missing is a camera and a notepad.

Now the older man straightens up to his full height. He cuts an imposing figure--tall, tanned, powerfully built, impeccably groomed and attired. Hard to guess his age: with his close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and rugged features, he could be anything from a prematurely gray 38 to a very well preserved 55. His expensive suit, a subtle gray plaid that perfectly complements his coloring, is cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and narrow waist; it's saved from ostentation by his luxurious but muted accessories--shirt, tie, braces, cufflinks, all chosen with an eye towards richness, elegance, and, above all, harmony. He looks like an ex-Marine turned captain of industry. Someone used to being addressed as Sir. Someone used to being obeyed.

The older man observes the younger for a few more seconds, then makes his move. He sets down his drink on a ledge and strides determinedly in the direction of his quarry, a tiger gliding across the savannah towards an unsuspecting gazelle. As he nears his goal he extends his hand.

"Steve, good to see you! It is Steve, isn't it? Don Powers. We met at the B & D party a few months ago."

The man named Don has a voice to go with his stature, big and booming. The younger man awakes from his reverie with a start. Who is this guy? But the outstretched hand is a powerful stimulus; he responds automatically, and they shake.

"Sorry, I'm afraid you've got the wrong man." The younger man smiles slightly, civil but not overly friendly.

"You're kidding! Jeez, I don't usually make mistakes like that. Sorry to bother you."

"That's OK. No problem." The younger man smiles more warmly this time, expecting the other to walk away. He doesn't.

"Boy, this is embarrassing. And I have a great memory for faces too--at least I thought I did!" Don grins broadly. "You're absolutely sure your name's not Steve and you didn't attend the Brown and Dawson anniversary bash in April?"

"I'm absolutely sure." The younger man forces a polite smile, trying not to show he's getting annoyed.

"Well, isn't that the damnedest thing," Don Powers says, still grinning. "I could swear I've met you before--although I admit I could be wrong about the Steve part. Tell me your name, maybe that'll ring a bell."

"Chris."

"Chris what?"

The younger man assesses the situation quickly. No point in escalating this into an unpleasant scene. He'll give this guy his name--after all, he has nothing to hide--and then beat it.

"Chris MacMillan. Look, I've really got to . . ."

"Listen, Chris, do me a favor, OK? Humor me for just a second. This is bugging the hell outta me--I've gotta find out where I know you from, because I'm sure we've met. C'mon out here away from the noise where we can talk. It'll only take a second, I promise."

The big man continues to grin, but his gray eyes bore into Chris in a peculiarly intense way. Clearly he isn't about to take no for an answer. Chris considers standing his ground. But he hates scenes. Hopefully this guy will soon realize he's wrong, and Chris can hightail it back to his seat. Chris allows Don to lead him, by gentle but firm pressure on his arm, out a glass door and onto the terrace.

After the indoor stuffiness, the cool evening air feels good on Chris's face. Don maneuvers him to the far, relatively secluded end of the terrace, away from the only other people out there, a romantic young couple looking at the moon. The space Chris and Don wind up in, between the building and a guardrail, is narrow and constricted; it forces them to stand closer together than would be customary for ordinary conversation. Don faces the building, his features semi-illuminated by a floodlight several yards away; Chris faces the expanding cityscape of downtown L.A. No longer having to compete with the crowd indoors, Don modulates his voice--it becomes more intimate while remaining deep and resonant.

"There, that's better. We can talk a lot easier out here. And thanks for helping me with this, Chris--I promise not to keep you out here too long. So . . . I'm wondering if maybe we met at some other company function. Do you know anyone at Arthur Andersen?"

"Uh . . . no, I don't think so."

"I own a P.R. firm in Century City"--Don reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card, which he hands to Chris--"so I constantly have my feelers out. A million contacts, something going on all the time. You know how it is."

"Sure."

"What's your line of work, Chris?"

"I'm in finance."

"And what do you do in finance?"

"I'm a portfolio manager."

"Right. I thought it was something like that, judging from how you're dressed. You guys always look sharp. Great suit, by the way. Hope you don't mind my saying that."

Chris smiles weakly. "No, not at all. Thanks."

"It's an Oxxford, isn't it?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is."

"It's nice to find a young guy like you who knows quality. So few men in business today understand how to dress well. Good tie, too. It's a Brooks, right? Looks like something from their Sevenfold collection. I have a couple myself."

