tagMind ControlHypnothe-Rapist Ch. 01

Hypnothe-Rapist Ch. 01

bySmokey125©

Smokey Saga #3: "Hypnothe-Rapist"

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Hope you like this story. And any feedback you may have's welcomed and appreciated.

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November 25th, 2:00 p.m.

Dr. Angela Vevacia Starr was a miraculously skilled therapist. She ran a clinic for folks who dealt with debilitating behavioral and other mental issues. She saw a dozen or two each week, and her talents were such that not many clients required more than eight to ten sessions to effectively be cured. In her mid-30s, she had been honing her craft for the past five years. The secret to her success was her chosen field, her particular spin on the practice. Angela was a professional hypnotherapist.

In her five years of operation, she had met, had appointments with and treated all sorts of different men in her office. Women were allowed to come to the clinic as well, but they were few and far between. All were adult; the one unbendable restriction the clinic bore was that all patients must be of at least legal adult age. Intensive hypnotherapy was an advanced and sophisticated procedure, and it was simply not suitable for children or minors, as the effects would adversely traumatize and harm their young minds.

Angela had seen hundreds of men who came to her for help, some one-time patients, some for multiple visits, but she never forgot a single one. She passionately loved what she did and treasured each client. Equal adoration was harbored for her receptionist, Paula June Saunders, who shared her passion for the magic of the healing arts. Angela considered herself incredibly fortunate to have met and begun working with Paula. They had been together for four and one quarter of Angela's five professional years. It took over six months of interviews and dry runs to find Paula, with whom she was finally content, both as an employee and a partner. Angela made it crystal-clear that if her receptionists were not willing and happy to welcome absolutely all clients with only the utmost respect and courtesy, and hold them in the highest regard possible, they knew where the door was.

Angela became so thrilled to have found Paula, she snatched her up before someone else did. She immediately lavished her with a sweet salary and generous benefits. There were two stipulations, however, which she established with Paula early on, and they were strict rules on which she stood fast: Dr. Angela Starr's professional office was for clients only—the receptionist would not be permitted inside the office, and all contact from inside it would be via phone—and also, the receptionist would be required to write down all messages to give Angela, as her office phone would be unplugged during this time, and no one was to knock on the door during session. Paula acquiesced without question. The two began a little inside joke between them that each and every patient who found the way into the clinic would receive no less than the Starr Treatment. And so they did.

The office Angela kept was decently sizable, which it had to be in order to accommodate her chosen piece of furniture for clients: an extremely soft and comfy three-cushion cotton sofa, which folded out into a bed. The rest of the office was kept equally immaculate, consisting of her desk and chair, a closet for pajamas and robes, lots of different-sized pillows, a cabinet for files, a water dispenser and a built-in washroom, in which she'd had a washer and dryer installed for laundry. The atmosphere had also been equipped to relax patients into a sleepy state with light blue walls, a quietly humming air conditioner at a constant 73°F, and for more hyper individuals, a CD player and some albums which played soothing nature sounds, pianissimo classical music and lullabies. Once in a while, Angela would read a patient a lullaby herself. She sometimes amused herself with the idea of inducing sleep by reading to her patients from advanced calculus and psychology textbooks, but decided this was less than necessary.

Angela had filled Paula in on a detailed and stringent regimen with which she was to welcome patients to the office. First-comers were asked to supply proof of insurance and to fill out a form with basic personal information, medical history and current health status. Returning patients were asked to update the receptionist to any changes in said info. The waiting room was furnished with some cushy chairs, a TV set on public broadcasting, so as to preserve a peaceful ambience, and a decent assortment of reading material. Paula greeted every patient with a warm smile and a gentle tone of voice, Angela did the same taking them into her office, and to date the clinic had received no formal complaints.

One of the form questions for new patients regarded marital status: single, relationship, married, or divorced. Occasionally, a client would inquire as to why exactly this question was asked. Angela would explain its helpfulness by describing how the status could psychologically relate back to the patient's clinical issue, which seemed to satisfy most. Personally, Paula didn't totally understand the significance of the question herself, but she had been witnessing Angela's practically flawless record for these four years, so she knew her employer must be doing something very right.

