The promotion should have gone to me, not to Hanson. At work I kept my anger to myself, maintaining an air of nonchalance and shrugging the whole thing off with a philosophical smile whenever any idiot offered me his condolences. But inwardly I was seething. That fucking oaf! Who did he think he was, horning in on my territory, moving his carcass into the big corner office--the office with the nameplate on the door that was supposed to read "Jerrold Corsaro," not "Scott M. Hanson"? Five years with the firm, five years of unimpeded progress towards my goal, and now this.

Why in hell had the old man promoted Hanson instead of me? I kept going over it in my mind. True, Hanson had a reputation for being a hard worker, mainly because he stayed past ten o'clock most nights and often came in on Saturdays. That's always how it is--just put in the hours and people think you're breaking your ass for the company. Never mind efficiency. If I could get done in eight hours what Hanson couldn't finish in twelve, why shouldn't I reserve my evenings and weekends for my personal life?

But it was hardly just efficiency. By any measure I was the better man. Smarter. Smoother. More aggressive. A dynamite speaker. A formidable negotiator. Taller. Leaner. Better looking. (OK, if not better, then at least as good. In the face department alone we were evenly matched--Italy vs. Sweden in world-class competition, all tied up at half-time.)

I was also a helluva lot better built. I've been lifting since my late teens, and in all that time I've probably missed five workouts. I can still bench 315 and squat 405, and I haven't been on the juice in years! I have broad shoulders, big arms, a deep chest, and ripped abs that are as hard as a rock. Scotty-boy, on the other hand, hadn't picked up a weight since his college days. Like so many ex-jocks, he had probably begun to deteriorate as soon as he had started his first full-time job. He wasn't too bad yet--in fact, most people would have said he was in pretty decent shape. But if you looked carefully you could detect a certain softness around his middle. In ten years he'd have a roll of flab hanging five inches over his belt.

When it came to clothes, of course, there was no contest. I was--and am--the best-dressed exec in the office. Fuck, why be modest? Judging from what I've seen in the corridors and elevators, I'm the sharpest-dressed guy in the entire goddam building! It amazes me how little the average businessman understands about the importance of clothes. Even though you have a little more freedom of choice in the particulars, a business suit with its accessories is just as much a uniform as anything worn by a cop or a Marine commandant. And like all uniforms, it's a symbol of power and authority, something not to be taken lightly.

Early on, I had learned one of life's important lessons: impression is everything. So I developed the knowledge, taste, and skill to make a visual impression that people wouldn't soon forget. There's never a day at work that I don't wear a suit made for me in Milan or on Savile Row. (My contacts at Tincati and Huntsman understand my tastes and regularly send me fabric samples; the tailors there know my measurements by heart.) My shirts, mostly French cuffed, are all custom made on the Row, and I have a huge collection of killer ties to go with them. You can cut your finger on the crease of my trousers and see yourself reflected in the shine of my shoes.

Hanson, on the other hand, was sartorially challenged. He had probably never spent more than $600 on a suit in his life. For that alone I held him in contempt.

Finally there was the matter of, shall we say, personal attributes. Although I had no direct evidence, I knew instinctively that I had Golden Boy beat in the endowment department. A lot of a guy's natural self-confidence is related to the size of his dick. Wimp that he was, Hanson couldn't have had more than six inches.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: I was Hanson's superior in every way; it was unacceptable that his new title and position should seem to say differently.

If you have to suffer a defeat, it makes it more tolerable if you can at least respect the adversary who vanquished you. For that reason alone I wanted to respect Hanson, but his behavior toward me made that impossible. If only he had had the decency to gloat! If only he had had the balls to flaunt his newly acquired power like a man! But no, not Mr. Nice Guy. Within an hour of our both hearing the news, he was in my office apologizing: "Listen, Jerry, I just want you to know that I don't feel entirely right about this. You've been here longer than I have and you deserved it more than I did and . . ." He simpered on and on. Although physical violence isn't usually my style, I felt a powerful urge to send my fist through his face and out the back of his head. But all I did was extend one hand to him, grab his shoulder with the other, and say, "Thanks, Scott, I appreciate that."

He was right about not deserving the position. And there was something else he didn't deserve--his wife. I had met Cindy on only three or four occasions, but that was enough for her to create a nagging libidinal itch in my mind that I very much wanted to scratch. She was in her late 20s or early 30s, petite and shy, with an angelic face, beautiful auburn hair, and a pair of disproportionately large, luscious tits that never failed to work my nerves. I sensed that she was self-conscious about her bust. She avoided wearing anything clingy or silky, dressing instead in a way that she must have thought would downplay what nature had given her, as if to say, "I'm embarrassed by this abundance--please don't look below my neck." But it didn't work. No matter how she tried to hide it, every red-blooded guy who met her stared at her chest.