"Right." Chris watches Don reach over to feel his tie. Don smiles with satisfaction as he fingers the smooth silk.

"Quality shows, no doubt about it." He releases the tie and looks Chris up and down.

"Yes, you dress much better than most men of your age and position. If you wouldn't mind, though, I have one small suggestion--a slight correction I guarantee will make you stand out from the crowd and look twice as sharp."

Don again looks at Chris with that peculiar intensity. The corners of his mouth are turned up into a semi-smile; his eyes bore into Chris's head. Don continues immediately without giving Chris a chance to reply.

"I notice your breast pocket is empty. It's an error most men make, unfortunately. That pocket is made to hold a pocket square or handkerchief--silk or white linen, they both work, but you've gotta have something there, otherwise you aren't completely dressed. You should wear one even with a sports jacket. But with a dark suit like yours, it's absolutely essential.

"Look here." Don points to the immaculate white handkerchief poking out of his own suitcoat pocket. "Notice how the hank I'm wearing breaks up the symmetry of my suit and adds interest and elegance. Plus it says know-how. It sends the message, 'I've been around, I'm confident, I know what I'm doing.'

"Here, why don't you see for yourself. I usually have an extra 'show' hank with me." Don reaches into the bottom right pocket of his suitcoat and takes out a clean white handkerchief. "Yep, here we go."

Chris watches in silence, mesmerized, as the man in front of him shakes open the folded linen square, then swiftly and expertly refolds it into the pattern he's after. In one fluid motion he inserts the folded handkerchief into Chris's breast pocket.

"There. That's a helluva lot better. Take a look."

Chris peers down at his breast pocket, where three little white mountain peaks have arrayed themselves neatly against the dark wool of his suitcoat.

"Uh . . . thanks."

"Think nothing of it. So tell me, Chris, do you come to the opera often? Maybe that's where I know you from after all."

"No, it's not really my thing. My wife likes it, though. Sometimes I go to make her happy."

Don smiles. "I understand completely. But you know, Chris,"--and here Don's voice and pace change, as if he's highlighting what he's saying with a yellow marker--"sometimes what we think we're not interested in winds up being very important to us, becomes something we absolutely cannot do without."

"Uh . . . I guess so."

Suddenly Don's smile disappears.

"Chris, I have to be honest with you. Don't say anything, just look at me and listen carefully. The truth is, I've never seen you in my life before tonight. I just pulled that 'where-did-we-meet' crap because I needed an excuse to talk to you."

Chris stares back at Don. Shit, it's another fucking queer hitting on him. What's the fastest way to get out of this?

"I got you out here because I have something very important to tell you," Don continues. "I need to warn you . . . that you're in grave danger."

Chris looks at Don as if he's crazy.

"Chris, to your knowledge, have you ever been hypnotized?"

That's it, Chris thinks. I'm outta here.

"Look, I really need to go. My wife's waiting for me and the second act's gonna start any minute and . . ."

"It's a long intermission--there's plenty of time. Stay right where you are. Don't speak, just listen very carefully."

For some reason Chris finds himself doing exactly as he's told. He just continues to stare at Don and listen to his voice. Without turning his head, Chris is aware that the moon-watching couple have gone inside; only he and Don remain out on the terrace.

"I told you I was in P.R.," Don goes on quietly, but in a way that keeps Chris riveted on his every word. "That's true. But I didn't tell you that I'm also a professional hypnotist. I started hypnotizing when you were still in diapers. I've put literally thousands of people into deep trances--for entertainment, for therapy, and for my own private purposes. I'm tremendously experienced, and I'm very, very good at what I do.

"Now part of what makes me such a good hypnotist is that I have strong and accurate intuition--almost uncanny intuition--about who will be a good subject. Do you know much about hypnosis, Chris? Just answer yes or no."

"No."

"That's right. You don't know much at all about hypnosis. Let me educate you. People respond to hypnosis very differently. Some, perhaps 20 percent of the population, respond minimally if at all. The majority of people, around 60 percent, have a moderate response--they can be hypnotized, but not to the deepest levels. The remaining 20 percent are the so-called 'good subjects,' the ones who can be hypnotized very deeply.

