The Office Party Ch. 1

The Office Party (by Mafisto)

Chapter 1 of 2

Someone (I suspect Trent, who still blames me for losing the Blackwell account, or Kyle, who just plainly hates my guts) had told the CEO that I was studying stage hypnosis, and Mr. Moss had insisted (more like ordered) that I give a demonstration at the office party he was throwing at his house that Friday night. Although I had taken a few lessons from Doctor Hypnowave, and put under some highly suggestible subjects, I was still far from the time when I would be able to hypnotize a whole group, much less in front of an audience. When I explained as much to Mr. Moss, he said: “Mark, you worry too much. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. I don’t want this to be a formal thing.” He was using that tone of voice which sounded like he was exasperated to have to explain himself. “Everyone is doing their bit. Jonathan Reynolds will sing, even that new network technician… Fred… no, Frank… Frank Cobb will do a comedy routine.”

The pressure increased during the week. Peter, a cute and boyish sales representative, never failed, each time we crossed paths, to say “looking forward to your show, Mark,” and shake his head with a snicker; Derek, the art director on whom I had an intense crush, admitted to me that a few of the guys in the art department were betting on how much of a failure the whole thing would be; and Johnny, the naïve engineering student in apprenticeship who often chatted with me, asked me: “Man, aren’t you scared you’ll look like a fool?”

Dr. Hypnowave, after strongly advising me not to go through with it, reviewed with me the basics of stage performance, and gave me a few tricks. When I asked him if there was anything that could artificially improve suggestibility, he glared at me and said: “Drugs, you mean? I spend all this time teaching you the ethics of the profession, and you want to cheat at the first opportunity. We’re hypnotists, not chemists!”

So by Thursday evening I was on the verge of an anxiety attack, aware that my terror was mining the very self-confidence I would need to perform the next day. I was walking home from work — a half-hour stroll — trying to think of a way to increase my chances of success, when something Hypnowave had said struck me. Chemists. George Vilmen, my roommate in college, was a brilliant chemist who manufactured drugs; he used to supply the whole school with his creations. I called him as soon as I got home.

After I explained the whole thing to him, he asked: “Do you still have that painting that used to hang in our living room?” It was a magnificent abstract that my grandfather had painted, and George adored it.

“Yeah, I do. It has sentimental value.”

“I know, and so does the drug you want. My proudest creation.”

We made the exchange that night, and I returned home with a tiny bottle of orange liquid, feeling like I had sold my grandfather’s soul for some Kool-Aid. George had simply explained that a few drops in the punch bowl would be sufficient to make even the least hypnotizable person suggestible enough to go under. Better subjects would only be slightly more open to suggestion, but it would give me the edge I needed.

I arrived a quarter of an hour early, which made Mr. Moss edgy. The dining room was exquisitely garnished, and the punch bowl in the center looked particularly inviting. Mr. Moss excused himself, and left me alone in the room. I took out the bottle, opened it, and proceeded to add a few drops of orange drug to the punch.

“Oh Mark,” I heard suddenly. I was so nervous I whirled around and dropped the bottle in the bowl. Mr. Moss peeked inside the room. “Make yourself at home.” He disappeared again.

Fuck! I fumbled with the punch ladle to fish the bottle out. The entire drug had mixed with the punch, far more than a few drops! What if it made them all fall asleep or something? Or poisoned them to death? Or made them mad? Yet, instead of acting responsibly, I stirred up the punch and didn’t say a word.