I wondered if Hanson really knew what he had in her. On the surface, the two of them seemed happy enough together, constantly exchanging loving glances and cute little terms of endearment. But I wasn't convinced. Scott and Cindy had been married for eight years and he still hadn't knocked her up. I heard through the grapevine that they were considering adoption. The first time I met Cindy in a room full of people and she extended her hand in greeting as we smiled at each other, I saw something in her eyes that I filed away for future reference. She held my gaze just a little too long, communicating a message I could read very clearly: "My deepest needs aren't being met. Please help me." Don't worry, little lady, I thought to myself, I want to help you--and I will, just as soon as I can.

A couple of days after Hanson's new position was announced--late on a Friday afternoon, to be exact--I overheard him say to the old man, "See you Sunday morning." Suddenly, in a flash, the mystery was solved. Hanson and Mackenzie went to the same church! Hanson's promotion was simply a matter of co-religionists supporting each other, of Soldiers of the Lord sticking together and sticking it to us heathens! I pictured the two of them, looking for all the world like father and son, entering God's House with their respective wives in tow, parking their asses on the same wooden pew, intoning their mumbo-jumbo in unison, perfectly smug and self-righteous. I wanted to puke.

This was even more of a crisis than I had thought. With the additional tie of religion binding Hanson to the bossman, there was no way I could ever leapfrog my way past him. He would always be an obstacle to my progress. I had to move into action, and quickly. Sorry, Blondie, I said to myself, but it's time for you to go.

The occasion called for more than subtle machinations. I had to strike swiftly and lethally. I decided to break out the heavy artillery. I decided to use the Big H.

I'm not the sort of hypnotist who goes around throwing people into trances at every opportunity. I don't entertain at parties--I have no interest in amazing the local yokels with Marsha's antics as she clucks like a chicken or Marvin's look of consternation when he can't remember his own name. I keep quiet about this particular interest of mine. Certainly no one at work knows about my hypnotic prowess.

Hypnosis is a tool, a very powerful tool, and it should be treated as such. If you own a big table saw, you don't say to people, "Come out to the garage and see how my saw works! I'll cut you a few matchsticks!" No, you use your saw for the purpose for which it was intended--to build something. When I use hypnosis, it's always with a specific purpose in mind. I use it to get what I want.

It wasn't always that way. I first became fascinated with hypnotism at the age of eleven, when I saw a stage hypnotist do his thing on TV. I couldn't believe that one person could have so much power over another! By the time I was in high school, I had read every book on the subject I could get my hands on, and I was successfully hypnotizing my friends right and left. I soon realized two things that changed my life: one, that I was an extraordinarily talented hypnotist; two, that I got a huge charge--a giant sexual jolt!--out of messing with people's heads. Men, women, it didn't matter: controlling someone through hypnosis got me hard.

But it wasn't until I discovered Estabrooks and devoured him whole that I finally had a clear understanding of what a skilled hypnotist could do with his talent. That maniac Estabrooks! I wish to hell I could have known him. He was the only one--the only one!--with the guts to tell the truth. From him and him alone I learned the extent of the control that's possible when a skilled operator (I love that old-fashioned term!) works on a somnambulistic subject.

You hypnotize a guy, give him a knife, and tell him to go kill his mother. Guess what? The guy spontaneously snaps out of the trance. Conclusion? No one can be made to do anything under hypnosis that's contrary to their moral nature. You always have control over yourself. Hypnosis isn't dangerous.

That's the official party line, the pap that every two-bit "hypnotherapist" with a high-school diploma and four weeks of cockamamie training uses to reassure the poor fools who come in off the street with their problems. What a crock! It makes as much sense as saying, "Since Yours Truly doesn't know how to do it, it can't be done."