"Now of that last 20 percent, the 'good subjects,' a tiny fraction go way beyond the limits of ordinary hypnotizability. Such people are quite rare--we're talking perhaps one in ten thousand--but they exist. These are people who have no resistance whatsoever--no 'natural immunity,' if you like--to hypnosis. Any hypnotist worth his salt can just go up to them and hypnotize them in a matter of seconds, totally without their permission or consent, to the deepest levels, and they can't do a thing about it. Not a thing. They absolutely cannot resist. And afterwards, of course, it's a simple matter to erase all knowledge from their conscious minds that they've ever been in a trance. They won't remember a thing. These are people whose minds can be controlled to astonishing degrees, people who can be made to do anything at all under hypnosis."

Don pauses a moment, then resumes in a lowered voice. "A talented, unscrupulous hypnotist can actually enslave such people for life."

Chris continues to stare at Don. Fear grows in him at the same time he finds himself hanging on every word of this weird monolog.

"I'm one of the few hypnotists who can spot these people--call them 'super-subjects'--a mile away. Don't ask me how I know, because I can't tell you. Maybe it's their movements and gestures, maybe their eyes, maybe just some aura they give off that I'm sensitive to. But I always know. And my track record is perfect.

"A little while ago, Chris, before I came over to speak to you, I happened to be glancing in your direction, and something made me look more carefully. I observed you for a few minutes. And I knew with absolute certainty. You're one of the one-in-ten-thousand! You're a super-subject! You have no resistance whatsoever to hypnosis!

"So that's why I've brought you out here--to warn you about who you are. It's very important that you understand these things, so you can take steps to protect yourself. Because you see, you're so controllable, any decent operator can take advantage of you, totally without your permission or consent, and you won't be able to do a thing about it."

Chris manages to break the eye-lock Don has on him and attempts to get away.

"Look, I'm sorry but I really have to . . ."

"Do you believe what I'm saying, Chris? Do you believe these things about yourself?"

"No! I think you're crazy! I'm perfectly normal! I . . ."

"Listen to me, Chris! Listen and understand!" Don's voice grows in power and intensity. He gazes steadily at Chris, re-establishing the eye-lock. This time Chris can't break away.

"Think about what's happened in the last few minutes. I'm an absolute stranger to you, yet you've let me get you out here alone, where I've totally invaded your personal space. You've let me examine you, handle you, even dress you, for godsake, with complete passivity and without a peep of protest! Do you think an ordinary man would let that happen? No way, Chris! But you're no ordinary man. You're a man with a rare mental and emotional condition . . . a man born to be controlled.

"Oh, you may think of yourself as a leader, someone who gives orders to others. But it's all self-deception. Deep, deep down, at the very core of your being, you yearn to take orders, not give them. You yearn to be dominated. It's a need you have, Chris, unconscious perhaps but nonetheless real, just as real as the need for air or water or food or sex.

"So I'm here to warn you, Chris . . . that you need to be careful. Very, very careful. Because any good hypnotist who discovers who you are . . . who recognizes you as a 'super-subject' . . . can easily take advantage of your vulnerability . . . and just snap his fingers . . . and throw you into a trance . . . completely without your permission or consent. Now if you understand everything I've said to you up to this point, say yes."

"Yes," says Chris in a small, tremulous voice. He continues to look directly into Don's cold gray eyes, which gaze back at him unblinkingly. Chris senses he's in danger, senses he has much to fear from this formidable man looming in front of him. But it's too late. He can't escape.

"That's good, Chris. I'm glad you understand. And I hope you realize that . . . I'm your friend . . . and I have your interests at heart. And I'm telling you these things to protect you . . . because as you now understand . . . all a skilled hypnotist . . . like myself . . . has to do to make . . . your eyes immediately snap shut! . . . and to make you . . . immediately collapse forward and fall into hypnosis! . . . is to bring his hand up to your ear . . . like this . . . and snap his fingers . . . like this."

Don snaps his fingers close to Chris's ear, at the same time tugging him sharply forward with his other hand and barking the word "Sleep!" Chris's eyes snap shut and he collapses like a rag doll onto the big man in front of him.

Don barely manages to support Chris, who is heavier than he had thought. He lowers his head towards the handsome head on his chest and whispers directly into Chris's ear, "Your legs are strong beneath you and you can stand and sleep! Stand and sleep! Stand and sleep!"

He stands Chris up, who now maintains his balance, eyes closed. Don smiles to himself. Another notch in his belt. The "super-subject" routine works like a charm--he should patent it. But what a beauty this guy is! And genuinely exceptional, he senses. He has the feeling he can take him very far very fast.