Darren and Brian, who work with me in marketing, were among the first guests to arrive, accompanied by their wives. They tried to psych me up, thinking I was concerned about my performance, while I agonized about what effects the punch would have on the guests. Within the next half hour, Mr. Moss’s beach house filled up, and it seemed all fifty-two guests had a glass of punch in hand, offered to him or her by Mrs. Moss, a charming hostess. I calmed down when I saw nobody asleep on the sofas or dead on the floor. I spoke a bit with everyone, made sure they were still making sense, and then started an interesting conversation with two programmers, Walter and Robert, on the future of marketing on the Internet. Clyde, a domineering redhead in sales, joined us after a while, and started to disagree with everything the programmers said, in his arrogant way. I excused myself and went outside. The patio was huge, and gave a fantastic view of the beach and the sea beyond. There were several dozen chairs set up, and a platform that would serve as a stage. I saw Derek, my crush, and Julio, a Latino wet dream incarnate, lying back on the edge of the patio next to their bimbo girlfriends. They had removed their shoes and socks, and were stirring the sand with their bare feet.

A few people were already seated. Trent and Kyle were there, whispering and snickering, taking furtive glances at me, enough to convince me they were behind my troubles tonight. I also noticed an extremely attractive teenager, with rebellious eyes, muscular arms and a tattoo on the right shoulder. He wore a tight white T-shirt and jeans, and had short sandy hair. A girl of about his age sat next to him, and they were fooling around. I hadn’t seen him before at the office. Then I remembered Mr. Moss had a seventeen year-old daughter, and presumed that the boy was probably her boyfriend. Two rows behind them sat Gary Jones, who worked in shipping, and who had developed, through the constant loading and unloading of heavy boxes and probably a strict gym regimen, a splendid muscular body. He wore a thin black short-sleeved polo, and white jeans. Just following the sinews of his fat-free arms could mesmerize you.

Fifteen minutes later, everybody was seated and staring at me on stage. My knees shook faintly and my stomach was all tightened up. I forced myself to breathed deeply and tried to avoid Mr. Moss’ stare.

“First, I’ll try an experiment with all of you, to select the best subjects. Stand up and listen carefully to what I say…” My voice was faltering. Could I give it the right commanding tone? I waited until all the guests were standing and then said: “Do not consciously try to do what I tell you to do. Let your subconscious drive your actions. You will now all focus on my voice; all other noises will cease to exist, and only my voice will reach your ears. You are all getting sleepy, and your eyes are closing despite themselves.”

The entire group closed their eyes instantly. Wow. I had really expected only a few of them to do it so fast, with another part of the group getting there with further suggestions. Was the drug responsible?

“I will count up to 3, and as I count, your legs will feel weaker and weaker, until, at 3, you will no longer be able to stand, and will drop back to your seats. 1…” Everybody started to sway. “2…” Now, they were tottering in place markedly. “3…” They all fell in sync. Brian and Walter missed their seats and dropped heavily on the ground. Their reactions were unbelievably extreme — was it a joke planned by Trent or Kyle?

I had intended to use this experiment to filter out the best subjects in the crowd, but now everyone seemed highly suggestible. I gave the audience more suggestions to deepen their sleep, and, with a few more tests, like making them forget their names or unable to separate their joined hands, I was finally able to spot a few who seemed more deeply entranced. No one resisted my suggestions: the highest contrast was between say, someone like Derek or Kyle, who took their time to sloppily execute my commands, and Johnny, Mr. Moss’s daughter’s boyfriend, who responded promptly and flawlessly. Along with Johnny, I invited on stage: Gary, the muscular shipping guy; Frank, who was to do a stand-up routine later; Darren, my marketing colleague; Jonathan, the blond angel who had sung with so much passion just before; and Trent, one of the two jokers who had put me in this situation. I was about to wake up the rest, when a sudden impulse made me say: “Remember this state of trance well, because the moment any of you hears me say the word «management», you will instantly go back to that state.” I made them repeat the suggestion, and they did, as if they were all in church. Finally I said: “I will snap my fingers, and you will all wake up and respond enthusiastically to my show. I will be the most amazing performer you’ve ever seen on stage.”

Snap. Their eyes popped open. “What happened?” asked Peter, the sales rep. He looked at the empty seat beside him. “Hey, where did Trent go?” He saw Trent and the others on stage and his face blanched. “How did you make them pop up on stage like that? This is freaking me out…”

“You’re freaked out?” asked Frank. “How do you think it feels for us to just appear here when we were on our seats a second ago?” The audience laughed warmly. “This guy’s excellent…”

“Now,” I continued, “I will put them under again, and we’ll have some laughs.”