Want to get your victim to off his mother? Here's how. First, make sure you're dealing with a very good subject. (It's not hard to determine.) Then do three things. First, condition him to go into a deep trance reliably and instantaneously at your cue. Then create an amnesia on his part for the hypnotic sessions--in fact, remove any conscious knowledge of his having been hypnotized, so that he'll deny to his dying day that he's ever been in a trance. Finally, set up a block so that he can only be hypnotized by you--you don't want any nosy psychologist poking around where you've been. As Estabrooks indicates, this is all "merely routine" if you know what you're doing. Now you're ready for the real work. Gradually, over a period of time, let your deeply entranced subject know that his mother's body has been taken over by aliens; that the creature pretending to be his mother is really an evil monster; that this monster is slowly poisoning his kids. Keeping in mind that nothing is absurd to someone in deep hypnosis, build this story up little by little, with constant repetition and reinforcement, to the point that it becomes an overwhelming conviction in your subject's unconscious. Then introduce the idea that the only way for the guy to save his family is to slay the dragon. That's when you hand him the knife--and stand back. Because the old lady isn't long for this world.

Hypnosis not dangerous? In the right hands--mine, for example--it can be dangerous as hell.

As soon as I understood all this, I shut up about hypnotism. I told my friends that I had lost interest in the subject. I got rid of all my books (no loss, since I already knew everything in them). Eventually I got rid of all my old friends as well. The new acquaintances I developed knew nothing about my "former" obsession.

I won't tell you what I did with my secret talent from then until the time I had to deal with Hanson. Suffice it to say I found more than a few occasions to use it to my advantage. You see, I'm a very lucky guy: not only do I have a clear sense of exactly what I want in life, but I have the tools to go out and get it. Hypnosis is the ultimate tool in my kit. I don't often bring it out of its hiding place--you don't use a bazooka to kill a mosquito. But when I have chosen to use it--for material gain, for influence, to enhance my sex life, or just to get my jollies--it's been a powerful ally and a faithful friend.

Now it was time to call upon my friend once again. I knew that Hanson was to be the key speaker at the Anderson presentation the following Friday. All the higher-ups in our office--including me, of course--would be there, not to mention the client reps. I thought about it all weekend. The basic plan took shape rather quickly, although a few tricky details and contingencies required some working out. By Sunday night it had all congealed. There was some risk, but once I negotiated the initial hurdles, everything was bound to fall into place. The whole thing promised to be very, very satisfying. I went to bed with a big smile on my face, a tremendous sense of anticipation, and, despite myself, a huge boner tenting my silk pajamas. I briefly considered doing something about it, but quickly thought better of the idea. I couldn't afford to waste my energy, sexual or otherwise. This week I had to be at the top of my form in every respect. I willed my hard-on down and got a great night's sleep.

I put in a decent day's work on Monday and left the office at 5:30. A movie was playing in a nearby theater that I hadn't seen; I caught the six o'clock show but couldn't concentrate--I had other things on my mind. When the flick ended, I left the theater and walked over to a little Chinese restaurant I liked on Sixth. I had a light meal, then headed back to the office. It was a beautiful, balmy spring night, not a cloud in the sky, and I decided to walk. I reached the office about 9:15 and took the elevator up to the 35th floor. There was a light on in Hanson's office, as I knew there would be.

"Hey, Scott," I said as I passed by his open door.

He looked up from his desk. "Jerry! What are you doing here so late?"

Coming from anyone else, it might have been a dig. But Scott was only being friendly.

"I remembered I have to get something ready for Mackenzie--he needs it first thing in the morning. Shouldn't take too long. Say, is Sal still around?"

"Nope. It's just you and me." That was what I had thought, but I needed verification.

"How's everything going with your talk?" I asked innocently, knowing what the answer would be.

His face darkened. "Basically OK, I guess. I mean, I know the stuff cold! I really do! I'm totally organized, I've got great graphics . . . It's just that . . ." His voice trailed off.

"The butterflies thing again?" Hanson had spoken of his nervousness before. It was bound to be on his mind tonight.

"Yeah. I just wish I didn't have an attack of nerves every time I have to speak in front of a group. Once I get going I'm OK, but at the beginning, oh man. My heart pounds, I start to sweat, I stutter, I forget what I have to say . . . it's ridiculous." He shook his head sadly. I almost felt sorry for him.

"That's a shame," I commiserated.

"Yep." He brightened a bit. "So tell me, Jerry, what's your secret? You're always Mr. Cool in every situation. How do you do it?" He smiled, not expecting a real response. I looked at him steadily.

"Scott, you may not believe this, but I once had exactly the same problem you do." I had to force myself to get that absurdity out of my mouth, but it was a strategic necessity.

"Seriously? That is hard to believe."

"I'm not kidding. I used to have to take a Valium before every presentation I gave, until I found a way to get rid of my nervousness. After that I never had a problem again."

"What did you do?"