Don speaks to Chris quickly and forcefully, beginning the series of pyramiding challenge tests that will bring Chris into the deepest trance he can reach.

"Just stand and sleep, Chris. That's right. And as you sleep, you listen to my voice. My voice takes you deeper and deeper. You're deeply asleep now and you won't wake up until I tell you to. Then you'll wake up quickly and easily.

"Now concentrate on your eyelids. Concentrate! Your eyelids are shut tight! Tight! They're shutting tighter and tighter! Tighter and tighter! So tightly shut now that the more you try to open them the tighter they're shutting down. Try now! Try to open your eyes! It's impossible! I dare you!"

Chris makes the effort. He contorts his facial muscles in bizarre ways. Nothing works. His eyes won't open.

"That's right. It can't be done! Can't be done! Now relax your eyelids. Relax them and let them return to normal. And as they do, you go deeper into hypnosis. Deeper and deeper. Just relax and go deeper."

But Don gives Chris no time to relax.

"Now stretch out your right arm. Stretch it out. Go ahead. That's right. Now your right arm is getting stiff. Stiff! Stiffer and stiffer! Stiff and rigid as an iron bar! Stiff and rigid and useless! Try to bend your arm! Go ahead! Try to bend it! I dare you! You can't! Because the more you try to bend it the stiffer it becomes!"

Chris tries to bend his arm. It doesn't bend.

"That's right. You can't do it. Now relax. Your arm is relaxing, returning to normal, returning to your side. And as it does, you go deeper and deeper into hypnosis. Deeper and deeper."

Don continues in the same vein with Chris's leg, his neck, and finally his whole body, which becomes stiff as a board. Don grabs his rigid companion by the shoulders and moves him round and round in a circle, all the while speaking to him rapidly, disorienting him further, deepening his trance.

"Now stand up on your own. Just stand up now. Your body is returning to normal as you go deeper and deeper. Just relax and go deeper. Now open your mouth. Open it up! Wider! Wider! Open your mouth wider! Even wider now! That's it! Now your jaws are locking open! Locking open! Your jaws are paralyzed! You can't close your mouth! You can't say your name! Try to say your name! Try! You can't! I dare you!"

Chris's mouth gapes open widely, absurdly. He tries to make an intelligible sound. All that comes out is a strangled "aaa . . . aaa . . . aaa."

"Now stop trying. Just relax. As I touch your mouth, your jaws relax and return to normal. Your mouth is closing and returning to normal. And as it does, your trance gets deeper and deeper.

"That's good, Chris. Now listen carefully. You are now so deeply hypnotized . . . so completely under my control . . . that everything I tell you to think . . . or feel . . . or experience, you will think . . . or feel . . . or experience, exactly as I tell you. If you understand that, you can say yes now."

"Yes."

"Now I want you to begin to notice how warm it is out here. It's a very warm evening, isn't it, Chris? Very warm indeed. In fact, not just warm, but hot. In fact, it's sweltering, isn't it, Chris? It's sweltering out here. We're going through a heat wave, and it's sweltering. You can feel the hot, heavy air weighing down on you. The hot, heavy air that's so stifling, you can hardly breathe. It's hot as hell, isn't it, Chris? The heat and humidity are overpowering! It's worse than a tropical rainforest! God, what heat! You can feel the perspiration beginning to come out on your forehead, can't you, Chris? You're starting to sweat buckets now! The droplets are building on your forehead! The only thing you can do in this heat is stay quiet and sweat! Sweat like a pig!"

Don watches intently as his words take effect. Eyes still closed, Chris looks extremely uncomfortable. He remains motionless, breathing with difficulty. Little drops of sweat appear on his forehead.

"Whew! What heat! But it's finally breaking. It's finally getting cooler now. Ah, that's much better. Much better." Chris looks tremendously relieved.

"Yes, it's getting much cooler now. In fact, it's getting quite cool indeed. The temperature's really swinging in the opposite direction now. In fact, it's getting downright cold. Wow! The mercury's plunging, isn't it, Chris? Jesus, it's getting cold as hell out here! Cold as hell! It must be below freezing now! And it just keeps getting colder! Colder and colder! This is amazing! It's going below zero! Your teeth are beginning to chatter, aren't they, Chris? You're shaking from the cold! You've got to get warm! You'd better start jogging in place to keep warm, otherwise you'll freeze to death! Jog in place to stay warm, Chris!"

