Several years ago, a reader named "nolecol" sent me a rather 
lengthy story idea.  From time to time, I tried developing it, 
but was not successful; the plot was just too intricate and 
implausible.   Then, inspired by emma sub's excellent story, 
"The Analyst and Mrs. White," I changed directions somewhat, 
and the plot took off.    


		

 


                        Abracadabra

                             by

                        C. Lakewood
                         


   "And...that's my theory...in essence.  What do you think?"  In 
his own professorial way, Dr. Charles Ockham caressed his moustache 
and peered over the top of his cliché half-glasses at his prim 
colleague.

    Dr. Christine Ward, deceptively young- and innocent-looking, 
grimaced mentally.  ("What a pompous ass," she thought.  "Theory, 
indeed!  That rubbish shouldn't even be called an hypothesis....  
On the other hand, for all his posturing and pontificating, the 
windbag IS a wizard at getting grants -- and he's also chairman 
of the department...for now.") 

    "Intrigued?  Should I list you in the grant application?" 
Ockham prompted.

    "Well, the offer of an early sabbatical is tempting, but my 
book...."

    "You'd be only, say, a little over half-time on this project.  
The rest of the time you could work on your book.  If we get this 
lucrative grant, perhaps there could even be a second year of 
sabbatical for you.  At the very least, I can promise you a reduced 
teaching load the year you come back."

    He leaned back in his big leather chair.  ("Regardless of how 
repressed you like to play at being, you treacherous little bitch," 
he thought, "I'll bet you'd gladly play house with a baboon for 
that sort of deal.")

    Christine assumed a thoughtful expression.  ("It's the worst 
sort of academic prostitution," she said to herself.  "But it 
WOULD help me finish my book, and the book is certain to be at 
least a major contribution...possibly a prize-winner...maybe 
even a landmark.  Besides, I really should try to stay on the 
fool's good side until I'm ready to take the chairmanship away 
from him....")  

    Aloud, she said, "I'll do it."

    Ockham beamed.  "Wonderful.  Let's have coffee and discuss the 
draft application."

    Christine allowed herself to look sorrowful.  "No coffee for 
me, I'm afraid.  I'm doing this wretched nicotine gum -- which 
is bad enough by itself -- but, if you add coffee, it tastes 
absolutely vile."

    "You haven't been able to stop smoking?"

    "No," she sighed, fidgeting with her skirt.  And, ever since 
the administration banned it from campus, I've been a basket case. 
I've been told I have an 'addictive personality,' but...."  She 
bit her lip; she didn't like revealing personal shortcomings.

    Ockham looked thoughtful.  "Well, I may be able to help you 
there," he said, slowly.  "Look, go ditch that gum and get 
something to cleanse your palate -- there's a machine in the 
basement that sells apples.  When you get back, I'll have a 
nice cup of tea ready for you."

    Christine, not enthusiastic about the idea, began a shrug, 
then modified it into a nod, rose, and left the office.

    Wasting no time, Ockham filled a teakettle with bottled water 
and put it on his hot-plate, got out a grey plastic cup and a 
blue porcelain one, and put a tea bag in each.  Then he unlocked 
a file cabinet drawer and considered its contents, finally 
selecting a squat amber pill bottle.  He shook out a capsule 
and put it into the blue cup.  

    By the time Christine returned, the kettle had boiled, the tea 
was steeping, and Ockham was back in his chair, cradling the grey 
cup and planning his assault on her subconscious. 

    As she sipped her tea (which she found delicious), Christine 
listened to Ockham talk about the power of hypnosis to mitigate 
-- even eradicate -- various addictions.         

    She was skeptical at first, but eventually agreed to try the 
experiment...in the spirit of "unbiased inquiry," as it were.  
"Besides," she thought, after her second cup of tea, "maybe he's 
not actually such a bad old bird...." 

    At the same moment, Ockham was looking across the desk at her, 
smiling blandly, and thinking, "Her precious book!  Revisionist 
drivel!  Academic double-talk from the queen of pretentious 
rhetoric.  She sits there so cool...so disdainful...so 
holier-than-thou...so ambitious...so treacherous....  But so 
vulnerable to a skillful pre-emptive strike."