This was it. We had come to the crux. I paused a moment for drama, then looked him straight in the eyes.

"Well, this may sound a little weird, but I found that what worked for me was self-hypnosis."

For many people, the word "hypnotism" has a threatening ring to it, conjuring up Svengali-like images of domination and (perish the thought!) mind control. "Self-hypnosis," on the other hand, sounds all warm and fuzzy: it's something you do to yourself for your own benefit, you're the one in charge, no one is coercing you. So the safest way to broach the subject when you're not sure what reaction you'll get is to begin with self-hypnosis. But I was still taking a big risk. This was the first time the h-word had passed my lips in the office. If Hanson didn't take the bait, my name would be out there with a hypnotic association. That above all was something I didn't want. I had contingency plans, of course, but I was hoping I wouldn't need them.

Hanson looked puzzled and intrigued at the same time. "Really?"

"I wouldn't bullshit you. It's just a matter of learning to put yourself in a trance and giving yourself positive suggestions. Anyone can do it. Whenever I have to speak, I take a couple of minutes in my office and do my thing. Works like a charm every time."

"How long does it take to learn?"

"Well, if you do it completely on your own, it can take anywhere from four to six weeks to master. There are self-hypnosis classes, of course, but those can take weeks as well, and they're not very effective because you don't get individualized attention. The best way is to have someone who knows the technique hypnotize you and teach it to you while you're hypnotized. That's how I myself learned--a friend taught me. Didn't take more than three or four sessions either. Best thing anyone's ever done for me."

Hanson stood up. "Jerry, look. Counting tonight I've got four nights before my presentation. Could you help me? You don't know how grateful I'd be. I'd be willing to pay you for your time, of course. I . . ."

"Scott," I cut him off, "I don't want your money. If I can do something for a friend--and I consider you a friend--that's payment enough. Sure I'll help you."

The look of joy on his face was adorable. But then it clouded over. "Hold on, though. Just because you can hypnotize yourself, does that mean you can do it to someone else? Have you ever hypnotized anyone?"

Oh baby, I thought, if you only knew! But all I said was, "Yes, I have. Don't worry. I assure you it won't be a problem."

"Great! When do we start?"

"Give me a little time to get my work done. Come by my office in half an hour."

"Fine. And Jerry, thanks. Really. I just can't believe how lucky I am that you came in tonight!"

"Thank me afterwards. See you later."

Back in my own office, I messed up some papers on my immaculate desk to give the impression I was working. The minutes passed slowly. I used the time to collect my thoughts and go over the plan once again. One major hurdle had been successfully negotiated, one more remained. After that I'd be home free and ready for the fun and games.

In twenty minutes the eager sonnovabitch was at my door.

"How's it going?"

"I'm just about through. C'mon in." Said the spider to the fly.

I motioned him to sit down, gathered the scattered papers, and put them aside. I began in the standard way by quizzing him about any prior experiences he might have had with hypnosis, asking what his expectations were, and giving him the chance to voice any concerns. His answers and queries were perfectly standard as well: never been hypnotized, saw a hypnosis stage show in college but thought it might have been faked, didn't know exactly what it would feel like but thought he might not remember anything afterwards, wondered what would happen if I couldn't wake him up. I explained that sometimes you remember and sometimes you don't, but that there's never a problem waking up. He seemed reassured. The time had arrived for the eye-roll test.

"Before we begin, Scott, I want to perform a little test on you that will help me determine the best way to get you hypnotized." So much was true. The test would also predict with remarkable accuracy how good a subject Scott would be and how much I'd be able to do with him, but I didn't mention that.

"I'm going to put my finger right here on the top of your head. When I do, I want you to roll your eyes way up, as if you're trying to look at my finger. Don't move your head at all, just your eyes. Then keep your eyes in that position and slowly close your eyelids down. Got it?"

"Sure."

Hanson followed the directions perfectly, a good sign in itself. As his eyelids slowly closed down, his eyes remained motionless in the rolled-up position. The pupils quickly disappeared. Until his eyes closed completely, all that was visible was a sea of white.

Jackpot! This was what I was hoping for, what my instincts told me had to be the case. The fucker was a Category Five! A somnambulist! It would be like taking candy from a baby. I could probably hypnotize him by saying boo.

I suddenly felt something I wasn't expecting--a tiny twinge of disappointment. I immediately realized why. In hypnotism as in everything else, I love a battle. I relish grappling with a worthy adversary and defeating him after a monumental struggle. Victory in such cases is especially sweet. But this was going to be too easy.