The younger man's whole body shudders violently. His teeth chatter and he mumbles incoherently as he awkwardly jogs in place against the bitter cold only he can feel.

"And as it gets colder and colder, you have to jog faster and faster! Faster and faster! It's impossible for you to stop! You can't stop! Can't stop! You can only run faster and faster! Faster and faster to stay warm! DOUBLE TIME, CHRIS! DOUBLE TIME!"

The younger man runs in place frantically, shivering and chattering all the while. The older man, inches away, observes him with clinical detachment.

"OK, Chris, it's warming up again. The temperature is returning to normal. It's getting pleasant again. You can stop running now. Stop running. You feel fine again. You feel comfortable. Just relax now and go deeper asleep.

"Now in just a moment I'll count from one to three. On the number three, only your eyes open. You'll remain in the very deep trance you're in now--in fact, the act of opening your eyes will deepen your trance even further. You'll be able to see normally and speak normally, but you'll remain as you are, in a state of profound hypnosis, completely under my control. If you understand that, you can say yes now."

"Yes."

"Good. Here we go. One, two, three."

Chris's eyes open slowly. They're bloodshot and watery.

"Good, Chris. Now look at me. You can see me clearly, can't you?"

"Yes."

"And you know where you are, don't you? Tell me where you are."

"On the terrace of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion."

"Good, Chris. And you know who I am, don't you? Tell me who I am."

"Don Powers."

"Very good. You're a smart boy. And you realize you're in a profound state of hypnosis and completely under my control. That's right, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Don leans back against the guardrail and looks at the vanquished young Adonis opposite him--looks him up and down, drinks him in. His gaze finally settles on the handsome, vacant face. When Don speaks to Chris now, it's in a normal, friendly, relaxed tone of voice, as if he's talking to someone he knows well and likes.

"Well, Chris, you can't say I didn't warn you," Don chuckles. Chris remains impassive.

"You needn't worry, though. I won't make you give me your money or your car or force you to jump off the roof--although I could easily do all those things. That's not what I'm after. No, I'm just going to . . . expand your horizons. We're going to have some wonderful times together, you and I, and you'll always feel great as a result of being under my control."

Don pauses a moment, smiling at the handsome young man who stares back at him from inside a deep trance. When he speaks now, his voice is lower, huskier.

"That's the key word, Chris. Control. Control is what it's all about. Control is the hottest fucking thing in the world. A guy like me just walking up to a guy like you and going to work on him, without his permission or consent. Manipulating him without his knowledge. Depotentiating his will in a matter of minutes. Owning him, body and soul. That's control, Chris. And there's nothing like it in the world.

"That's why I do what I do. Because nothing gives me a rush like seeing something I want and just going and getting it, right then and there, no questions asked. I have that ability, and you can be sure I use it. That's why I do what I do, Chris--because I can."

The younger man continues to stare blankly at his older companion.

"Now we don't have a lot of time tonight, Chris. The second act is about to start, and your wife will be wondering what happened to you. So we'll end this first session in just a minute. But before we do, I want to give you a little taste of what's to come, so your unconscious mind can begin thinking about certain things.

"Listen carefully, Chris. Just look into my eyes and listen very carefully. That's right.

"Now there are several different ways one man can dominate another, Chris--with his money, with his muscles, with his mind . . . or with his dick. Sexual control is the most primitive means of domination, but it's also the most potent. Once that need is firmly established, Chris--the crying need of one man to service another man's big dick, to caress it, kiss it, take it into his body, feel its power--there's no escape. It's the way to absolute, abject subjugation . . . and total fulfillment. The way to supreme satisfaction, both for the dominator and the dominated."

The older man has unzipped his fly and taken out his large penis, already half-erect, along with his scrotum.

"Now give me your right hand, Chris. That's right. Give me your hand and just continue to look into my eyes."

Don moves Chris's hand down to his crotch.

"Now I'm placing something in your hand, Chris. Grasp it gently. That's right. That's good. Now I wonder if you can tell what's in your hand. Do you know what's in your hand?"

"Yes."

Suddenly Don's demeanor changes again. His smile is gone. His face contorts in anger as he growls at Chris.

"'Yes'? 'YES'? What the fuck do you mean 'yes'? You forgetting who I am, soldier? I'm your goddamn Commander! Your Commanding Officer! That's not how you address your Commanding Officer, soldier! Try again!"