What Paula didn't know, however, was that for (not all but many of) these men, the Starr Treatment entailed just a bit more than the receptionist was privy to.

On this day at 2:00 p.m., a new client was scheduled to come in for his first session. His name was Timothy. Angela had examined his form, giving it a quick once-over before tossing Paula the thumbs-up to send him in.

"Timothy Jacobs?" Paula called.

A trim, lanky man in his early 30s stood up.

Handing his insurance and identification cards back to him, Paula said, "Mr. Jacobs, you may go into the office now, sir." She pointed behind her. "All the way back to the end of the hall, and directly to your left, just across from the restroom."

"Thank you," said Timothy, pocketing his cards, a little nervous. He took his time to Dr. Starr's office.

Angela saw him appear in her doorway, and looked up. "Mr. Jacobs?" she asked.

He nodded, breathing quickly and wringing his hands. "Yes."

"Hi!" she said, smiling big and bright. She stood and took his hand in both of hers. "Lovely to meet you! I'm Dr. Angela Starr!"

She was wearing one of her standard work outfits: a long-sleeved faded blue nightgown printed with a special design, in this case a pattern of small animals, not unlike those of popular pajamas, one more tool to visually ease patients to slumber.

Timothy hesitated. "Uh...you too," he uttered. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm sorry," he explained, "I'm just a little anxious."

Angela's eyes turned sympathetic. "Oh, I understand, sir," she said gently, giving him a pat on the arm. "It's okay, that's why you're here now. Trust me, you'll be totally fine. Nothing to worry about." She asked him to please have a seat on her sofa.

"Okay, so, Mr. Jacobs," Angela began, sitting back down and crossing her right leg over her left. "Let's go ahead and get rolling. Why have you come to see me today?"

"Well," he started, "I've been dealing with this depression for a while now, and it's really been dragging me down lately...I saw a psychologist about it for a while, who eventually suggested I come see you. He highly recommended you. Isaac Jameson?"

"Oh, Dr. Jameson!" said Angela. "Yes, of course. Very good friend of mine. Wonderful therapist."

Angela explained to him how she conducted an introductory interview with each new patient before they underwent treatment.

Timothy asked, "Well, what exactly happens? 'Cause, I've never done this before."

Angela nodded. "Completely understood. Believe me, it's normal to be a little wary or skeptical. And it's true, hypnotherapy can differ from your basic forms of treatment. But you have my word as a professional: I will not allow myself to make you regret your decision to come here today."

He seemed to relax a bit. "Okay," he said.

Angela continued. "Mr. Jacobs, I have been a practicing hypnotherapist for five years. And in that time, I have not once failed to improve the quality of my patients' lives, whatever their issues. I work as many sessions with my clients as is necessary until both they and I are completely satisfied. And while it is entirely your decision whether to continue or not, I have also never had a patient choose to stop treatment of their own volition before I too felt they were ready to resume without therapy."

Timothy nodded.

"There are, however, some things you should know before you decide if you definitely want to do this with me," she said. "First of all, though this is a gentle and relaxing process, it's also more intimate than traditional forms of therapy are."

His eyebrows rose at this statement.

"And should you decide you want hypnotherapy, I will give you advance notice that not everyone can be cured immediately. Some are, but these cases are rare. Some require three to four sessions, some more than that. And as this is a more intimate treatment, you should also be aware that there is some physical contact involved, as well as some probing of the subconscious. Though I pride myself on my effective and successful craft, it's not cheap, by any means—and easier for some to afford than others—and so I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you of these precautions beforehand." She paused. "Do you follow me?"

He nodded, again, continuing to wring his hands.

"Good," said Angela. "Furthermore, the satisfaction of my clients is forefront in my mind, but your comfort with me is every bit as important, and goes hand in hand. Therefore, if you at any point whatsoever begin to feel uncomfortable with the procedure, or that your treatment is becoming too intense, or too much for you in any way, the decision is yours, and yours only, to cease treatment, at any time, and you may have a refund for the current session." She paused again. "With me so far?"