After a second or two the cloud passed. I thought of the freedom I would have, of all the things I'd be able to do with--and to--my bosom buddy here and his beautiful bedmate. I felt a rush of excitement and a tingling in my balls.

"That's great. You're gonna do just fine."

Hanson opened his eyes, looking very pleased with himself. I motioned him into a big leather chair with a high back and stood in front of him. I invited him to get nice and comfortable, loosen his tie, take a few deep breaths, just relax. Scott was in his shirtsleeves, while I kept my suitcoat on. I began speaking quietly at a normal pace, but by the middle of the second sentence I was smoothly and imperceptibly slowing the pace down.

"Hypnosis is a very easy and gentle process, Scott. All you need to do is listen carefully to my voice and follow my simple instructions, and soon you'll be in the most comfortable, relaxing place you've ever been. Just go with the flow. Don't make anything happen, don't stop anything from happening. Just let your unconscious mind do its perfect work."

Hanson said nothing but just continued to look at me. I could swear he was already beginning to go under. I felt totally in control, totally master of the situation as I began the induction. I had a hundred methods in my repertoire, some conventional, some exotic. For Scotty-boy here I had decided on the old stand-by, eye fixation--but with a twist. I wanted to establish a certain powerful connection right from the start.

"Now Scott, I'm going to have you look at something as I talk to you. I'll choose something for you to look at, and you just keep looking at it. Don't take your eyes off it even for a second. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now let's see . . . why don't you look right here at the knot of my tie." I pointed to the perfect four-in-hand knot protruding from my white tab collar. I was wearing one of my favorite ties, a rich, bold Sulka with a design of large gold oval medallions against a deep red ground that I knew cost more than any five of Hanson's pathetic neckrags put together. Hanson's eyes followed my finger and fastened on the shiny silk knot.

"That's it. That's good. Just keep looking at the knot of my tie. Just keep listening to my voice and looking at the knot. Don't take your eyes off it even for a second. And as you keep looking at the knot of my tie . . . you can hear the sound of my voice . . . and you can be aware of yourself breathing in . . . and out . . . and in . . . and out . . . And as you continue to breath in . . . and out . . . you can be aware of your hands on the armrests of your chair . . . and the feel of the leather under your hands . . . And you can be aware of the feeling in your eyelids . . . And you can feel your eyelids begin to grow heavy . . . And just keep looking at the knot . . . Don't take your eyes off the knot . . . And the longer you look at the knot, the heavier your eyelids become . . . heavier and heavier . . . And your eyes are growing tired . . . they may be starting to burn a bit . . . they may be burning a bit . . . your eyelids may begin to blink . . . they may begin to flutter . . . as they grow tired and heavy, tired and heavy . . . "

There it was, the first blink. Then another and another. Hanson was going under.

I sometimes think the early stages are the biggest turn-on for me, as I make the first inroads into my subject's psyche, as I see the first small signs of capitulation to my power. I was certainly getting turned on now. I felt my cock slide against the smooth silk of my boxers as it lengthened and expanded.

"That blink is hypnosis coming on. And the blinks are getting bigger . . . and longer . . . and your eyes are beginning to close. They're beginning to close now . . . your heavy, heavy eyelids closing down . . . closing shut . . . "

I had to cut this short; Hanson's eyes had already closed. The guy was a natural.

"And now, with your eyes closed, you're going to sleep. You're going to sleep. You're falling into a deep, deep hypnotic sleep. Let yourself go. Deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper. Deeply asleep now. Deeply asleep."

Hanson's breathing had slowed, and his head had dipped down so that his chin was resting on his chest. He was gone.

"Listen to me now, Scott. You're very deeply asleep. And in your deep, deep sleep, you can hear my voice very clearly. And with every word I say, you just go deeper and deeper. Deeper and deeper. So deep . . . that everything I tell you to feel . . . you will feel, exactly as I tell you . . . and everything I tell you to experience . . . you will experience, exactly as I tell you."

It was time for the first challenge test. This was more or less crucial, but I had no doubt about the outcome. As I continued talking to Hanson, I had no further need for the languid, cajoling, "hypnotic" tone and pace I had been using up to this point. I gradually switched to the rapid, intense, no-nonsense delivery I would use from here on in. No longer the gentle instructor, I was becoming Hanson's commanding officer.