Still in his trance, Chris is startled, terrified.

"Yes SIR!"

Don relaxes just a bit.

"That's better, soldier. Now tell me what's in your hand."

"Your dick, sir."

"Good boy. My dick. My big fucking dick. Tell me, boy, have you ever held another man's big dick in your hand before?"

"No sir."

"That's right, boy. Because until now there's never been a man worthy of that, isn't that right, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"Good boy. But your Commander with his big dick is totally worthy of your attention and respect and obedience, isn't that right, soldier?"

"Yes sir."

"Good boy. Now continue to look into my eyes and take my balls into your hand. That's right. Just cup my sack in your palm and feel my balls. Feel their weight. Feel how low they hang. They're really big balls, aren't they, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"That's right, boy. Really big balls. Now go back to my dick. Take that big dick back into your hand. That's it. It's already hard, isn't it, soldier?"

"Yes sir."

"Big and thick and hard, isn't it, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"Now notice the feel of that big dick in your hand. It fits your hand perfectly, doesn't it, boy? Feels natural and right in your hand, doesn't it, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"Now just begin stroking my big dick up and down, nice and slow. That's it. Good boy. Just keep on stroking it like that, and feel it get even bigger and stiffer and harder. You can feel it growing harder in your hand, can't you, soldier? Like a live animal in your hand, isn't it, soldier?"

"Yes sir."

"And as you continue to stroke my big dick, nice and slow, you can feel yourself beginning to tingle all over, can't you, boy? It's very pleasant, isn't it, boy . . . very pleasant to tingle all over like that. Especially in your balls . . . tingling so strongly now, feeling so good, isn't that right, boy? And since hard-ons are contagious, you're beginning to get a hard-on yourself, aren't you, boy? A nice strong hard-on that's beginning to push your pants out, isn't it, boy? And you're feeling better and better as you continue to stroke my big dick and get harder and harder yourself, aren't you, boy?"

Don glances down at the front of the younger man's pleated pants, which have begun to tent noticeably.

"Yes sir."

"That's right, boy. And you never dreamed it could feel so good to stroke another man's big dick, did you, soldier? Especially if that man is your Commanding Officer, right, soldier? And you're so grateful for this privilege--the privilege to be allowed to service your Commander. Isn't that true, soldier?"

"Yes sir."

Don's voice becomes intimate and intense.

"And you want to show your Commander just how grateful you are. You want to show him with an act of great obedience and respect, a gesture of fealty and subservience, a symbol no less potent than that of a Catholic kneeling down to kiss the Pope's ring."

Still stroking, Chris stares uncomprehendingly into Don's eyes.

"Kneel down and kiss my dick."

Without hesitation, the younger man kneels down. The night and the moonlight have reduced him to a beautiful study in black and white: the glossy black of his hair, the white of his perfect features, the black of his suit, the white of his starched collar and cuffs and pocket handkerchief, the black of his silk tie. He brings his lips to the head of the older man's impressive erection, now almost vertical, and kisses it reverently. Don's penis jumps slightly at the touch. A tiny drop of clear, viscous liquid transfers to Chris's lower lip; as he moves his head away, a spidery filament of pre-cum connects the two men in a fragile, glistening line before it breaks and disappears.

"That's good, boy. Very good. And now as you look at the big cock you've just kissed . . . as its image burns itself into your unconscious mind . . . you experience a powerful yearning . . . and you begin to realize that what you're feeling now . . . what your body has responded to so strongly . . . is a longing . . . to surrender, utterly and completely . . . to that cock and to its owner . . . and although you're sad it can't be tonight, you're filled with joy at the prospect it will be soon . . . very soon."

Don pauses, looking down at the hypnotized young man whose eyes are fixed on his erection. He gives his words a moment to sink in, then helps Chris to his feet and adjusts himself back to decorum.

"You can relax now, Chris. Your body is relaxing . . . calming down . . . returning to normal as you sleep deeper and deeper. You've done very well tonight, and I'm happy with you. Of course this was only a start . . . but it was a good start. From here on in, your training will progress quickly and smoothly. Soon you'll be experiencing a degree of fulfillment you never thought possible. You're in for . . . we're both in for . . . some wonderful times.

"Now close your eyes and listen very carefully as I give you your instructions.