    Then he reflected, "Some of those shits in the department think 
I'm paranoid.  But it's not paranoia if they're really out to get 
you...like this bitch.  And now it's time to start correcting 
matters....  Tora, tora, tora."     

    Already relaxed and suggestible, she was easy to put into a 
trance.  Ockham quickly implanted the notion that she considered 
him a trusted mentor, friend, and confidant...with whom she could 
(and did) share her most intimate secrets...and whose advice she 
valued.  He digressed long enough to follow this with a suggestion 
that would reduce (but not eliminate) her craving for nicotine.  
Then, after reminding her to be absolutely open and honest with 
him, he returned to the main agenda (saying to himself, "Now 
let's see what little 'Miss Prudence McPrude' is REALLY like").

    "Are you a virgin, Christine?" he asked.

    "No."

    "Have you sucked cock?"

    "Yes."

    "And do you swallow?"

    "Yes."

    "Anal intercourse?"

    "Fingers, but not a penis."

    "'Penis' is too clinical a word.  We're just having a friendly 
little talk about your sex life.  Use ordinary terms like 'cock,' 
'cunt,' 'tits,' 'asshole.'  I'm sure you're familiar with such 
words." 

    "Yes....  Sorry."

    "Do you have a lover at present?"
 
    "No, not for some time."

    "Was your last lover male or female?"

    "Male...."

    "Ever had a female?"

    "In college, my room-mate and I experimented some...." 

    "Which of you was the more dominant?"

    "We switched."

    "But I think you preferred to be the subservient one, didn't 
you?  You find being dominated sexually exciting, don't you?"

    "I don't know....  Maybe."

    "I AM your good friend, right?"

    "Yes...."

    "And I know that you have a very clear submissive streak."

    "Oh?  Oh."

    Ockham mentally congratulated himself on his ability to 
improvise.  He hadn't planned on things progressing quite 
like this, quite so soon, but there didn't seem to be any 
reason not to just go with the flow.

    "Yes.  You've had a very impressive, very fortunate academic 
life: B.A. from Bryn Mawr, M.A. and Ph.D. from Stanford -- with 
appropriate honors and all in record time.  All your life you've 
been prim and proper...teacher's pet...'Little Miss Perfect' -- 
at least outwardly.  But there are things you've kept secret...." 
(There always are, he thought.)  "Things that you are driven to 
atone for.  Despite the good girl image you've been so careful 
to maintain, you have always been, deep down, a bad girl."

    "I-I suppose...."

    "And that's why you have a need to submit.  Your last male 
lover, now.  Why did you two break up?"

    "We didn't have a great deal in common and just drifted apart."

    "I suspect it was a little more than that.  Tell me about the 
sexual relationship you had with him."

    "It was basic vanilla."

    "Basically boring?"

    "No...not really 'boring.'"

    "I'll bet it was.  Vanilla...prosaic...unimaginative...boring.  
And above all, it didn't provide the redemption you seek.  Trust 
me...it's obvious."

    "I'd never thought of it that way....  Not...really...."

    "But you really wanted him to dominate you, right?"

    "Well...that would have been...different."

    "Different...and better.  More...satisfying.  Tell me, do you 
masturbate?"

    "Yes."

    "How frequently?"

    "Usually...say, four times a week.  Sometimes more."

    "More?"

    "Oh, when I'm bored...or over-stressed...maybe two or three 
times a day...."  

    "Which orgasms are better, the ones from masturbation or the 
ones from sex with other people?"

    "The ones from masturbation."

    "When you masturbate, do you fantasize?"

    "Yes."

    "What sort of fantasies?"

    "They vary.  I usually develop them from a story I've recently 
read -- or create a scenario from a picture I've seen." 

    "The next time you masturbate, you will recall a powerfully 
exciting story you've read about a schoolgirl being sent to the 
headmaster for playing with herself in the shower after lacrosse.  
The girl has to strip herself naked and bend over for a strapping 
-- during the course of which she cums...uncontrollably.  And, as 
punishment for THAT, the headmaster fucks her, manfully.  She has 
to see him every afternoon after that for more of the same.  It's 
humiliating, but she loves it...as do you.  You will use that 
story for your fantasy (with you as the schoolgirl, of course), 
and you will experience the best orgasm you can remember.  As a 
matter of fact, you're getting increasingly horny just thinking 
about that story.  It's as though that really happened to you."  