"Now raise your head up. Raise it up. Now let your eyelids close down very tightly. They're shutting down very tightly. Closing down and sealing shut. Your eyelids are closing down and sealing shut. Sealing shut as if they're glued. Tighter and tighter. Tighter and tighter. They're locked. Your eyelids are locked. They're locked so tightly that the more you try to open them, the tighter they're locking shut. Make an effort now! Make a real effort to open them! Try your best to open them and find them locking shut tighter and tighter!"

I got a charge out of seeing him struggle. His eyebrows contorted and he brought all his facial muscles into play--all except the right ones. It was as if he had forgotten which muscles to use. I leaned back and watched for a while, then put him out of his misery.

"All right, you can stop trying. Let your eyes relax. Let them relax. And just go deeper. Deeper and deeper. You're deeply asleep and you won't wake up until I tell you to. Then you'll wake up quickly and easily. Now raise your right arm. Raise it straight up."

I went on with test after test: stiff arm, stiff leg, spinning hands, anything that popped into my head. He responded perfectly to every one. I deepened his trance still further with a technique called "mind relaxation," in which I had him slowly count backwards from a hundred, repeating "deeper asleep" after each number. As soon as he had "relaxed the numbers out of his mind," as soon as he couldn't find the next number, he would stop--and be in a much deeper trance. Most people get down to at least 92 or 93 before everything clouds over; Scotty-boy only got as far as 97.

I tested his ability to talk and answer simple questions while in trance--no problem. Now I wanted to see how he would do with a hallucination. I asked him which he liked better, cats or dogs; it was dogs. Then I said, "Listen very carefully, Scott. In just a moment I'm going to tell you to open your eyes. When you do, you won't wake up, but you'll stay in the very deep trance you're in right now. In fact, the act of opening your eyes will make you go even deeper. You'll be able to get up and move around with your eyes open, just as you've seen people walk in their sleep. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now just as soon as you open your eyes, you'll see a little puppy in the corner. It's the cutest, most adorable little puppy you've ever seen. You'll go over and pick it up and play with it. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"OK now. As I count from three down to one, only your eyelids open. Three. Two. One. Look at the puppy in the corner."

Hanson's eyes slowly opened. As he turned his head towards the corner of the room, his formerly blank expression changed. Smiling with delight, he got up and went over to the puppy only he could see. He picked it up and started speaking to it in baby talk.

"Hey, little fella, how're ya doin'? Aren't you the cutest thing! Where's your mommy?" He brought the non-existent little canine close to his lips and kissed it. I couldn't take too much more of this.

"OK, Scott, why don't you give him to me. We'd better get him back to his mother."

Scott handed over the puppy. I told him to go back to his chair, sit down, close his eyes, and go deeper asleep, all of which he did. It was now time to establish a reinduction cue and evaluate his response to posthypnotic suggestions. This was the part I had been looking forward to the most.

"Listen carefully, Scott. In a moment I'm going to wake you up and bring you out of your trance. When I count from one up to three and snap my fingers, your eyes immediately open and you're wide awake. But you will remember nothing of what went on while you were hypnotized. Nothing at all. Your mind will be a total blank. You'll have no memory whatsoever of how I hypnotized you or what happened while you were in a trance. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now sometime after you're awake, I'm going to point my index finger at you with my thumb raised and my other fingers curled back, just as if I were a kid making a gun with his hand. I'm going to point that gun at you and say 'Bang!' As soon as I do, an invisible hypnotic bullet enters your brain and you go immediately and instantaneously into a deep, deep trance, even deeper than the one you're in right now. You won't remember I gave you this suggestion, but as soon as I shoot you with that hypnotic bullet, you'll be in a deep, deep trance. And any time in the future, whether it's today or tomorrow or next week or next year, whenever I shoot you with that hypnotic bullet, you'll immediately go into a trance."

I reinforced this several times, then gave him a couple of other posthypnotics. Then one-two-three-snap and Hanson was awake.

"So, how're ya doin'?"

Poor Scotty seemed very disoriented. "Er . . . OK, I guess."

"Tell me how you feel."

"Weird. Like I'm all confused . . . Oh, now I remember. You're going to hypnotize me and help me with my presentation."

"Scott, do you notice anything strange about your right arm?"

In automatic response to the suggestion I had given him moments before, Hanson's right arm immediately floated up towards his head and stayed there, hovering motionless in mid air.

"What the . . . ? What's going on?"

"Can you move your arm, Scott? Try to move your arm."

"I can't! It won't move! It's like it's not my arm!"

"That's right, Scott. It's not your arm."

I was getting quite a kick out of this, and my dick was enjoying it too. I considered letting him stay like that a lot longer. But I had other, more interesting things to do with him, and time was short.