"Yeah..." He seemed to be growing more anxious.

"All right," she said. "Each appointment typically lasts anywhere from one-and-a-half to two hours, but as this is our first meeting and introductory interview, should you decide to proceed, I will give you a minimum of two hours today. As I say, this is an expensive business, and I very much desire that my patients get their hard-earned money's worth."

Timothy was starting to squirm in his seat.

"I hope I'm not making you too nervous, Mr. Jacobs," Angela said, a bit concerned.

"No, no, no," he shook his head. "Just, uh..." he let the sentence drop.

"Okay, very well. These are all just formalities, of which I'm obligated to inform you before we get started," Angela smiled, slipping on a pair of eyeglasses with oval-shaped frames. "Now, Timothy—..." she paused. "Would you prefer I call you Mr. Jacobs, or Timothy, or does it make a difference?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"All right then, Timothy, I'd like to begin by asking you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Timothy exhaled. "Well, okay."

"All right," she said. "Now, exactly how long can you remember having been depressed?"

Timothy thought a moment. "Probably since I was a teenager."

"And do you remember if and/or when you were officially diagnosed?"

"Um...no, I don't think I was, actually," he answered.

"I see," she noted. "And, is there anything you'd like to tell me about the nature or details of the depression?"

"It just..." he shrugged with a sigh. "...It just seems to spoil everything."

"Everything?" she queried.

"Yeah," he said. "I mean, it feels like I don't have the will or energy to do anything anymore. I-I don't want to exercise, or play my guitar, or go shopping...I have a hard time just getting out of bed sometimes. A lot of the time I don't even want to eat. The only thing I'm regularly doing is going to work, and that's just because I have to. My friends don't want to hang out with me as much, and I couldn't get a date if my life depended on it."

Angela looked up from her pad and raised her eyebrows. "So, just to be clear, you are not romantically or sexually involved with anybody right now, in any way?" she inquired.

"No."

"And if I may ask, when's the last time you dated...a girl? You don't have to answer if you're uncomfortable with it," she quickly added.

He thought a second. "Eight years."

Her eyes reflexively widened just a bit. Goodness, she thought, lowering her brows back down. "Ever married?"

He shook his head.

"But perhaps—and again, only answer if you feel like it—you could see yourself becoming involved one day, or marrying...a woman?" she inquired, adding the final two words just to be sure.

He shrugged again. "I...guess...but, what are the chances of that, if I can't even find anyone to go out with me?"

She nodded sympathetically.

"Okay," Angela went on. "And, you've never been hypnotized before, you said?"

"Right, no, I haven't."

"All right, and do you currently have any health issues other than the effects depression has had on you?" was her next question. "Disease? Allergies to anything?"

"Mm, not really."

"Healthy appetite?"

"Well, uh...when I get really hungry, I guess."

"What's your diet like?"

"Erm...not great."

"Ah—meats, fats, sweets, comfort food, that kind of thing?"

"Well, a lot of it, yeah."

Hm, she thought. Well, not exactly ideal, but, I can work with that.

"Healthy sex drive?"

"Uh...dunno, I...I guess," he said uncertainly. "Not that I get much of a chance to find out."

"So then, definitely no sexually transmitted diseases, anything like that?"

Timothy stared at her with a surprised face for a moment.

"God, no," he said, indicating the obvious answer.

"How's your sleeping?"

"Well, a little less than I'd like, but not too bad."

"How much sleep did you get last night?"

"Six, seven hours, probably," he said.

"Well, that's not bad," she agreed. "If a patient oversleeps—or undersleeps—it can make things a little trickier for me, but nothing I can't handle. I usually recommend a total of seven to eight hours per night, not counting naps. Try to shoot for that."

"Okay," he nodded.

"Right then, outstanding," she said. "Now, can you tell me if your depression is hereditary, or if it stems from a childhood trauma or similar event?"

"No, not really," Timothy mused. "Never really been totally sure where it came from originally...it just seemed to...kinda show up out of nowhere one day some years ago."