    "Yes...."

    Ockham wanted to plan out the next phase very carefully, so 
he implanted a phrase -- "pink peas and spam" -- that in the 
future would put her under again immediately.  He added the 
usual admonitions to forget and assurances that she felt happy 
and rested.  And then he woke her up.

    After a few minutes' conversation about the project, she 
promised to return at 4:00 the following afternoon to finalize 
the grant application, and then she left, feeling more relaxed 
than she had in some time. 

		******************************

    At their next meeting, Christine was right on time and found 
a cup of tea waiting for her.  As she sipped it, she reported 
happily that her smoking addiction seemed to be waning.  They 
spent a few minutes taking care of the last of the application 
details, and then Ockham leaned back and launched into a 
long-winded and meandering monologue.  Christine's mind was 
beginning to wander when he paused, gazed straight at her, 
and said, "Pink peas and spam."  Her face went blank.  

    "Did you masturbate last night?"

    "Yes."

    "Even though we are good friends, I am still your mentor and 
superior, so it would be more seemly for you to call me 'sir.'"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Regardless of your intellect and all your academic 
accomplishments, you really yearn to to be submissive, 
don't you?

    "Yes, sir."

    "Therefore, it would be appropriate if I called you 'Chrissy.' 
Right?"

    "Yes, sir...Chrissy."

    "You find it demeaning -- but so arousing -- to be called 
'Chrissy,' as if you were still a girl.  Perhaps even a NAUGHTY 
girl, sent to the headmaster for punishment.  Have you been 
naughty, Chrissy?"

    "Y-yes, sir.  The coach...she caught me p-playing with myself 
in the shower.  I-I couldn't help it.  My panties were rubbing my 
pussy all through practice, and I was SO horny.  And the head made 
me strip NAKED...and he gave me a sp-spank-ing...and then...."

    "Then what?"

    "He-he f-felt me up...and put his-his fin-gers into me 
and m-made me CUM!  Again and again!  And when I was about 
exhausted...he F-FUCKED me!"

    "And you deserved it."

    "Yes, sir."

    "And all that was so exciting, because you love being 
dominated, don't you?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Obviously, you haven't been getting enough of that.  So, in 
order to correct that, to satisfy your submissive desires, I am 
going to be giving you orders.  And you WILL obey me...because 
you so WANT to obey.  You'll happily obey all my instructions, 
always, even when we're apart."

    "Yes, sir.  I'll be obedient."

    "But, even so, you'll remain basically a naughty girl in need 
of discipline."

    "Yes, sir.  I'm a bad girl."

    "Say that again."

    "I'm a bad girl, sir."

    "It's good that you recognize that, Chrissy.  It won't be easy, 
but I'll help you become a better girl -- though you'll probably 
never be a truly GOOD girl...."

    "Thank you, sir."

    "For your well-being, I will be giving you instructions, call 
them what you like -- commands, recommendations, suggestions.  
But, however they're phrased, you will consider them to be 
orders-that-must-be-obeyed.  And you WILL obey me, won't you, 
Chrissy?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "Because?"

    "Because it's for my own good....  And you know best, sir."

    "Absolutely right.  Now, some of these things that I order 
you to do will affect you sexually...and you may even find them 
humiliating...but you LOVE being humiliated, don't you?  And the 
more humiliation you experience, the more aroused you will become, 
but -- and this is most important, you will not be able to cum 
unless and until I give you permission.  Understand?"

    "Yes, sir.  You know best."

    After further reducing her craving for nicotine and reinforcing 
the ideas he'd previously implanted, he woke her up and wished her 
good day.

		******************************

    They met every day for a while.  Each time, Ockham reinforced 
his earlier commands and introduced one or two new ones.  By the 
end of a week, he had ratcheted up her libido and increased the 
frequency of her masturbating.  She fantasized much more frequently, 
and the scenarios all concerned humiliations...to which she became 
increasingly addicted.  And, in virtually every one, she was 
"Chrissy," the horny adolescent schoolgirl.  She obediently had 
her pubic hair removed, subtly modified her makeup, adopted more 
youthful hair styles, started going bare-legged, and exchanged her 
regular lingerie for training bras and adolescent panties.  She was 
being conditioned to obey him, in or out of a trance, regardless of 
how humiliating his orders became -- indeed, the more humiliating 
the "suggestions," the more she felt compelled to submit.   