"OK, Scott, touch that floating arm with your left hand." The arm floated down and became Hanson's again. He looked relieved.

"That's the power of your mind, Scott. That's what your mind can do under hypnosis. Do you realize you've been in a deep trance for over half an hour?"

"Gee," was all he said.

"I'll show you something else." I removed the gold silk pocket square from my breast pocket and laid it on my desk. Unlike the other men in my office, I'm never without the appropriate accessory in my suitcoat pocket--either a silk square that complements my tie (but never matches it, for Chrissake!) or a white linen handkerchief worn with the points up. It's a hallmark of my personal style.

"See this silk square? How much do you think it weighs?"

Hanson looked at me warily. "I dunno. Almost nothing."

"What would you say if I told you it actually weighs three hundred pounds?"

No answer. I could tell he was getting uncomfortable. I loved it.

"Go ahead, Scott. Try to pick it up."

He hesitated, not knowing what to expect. I kept at him.

"C'mon, what could be so hard? Surely you can pick up this flimsy piece of silk!"

He reached over to grab it and looked startled when it wouldn't budge. He tried again. It didn't move.

"What's the matter, Scott?"

"You gave me some sort of suggestion about this, didn't you."

"Maybe. Do you think you're man enough to overcome it? You used to play football--you're still a strong guy, right? How can it be that you can't move this thing? Any child could do it!"

The challenge was too much for him. He screwed up his face and made a mighty effort. His whole head turned pink, then scarlet, then purple. I could see the veins bulging in his temples.

The pocket silk wouldn't budge.

"OK, Scott, you can stop trying. Just hold out your hand, will you? Hold out your right hand, palm up."

Hanson held out his hand about a foot above the hard surface of my desk. I picked up the silk square and gently dropped it onto his open palm.

Bam! Hanson's hand came crashing down onto the desk.

"Ow! That hurt!"

I should be more careful, I thought. He could easily have broken a bone.

"Jerry, I'm not feeling comfortable with this hypnosis thing. I want to forget about it."

I looked steadily into Hanson's eyes, holding him with my gaze. Quietly, deliberately, and not without menace, I put things in perspective for him.

"What makes you think you have the choice?"

As he stared back at me, the expression on his face was that of a terrified little animal--a cornered mouse, incapable of escape, awaiting the cobra's strike. I savored the moment. Then out came the "gun," and "Bang!" Hanson was under again. I retrieved the silk square and carefully reinserted it into my pocket. Then I took pity on Scotty-boy.

"Bring your right hand towards your lips and blow on it, Scott. Keep blowing on it. As you blow on it, the pain is blowing away. It's blowing away. There's no more pain."

I paused a moment. "Does your hand still hurt?"

"No."

"Good. Now listen carefully, Scott. I'm going to tell you something very important, something you must never forget. Everything I make you do . . . is for your own good. It's all for your own good. Your unconscious mind knows that. It knows that I'm your friend. I'm your very good friend. I'm the best friend you have. And I want to help you.

"You're a very troubled man, Scott. Very, very troubled. Why else would you have so many problems talking to people? Deep, deep down you have unresolved conflicts. Conflicts that are eating away at your soul. And only I understand them. Only I can help you resolve them. Only I know what to do. You must trust me completely. And you do. You trust me with every fiber of your being. Your unconscious mind has perfect faith in me. It knows that whatever I make you do is in your own interest. Your unconscious mind will never question me. It may not understand what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, but it will never question me. It will obey my suggestions to the letter, without fail, every single time. Your unconscious mind will obey me. It knows I want to help you. It knows how much help you need.

"If you understand, nod your head."

A nod.

"Now I'm going to teach you something about how to respond to pain. A minute ago, when you hurt your hand, you said 'Ow.' Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"'Ow' is not what a man says. A man doesn't say 'Ow.' 'Ow' is what a pussy says. You're not a pussy, are you?"

"No."

"That's right, you're a man. Or at least you want to be. So you have to learn what a man says when he hurts himself. Listen carefully. When he hurts himself, a man says 'Fuck!'"

I had never heard Hanson say anything stronger than "Gee!" in any situation. Probably a religious thing.

"Have you ever said that word, Scott?"

"Only a couple of times, when I was a kid."

"Only a couple of times, when you were a kid. And did you enjoy saying that word, Scott?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I knew it was wrong."

"Tell me, Scott, do you think God is angry when people say 'Fuck'? Do you think He would be angry if you said it?"