“Hey, I didn’t volunteer for this,” protested Trent. I came close to his ear and whispered «management».

“Wow, he put Trent under just like that,” said Kyle, staring at his friend who had just closed his eyes.

“Amazing,” approved Mr. Moss. Whispered ahs and ohs approved.

I faked a ritual to put the subjects in a trance, then made them sit, their eyes closed. I gave those on stage an extra trigger: touching them on the forehead would make them fall back into trance. Then, I just had some fun with them. Frank the comedian became the worst caricature of a cowboy; Jonathan sang a sexy song for Darren, thinking he was Jennifer Lopez, while they slow danced together; Darren went up to Brian, my other colleague, and gave him shit, convinced that Brian had taken all the credit for the Blackwell account.

Meanwhile, Johnny the teen boyfriend and Gary the shipping guy had gone in the house to change into pairs of blue sweat shorts I had brought with me. When they came back with embarrassed looks on their faces, the women in the audience cheered. A touch on the forehead made them sleep, and I convinced them they were doing a bodybuilding show. They stripped off their shirts without a trace of shyness left, strutted around the stage to show off their pumped up muscles, and then lifted imaginary weights, their muscular chests glistening with sweat. Then I took out a real small barbell, and offered it to Gary, suggesting he wouldn’t be able to lift it. The audience roared when they saw the strong man struggling so hard to lift this tiny thing, to only succeed in briefly raising it up a few inches.

I concluded my show with Trent the skeptic, to whom I suggested he was a stripper with an audience full of hot women desperate for him to take his clothes off. I put some music on, and boy did he get into it! He made us yearn for every loosening of his tie and his shirt buttons, every inch of flesh exposed. His performance aroused not only me: the women were fretting at the edge of their seats. I tried to stop him just as he was about to take off his suit pants, but the women booed me off the stage. He wore tight and sexy gray briefs under his pants, which he filled up quite snugly. I had never noticed how hot his body was. I hurried back on stage when he started playing with his underwear waistband, and I braved the booing this time to touch him on the forehead. He slipped back into trance, leaving his briefs low enough to show some pubic hair and the tip of his butt crack. I asked him to rearrange them, and then went on with another suggestion:

“Trent, when I snap my fingers, you will wake up fully dressed. You will take your place back in the audience, and tell everyone that I’m a fraud, that you weren’t really hypnotized. The minute someone asks you where your clothes are, you will suddenly become aware that you are only wearing your underwear.”

Snap. Trent woke up and strutted right down the stage, whispering “Fraud!”

“What did you say?”

He turned around to face the stage, his hands on his hips, still wearing nothing but his briefs, and said: “I wasn’t really under. No one is really hypnotized. You’re just a fraud.”

The audience started to laugh. “Well, you should tell Mr. Moss, then.” Trent marched up to Moss, who was trying not to smile, and insisted: “Mark is a fraud. We’re all just pretending.” I made a sign to Moss, who said: “Where are your clothes then?” Trent blushed pathetically when he realized he was standing in front of Mr. Moss wearing only his briefs. He glared at me, as did Kyle. The joke’s on you two now, I thought.

I got a standing ovation. All participants, except Trent, stood on stage and bowed. I was ecstatic: I had succeeded. All I had to do now was to mingle, accept compliments, and then go home radiant. Yet, humiliating Trent had made me feel so powerful, and having shirtless Johnny and Gary lift up imaginary weights had made me feel so horny… This entire audience was at my mercy. I couldn’t waste this opportunity.

I concluded by saying: “I would like to thank the management for their help.”

Instant silence. Everybody closed their eyes, and then gently swayed in place.