   

    And he completely cured her of smoking. 

		******************************

    During the following days, he pushed his control even further, 
implanting the notion that, for her own good, she must defer to 
his wishes -- especially in all things that were connected with her 
sexuality.  Moreover, he conditioned her to be absolutely truthful 
when he asked her questions, particularly if she were embarrassed 
by the questions or the answers.  And, in the end, she came to 
believe that not only was she was doing these things voluntarily, 
but that they were central to her "atonement."  He even forbade her 
to have an orgasm without his permission.  Though she was allowed 
(indeed encouraged) to masturbate frequently, he emphasized that 
she could NOT cum without his express consent. 

    He put her under frequently, deeper and deeper, until he was 
sure that his conditioning would not be disrupted by any lingering 
inhibitions or vanilla conventions.

		******************************

    When Christine arrived on Friday, she looked a bit disheveled.

    "Ah, good afternoon," Ockham said, jovially.  And then he 
sobered.  "Are you alright?  You seem...distracted."

    "Well...um...I...um....  It's rather...well, embarrassing, sir."

    "But you know you can confide in me."

    "Yes, of course....  I need to ask you...."

    "Go on."

    "Well, I've been so...um...so...h-horny for several days, and I 
wanted to ask...to ask your permission...."

    This was very encouraging, but he didn't want to push her too 
fast and risk undoing everything he'd accomplished, so he simply 
said, "Pink peas and spam."

    He had her stand at attention.  "You want to orgasm...to cum?  
You want to masturbate, Chrissy?  To finger-fuck yourself?  To 
play with your cunt until you cum?"

    "Yes!  It's been so long!  I really need it!  But...."  

    "But you also need my permission.  Right?"

    "Yes, please, sir.  Pretty please."

    "Tell me, what sort of underwear do you have on?"

    "Panties and a bra...a training bra...."

    "Take off your outer clothes and show me."

    He was amused to find that her tiny panties bore pictures from 
"Finding Nemo."  Under his command, she was regressing nicely.  
The little girl panties and the training bra -- together with her 
smallish size (5'3", 112 lbs., 32B-24-34), clear skin, and youthful 
features presented almost exactly the illusion he was aiming for.  
He expected the diet he'd put her on to result in the loss of 
another eight or ten pounds.  (She might get down to 32A-23-32.)  
With a few other modifications, the mutinous, 33-year-old professor 
should cease to be a problem.

    "Cute panties," he smirked.  "Are they wet?"

    "Yes, sir," she murmured.

    "I must check that.  Take them off and give them to me."

    She obeyed, handing over the small pair of colorfully printed 
bikini panties.  They were warm and wet and very fragrant.  She 
blushed and trembled, acutely embarrassed (which aroused her even 
further).  

    "Your cunt is absolutely drooling, Chrissy.  You must really 
need to cum."

    "Y-yes, s-s-sir.  Please...please."

    "Well, I'd have to supervise you...."  He picked up a book, 
and there's a chapter -- a long chapter -- I want to read first.  
So you'll have to take a 'time out.'  Take off your training bra, 
and go stand with your nose in that corner....  Hands at your 
sides -- no cheating, now.  Fantasize as much as you like, but 
do not touch yourself." 

    She was already quivering with arousal as he picked up his 
leather-bound copy of "Histoire d'O," and turned to Chapter IV. 
He finished it a bit more than half an hour later.  He closed the 
book, caressed its pigskin binding, and sighed, remembering the 
Left Bank of his student days and the scruffy little book shops 
(almost all vanished now).

    When he came back to reality, he realized she was whimpering 
softly.

    "How are you doing, Chrissy?"

    "P-please, sir.  Pleeeze!"

    "Please what?"

    "Please let me.  Oh, god!  I SO need to cum!"

    "That's a word a bad girl would use, isn't it?"