"In just a moment I'm going to wake you up. As soon as your eyes open, you turn and walk back inside, back to your seat. With every step you take you forget more about what happened out here . . . everything becomes hazier and hazier . . . so that after ten or twelve steps, you've completely forgotten everything that took place during intermission. You don't remember meeting me, you don't remember coming out here, you don't remember being hypnotized. If anyone should ask you, you've never been hypnotized in your life, you have no interest in the subject, and you think it's a lot of nonsense. Now if you understand completely what I've just told you, you can indicate it by saying, 'I understand.'"

"I understand."

"Good. Now although your conscious mind will have no recollection whatsoever of being hypnotized, your unconscious mind remembers it perfectly and is ready to go back into a trance instantaneously, at any future time, as soon as I give the signal. That signal can be anything at all--a finger snap, a verbal cue like 'sleep deeply,' or even just a glance. But your unconscious mind will always know when I want you to go into a trance, and it will comply instantly, without hesitation. I can throw you into hypnosis whenever I want to--and only I can do that. No one else can hypnotize you--only I can. Now tell me if you understand that."

"I understand."

"Good. Now sometime next week you're suddenly going to remember part of what happened tonight, but only part. You're going to recall that this nice guy gave you a pocket-handkerchief during intermission at the opera and saved you from the embarrassment of being improperly dressed. That's all you're going to remember--nothing else. But you'll feel very grateful to that man. You'll realize you have his business card, and you'll call his office to see when you can come over to return his handkerchief. When you call and state your name, the secretary will put you through immediately. Now tell me if you understand all these instructions."

"I understand."

"Excellent. Now get ready to wake up and return to your seat and forget everything. You'll wake up feeling perfect in every way--relaxed, invigorated, absolutely tip-top. You'll enjoy the rest of the opera more than you ever thought you would. And in the next few days you'll find yourself filled with a strange sense of excitement and anticipation. You won't know where it's coming from or what it means, only that you have the feeling something wonderful and extraordinary is going to happen soon. Once again now, tell me if you understand."

"I understand."

"Now get ready to wake up. At the count of five wide awake, feeling perfect in every way. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five."

The younger man's eyes open. He blinks, then turns and walks inside, never once looking back at the smiling man in the gray suit who watches him disappear. He reaches his seat just as the lights dim and the prelude to the second act begins. His wife shoots him an annoyed "Where have you been?" look, but he ignores it, taking her hand in his and concentrating on the beautiful music. She quickly forgets her pique.

The night is clear and crisp, and the bright moon, now almost directly overhead, bathes Grand Avenue in a silvery light. Chris and Carol MacMillan walk leisurely back to their car, holding hands.

"By the way," the attractive young woman says to her handsome husband, "what's with that handkerchief in your pocket? You weren't wearing it when we got here."

Chris looks down. For a split second he's totally bewildered. Then he's back to himself, cool and collected.

"I was wondering when you'd notice. It's a new look I'm trying for the first time. A lot of well-dressed guys on TV wear hanks like this, y'know. I didn't have time to get it right before we left, us being late and all, so I just took it along and arranged it in the men's room during intermission. Whaddya think?"

Carol looks at her husband's chest.

"I like it. Very distinguished. Kind of sexy, actually." She goes into a mock pout. "Just what I need. Something to make you look even better, so even more women will hit on you."

Chris smiles. "You know I'm not interested in other women."

Carol returns the smile, perfectly secure. "I know."

They walk on in comfortable silence. After a while, Chris begins to whistle. It's a tune from the opera they've just attended.

"So you really enjoyed it tonight, huh?" Carol asks her husband.

"I really did."

She smiles again.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when you'd turn into an opera lover. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"It's funny," says Chris as they reach their car. "You know I've never liked this stuff. But somehow . . . tonight was different. Something about tonight was special. It was great. I guess it was the music. And now all these tunes are going through my head. You've got the CD at home, right?"

"No, but I'm sure they have it at Tower."

"Yeah, let's get it. I'd like to hear that opera again right away."

Mr. and Mrs. MacMillan get into their BMW. As Chris turns the key and the car starts up, he says, more to himself than to Carol, "Funny. Sometimes you think you're not interested in something, and later it winds up being very important to you . . . maybe even becomes something you can't do without."

Carol looks at Chris warily, not sure if he's joking or being serious. Chris grins sheepishly and shrugs, surprised at what he's just heard himself say. Carol leans over and gives her husband an affectionate peck on the cheek as they drive out of the parking lot and head home.