"Yes."

"You're wrong, Scott. God wants you to be a man, doesn't He?"

"Yes."

"And I've just explained that men say 'Fuck' when they hurt themselves, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"So God wants you to say 'Fuck,' doesn't He?"

"Yes."

"That's right. Now go ahead and say it. Go on. Say it now."

Almost inaudibly, Hanson whispered "Fuck."

"It's got to be much louder, Scott, much, much louder."

"Fuck!" That was better.

"Even louder, Scott! LOUDER! SCREAM IT! SCREAM IT THREE TIMES!"

"FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

"That's much better, Scott. Much better." I was getting a little concerned that someone on another floor might hear.

"Now listen carefully. I'm going to wake you up, and when I do, your conscious mind won't remember a thing about what just happened. Not only that, you won't even remember that we ever talked about hypnosis. You've never heard me mention the word and you have no reason to suspect I know anything about it. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now just as soon as I wake you up, you're going to continue talking about the weather. That's what we've been discussing here in my office--the weather. I just came in for a few minutes tonight, you stopped by my office, and we began talking about the weather. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Now after we talk about the weather for a minute, you're going to notice my tie. You're going to become very interested in it. It's going to fascinate you. And you're going to want to touch it. You're going to have an overwhelming urge to feel my tie. And that urge will grow and grow. You won't be able to resist it. It'll become an incredibly powerful compulsion that you can't control. You'll have to feel my tie. And as soon as you do, you'll immediately drop into a deep trance, even deeper than the one you're in now. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

I reinforced these suggestions several times before I counted to three and snapped my fingers. Hanson immediately began to chatter away.

"I don't know, Jerry, this great weather can't continue much longer. I have a feeling we're in for some rain."

"Could be."

"I remember last year at this time we had a lot of rain, didn't we?"

"Dunno."

"I think we did. It's funny. Cindy really likes the rain. I don't, though. But I guess it's necessary, right? I . . ." His voice trailed off as he stared at my chest. "Y'know, that's a really great tie!"

"Glad you like it."

"Yeah, I really do. Is it a new one?"

"Relatively new."

"I like the colors a lot. What kind of material is it?"

"Silk. Pardon me a sec, I have to go take a leak."

Hanson was hard on my heels. He followed me into the john.

"Say, Jerry, hope you don't mind, could I see the label on your tie?"

"Why?"

"Well, I'm thinking of getting one like that myself. Not exactly like yours, of course, but similar." He had moved closer to me.

"Sure, go ahead."

He reached out and felt my tie. For a split second I saw a look of relief pass over his features before he dropped into trance once again.

After reinforcing his amnesia, I told him that the same thing would happen again when he woke up, but that this time the urge would be ten times as strong. I brought him out and we walked back to my office together. His blathering about the weather was getting on my nerves. I tuned it out.

When he asked to touch my tie, I said, "No, I'd rather you didn't."

He was totally taken aback. "C'mon, Jerry, why not?"

"I just don't want you to."

"But I won't get it dirty! Look! My hands are perfectly clean!"

"I just don't like people touching my clothes, that's all. It's a personal thing."

Hanson was beginning to sweat. He inched towards me. "Please, Jerry, I just want to feel the material. It'll only take a second. It's really important to me."

"No!"

"OK, have it your way." And he was out the door. Less than a minute later he had returned. His forehead was wet with sweat and his voice was shaking.

"Jerry, I'm going to ask you one more time. I really want to feel your tie. It's no skin off your back. Why are you being so mean?"

"No!"

He lunged toward me with his hand stretched out before him. I grabbed his arm and threw him against the wall. He hadn't reached his goal.

"What the hell's the matter with you, you jerk?" I yelled. "Can't you control yourself?"

Hanson sank to the floor and started to whimper. "I don't know, I don't know. Something weird is happening to me. I just know I have to touch your tie. You've gotta let me. Please, Jerry! Please!"

I let him whimper on a little longer. Then I said, "OK, just this once. Go over there and sit in that chair, and I'll come over to you." Hanson looked so relieved I thought he was going to kiss me.

He scrambled over to the chair and plopped down. I walked slowly towards him, holding out my tie. He reached out eagerly, touched it, and was gone.

When I left the office it was almost midnight. Down in the main lobby, George the security guard saw me and gave me his usual friendly greeting.

"Hey, Mr. C, haven't seen you here this late in a long time! You must be workin' pretty hard!"

"Damn hard, George."

"Everything goin' OK?"

"Just fine, George. Just fine."