    "Yes, sir.  I'm a ba-ad girl, but I really, really need to cum!"

    "Very well.  You may finger-fuck yourself.  But you cannot cum 
until I give you permission.  Understand?"

    "Yes.  Oh, yes, sir."

    "Stand where I can see you clearly.  Legs apart, knees bent.  
Go ahead now.  But talk to me...tell me exactly what you're doing 
and exactly how it feels....  Good."  

    Her right hand slid down to cup her crotch.  She rubbed it a 
bit with the heel of her hand, then used her first and middle 
fingers to tease her inflamed clit, and finally slithered the 
fingers deep inside herself, probing for the G-spot.  Her knees 
bowed outward, causing her cunt to gape.  Hissing and grunting, 
she used her thumb to torment her red and swollen clit.  He 
enjoyed the wet noises and the scent of her hot cunt.   

    "Now stop and stand at attention." 

    "Aaaa...." 
   
    She looked desperate and could hardly remain upright.  He 
realized that it was a delicate process.  He wanted to push her, 
but not so far or so fast that his control over her broke.  He 
decided to exercise caution.

    "Okay, you may resume your masturbation."

    She was grunting and moaning, grinding away now with both 
hands like a madwoman, her eyes begging him for release.  He 
nodded.  "You may cum now." 

    She staggered from the intensity of the orgasm and sank down 
onto a chair, sobbing and gasping, red-faced, eyes half-closed, 
mouth hanging open.

    "Thank you, sir," she croaked.

    He let her rest a few moments, and then asked, "Are you 
alright, Chrissy?"

    "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  I'm just...just...oh,god...just 
SO damn horny...."

    "But you're ALWAYS horny, aren't you, Chrissy?  Although, I 
do imagine that the present situation...you sitting there naked 
and sweaty, panting, having just masturbated in front of me and 
cum on command...all this makes you particularly horny.  You're 
SUCH an exhibitionist and yet SO embarrassed by it...."  

    "Oh yes, sir."  She squirmed a little in the chair.  She looked 
both horny and contrite.

    "But a moment ago you used the word 'damn.'  You'll have to be 
punished for that, you know.  You may not cum for 24 hours...."

    "Sir...."

    "No argument...or I'll make it 48.  Now, stand up.  Tsk, tsk.  
You've left a large puddle of cunt-drool on the chair seat.  Kneel 
down there and lick it clean."

    She looked blank, but got right to work.  At first, she tried 
to do it quietly, but the humiliating nature of the task stimulated 
her arousal to such a pitch that she was soon slurping and moaning 
as she licked the vinyl seat shining clean.  When it was done, she 
looked up at him with an obvious expression.

    He sighed.  "I suppose you want to cum again, you nasty little 
girl."

    "Yes, sir.  May I?"

    "Perhaps later.  First, however, we need to talk.  Do you like 
being controlled now...ordered about...disciplined, Chrissy?"

    "Yes, sir.  It...it makes me free, in a way."

    "And you really like it when you regress and become a horny 
little schoolgirl?"

    "Oh yes, sir.  One who is CONSTANTLY h-horny, sir."  She stared 
at the floor in embarrassment.

    "A naughty little schoolgirl, standing naked before her 
teacher?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "A naughty little schoolgirl who has been caught masturbating?" 

    "Ooooh....  Yes, sir."

    "And what happens to naughty little schoolgirls?"

    "They get spanked, sir."

    "How?  Where?"

    "Over your lap...on...on the b-bare bottom, sir."

    "Do you need a spanking?"

    "Y-ye-es, sir.  I am a bad girl."

    "Then ask me."

    "W-would you please sp-spank me, sir?"

    "Hard?"

    "Oh, god!  Ye-yes, sir.  Ha-ard!  I need it...."

    "So.  Get into position, then."

    He gave her a brisk hand-spanking that lasted three or four 
minutes, and then began to tease her puckered asshole.  ("A 
virgin asshole," he said to himself.  "Sweet.  I look forward 
to changing that...soon.")  Giving her a last, sharp slap, he 
pushed her off his lap and told her to dress and go home...minus 
her panties, of course.  (He was accumulating quite a collection 
of those.) 