"Well, I'm sure we can figure it out," said Angela, returning the pad, pen and glasses to her desk. Her desk clock read 2:17. "Thank you, Timothy." She leaned closer to him, clasping her hands together. "Now, I have to ask at this point, before we go any further, do you definitely wish to undergo the hypnosis? Because I cannot begin this procedure without my patient's absolute consent."

He took a breath. "I...just...I mean, I'll-I'll try anything at this point. Yeah."

Consent granted. Green light.

"Excellent."

She unplugged the phone.

"Now if I can ask you to please stand up, take off your shoes and place them over by the filing cabinet, I'll just unfold the sofa bed."

He obliged, and she did so.

"There we are, now go ahead and lay down, get yourself nice and comfy," she said. "There's a bunch of pillows on the end to your right, take as many as you like and arrange them however works best for you." He obeyed.

"And I can get you some jammies or a robe if you'd like," she said. "They're freshly laundered every day. I want you to be as cozy as you possibly can."

Timothy was surprised at just how cushy the mattress was. It felt as if he was slowly sinking, almost at once.

"I don't usually wear pajamas," he explained.

"Oh?" she said.

"No, normally I just sleep...uh...y'know..." he gestured with a half-chuckle.

She turned to her desk momentarily and smiled. Ah, she thought, flipping her eyebrows provocatively. Good to know.

She opened one of the drawers in her desk, took out a slumber mask and handed it to him. "And put this on, please."

He hesitated.

"'S just to counteract the sunlight," she explained matter-of-factly. "Even though we close the blinds, some still sneaks in. The masks enhance sleep capabilities even for the least sensitive eyes."

Feeling somewhat nervous again, Timothy nevertheless took it and slipped it over his eyes.

"Good," said Angela, lowering and softening her voice.

Angela took off her own shoes and slid her feet into a pair of slippers underneath her desk. At the same time, she took a scrunchie and tied her hair back with it. She removed a stethoscope from another drawer, rose from the chair, went to her door, making sure her "SESSION IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB" sign was in clear view just below her name, shut it, locked it, and turned off the light. She picked up a pillow which sat in another chair, placed it on the floor by Timothy's head to his right, and knelt on it. She leaned down by his ear.

"Okay, Timothy," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. "Now just relax...unclench your muscles...just let everything wind down. Don't, think, about, anything. Don't worry about the time, we have as much as it takes. Now we're going to take some nice deep breaths, all right? Inhale for me, please, through your nose, while I count."

He breathed in, and she began, "One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight, and...exhale, through your mouth." He obediently breathed back out as she recounted.

She readied the stethoscope in her ears. "Again. Inhale through the nose...

"...One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight...and exhale through the mouth...

"...One...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight." She lowered her voice even softer.

"Now inhale for me again, nice and deep, and I'm just going to take your hands..."

She gently picked up his wrists and started to slowly, gingerly bring his arms to his sides. He started to react. She whispered in his ear, "It's okay, Timothy, my dear friend, just lie back. Just relax. You, are, safe. Completely safe...with me."

He relaxed again, and she brought his arms down to either side of his body. As she did, she looked at his hands, just to make sure...and she noticed some slight traces of calluses on the fingertips of his right hand, evidently from playing the guitar he'd referenced earlier. Oh, a southpaw, huh? Interesting, she thought. She held his wrist, locating his pulse, and with the other hand placed the stethoscope's chestpiece on him to find his heartbeat.

"Now I'm going to hold your hand for a little bit," she whispered, "Just to get your psyche accustomed to my touch.

"Remember, you're just fine," she reassured him. "Perfectly secure. And now, we're going to take you to a happy place," she soothed him, pacing her speech with her benevolent smile. "Imagine you're floating, Timothy...weightless...carefree...above a beautiful meadow, with lush, green fields. Nothing in the world, but you, and your happy place. You're drifting with the clouds, being carried in an angel's arms. Peaceful. Tranquil. Still. Everything is fine. Nothing can disturb you."

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