		******************************

    Early one Friday afternoon, just after the semester's grades 
were due, the meeting progressed as usual, until Ockham announced 
that Chrissy was to start a research project Monday morning.  She 
was to pose as a teenaged inmate of the local, recently privatized, 
juvenile jail.  Ockham described, in some detail, the information 
she was to collect; it was all nonsense, of course, but she took 
it seriously (as she was commanded to do).  The meeting concluded 
with a 45-minute blow job.  (She was becoming a real virtuosa.)  

		******************************

    Later that same afternoon, Ockham entertained another visitor,  
but with beer instead of tea.  He was a black twenty-something, 
paunchy, once athletic but now going rapidly to seed.  A shoulder 
patch on his blue uniform read...

                       Birchwood Hall
                             **   
                     Juvenile Detention
                          Facility

    This was Hanes T. Calhoon (named after the only thing his 
mother could clearly remember about his father: the man's brand 
of underwear).  Once part of the school's varsity offensive line, 
Hanes was now little more than a rent-a-cop. 

    Ockham slid a manila folder across the desk.  "Take a look at 
that.  Think it'll do?"

    Three minutes later, Hanes tossed the file back onto the desk.  
"Cool.  Looks better'n some real ones.  Won't be no trouble wid it." 

    "And we're still a go for Monday morning?"

    "It all cool.  Ah goes on Intake duty coupla minutes early.  
She show up jist befo' 7:00, an' Ah hides her while ever'body else 
is shtill drinkin' coffee.  Ah mixes her in when de van bring de 
day's load at 8:00.  Prolly be 'bout a dozen girls on a Monday.  
So no pro'lem wid dat.  An' Ah already gots her 'commodations 
picked out -- she be in wid t'ree black dykes.  Dose mamas'll 
sure teach her plenny."

    "Excellent," Ockham chortled.  

    "But whut 'bout dat dere ree-surch she s'pose t'be doin'?"

    "Oh, don't worry.  She'll have forgotten all about that by 
Wednesday."  Ockham put a plastic bottle down on top of the file.  
"One pill every morning; I've already conditioned her to take it 
without question."  

    "Whut's in it?" 
  
    "A 'cocktail,'" Ockham replied.  "There's something to slow 
down her mental processes, hinder her ability to concentrate, 
induce a sort of attention deficit, make her somewhat more 
suggestible....  She won't really be any less intelligent, but 
she'll seem to be.  And there's an aphrodisiac -- enough to keep 
her as horny as your average adolescent nympho...."  He smiled.  
"Well, maybe a little hornier than that, even.  She'll be a 
compulsive masturbator within a few days.  (Of course she's got 
a good start on that already.)  Moreover, it will vastly increase 
the power of her orgasms, but make them correspondingly difficult 
to achieve.  There's also a diuretic, just strong enough so that 
she'll often wet herself.  Finally, there are some drugs to block 
selected hormones, turning her biological clock back, shrinking 
her breasts, and preventing menstruation.  And there'll be no 
re-growth of pubic or ancillary hair...."

    Hanes was looking doubtful.  "Ah knows 'bout 'menistration,' 
but a 'dye-you-retic' -- izzat like a lax'tive? -- an' whut's a 
'ant-silly'?"

    "Never mind.  It's what she deserves."  

    Hanes shrugged.  "Ah sure hopes so.  Ah was goin' here on a 
athaletic schola'ship an' doin' okay...gettin' by anyways...'til 
Ah gots stuck in HER class.  Bitch flunks me.  Los' my el'gibil'ty, 
los' my schola'ship, had to drop out....  Ah seen her today when Ah 
was headin' over t'here.  She walk right pas' me wit' dis blank 
fuckin' look on her face."  He shook his head.  "Bitch fucks me up 
an' den don' even remembah...." 

		******************************

    At 6:56 Monday morning, Chrissy tapped on the metal door, and 
Hanes let her into Birchwood.  The big door closed behind her with 
a soft hiss and a click.  Her mind was still working well enough to 
note that, if this were a Warner Brothers' movie of years ago, the 
door would have shut with an ominous clang.  She grinned, but 
quickly sobered, as the itching in her crotch gave her something 
more important to think about.
    