I wouldn’t take on the entire audience, it was too risky and most of them were unattractive to me. I had some filtering out to do. “When you hear your names, you will join the others on stage. Peter Hembridge.” The sales rep came up. “Derek Rogers.” The art director, in a leather jacket, white T-shirt and jeans, jumped up on stage. “Brian Filmore.” My other colleague joined them. Those programmers had a certain charm: “Walter Herr. Robert Astington.” The apprentice: “Jack Taylor.” The Latino graphic artist: “Julio Engles”. The red-haired bull: “Clyde Parker.” My two enemies: “Trent Watson and Kyle Howard.” I hesitated to choose the CEO, but he was a beautiful man, and his being in authority made him even sexier. “Mr. Moss.”

The sixteen most attractive men in the office were now on stage, in a trance. I told everyone else:

“All those not on stage will return home with vague memories of the best party you’ve ever had. Even the girlfriends and wives of those on stage will go home, since your men must stay here for an all-night retreat. Mrs. Moss, you and your daughter will return to your city house and leave your husband and Johnny here. You will all have an urge to go to sleep as soon as you’re home. Those who are leaving your husbands and boyfriends behind will come get them here tomorrow, proud to have given them some space for a night.”

The crowd took only a few minutes to leave the premises, mostly silent, dronelike, and smiling. Soon, I was left alone with the chosen sixteen, who stood on stage with their eyes closed. How far could I go with them? I guessed that more punch would certainly help, so my first instructions were:

“You have chosen to stay here for an all-night retreat of male bonding, to improve performance at the office, which I organized with Mr. Moss’s permission. You all feel in a great mood, relaxed and open. You find that the retreat is a great idea and you are looking forward to it. At the snap of my fingers, you will wake up and while waiting for the session to begin, you will chat among yourselves. The mood will be so open that you will reveal personal secrets, especially embarrassing ones, to each other. You will be extremely thirsty during that period, and will drink as much punch as you can. After your third glass of punch, you will come back on stage and fall back into a deep trance, deeper than any before, and will only respond to me.”

Snap. The sixteen men became animated again. Right away, I saw the spark of energy in their attitudes that office politics had killed. They walked down the stage and started serious discussions like how to improve efficiency while simultaneously improving work conditions. Mr. Moss listened carefully at everything that was being told. He mentioned to me his delight at my idea for this retreat — I could smell a raise and a bonus coming. Everyone had a glass of punch they were drinking from regularly, and excused themselves for a refill the second it was empty. I went from group to group, and eavesdropped on what they had to say.

I learned that Peter had a fear of heights, that Frank had a woman shoe fetish, that Johnny still wet his bed occasionally, that Walter was porno obsessed, that Julio was sugar-dadied even though he was straight, that Brian and Darren had once participated in a threesome at the insistence of a girl they both lusted for, that Jack was hopelessly attracted to Mr. Moss’s secretary even though she wouldn’t give him the time of day, that Jonathan liked his girlfriend to spank him, that Clyde had been a bullied weakling in high school until he started going to the gym, that Robert liked to work late at the office and masturbate while sitting on the chairs of female employees, that Gary danced at a strip club once a week in another city. All these juicy tidbits were coming out of their own mouths! In a little chat with Derek, I learned that he was extremely shy with women, and still a virgin. That was astonishing, considering he was the sexiest of them all.

The last confession I heard was from Trent and Kyle. They informed Mr. Moss that they had been taking turns pretending they were the CEO to impress dates, and invited them in his office late at night to fuck them. Mr. Moss’s eyes burned with anger, but he stayed quiet — he had previously let slip that he often fantasized about Trent, Kyle and other employees stripping naked for meetings to show their obedience to him. No sex was really involved; it was a simple power trip where nakedness was used as a symbol of submission. These three were the last ones to finish their third glass of punch and go back on stage.

The sixteen gorgeous men now stood before me in a line, eyes closed, barely moving. I fathomed the depth of their trance with some tests: they all reacted as extremely suggestible subjects in a perfect state of hypnosis, thanks to the extra glasses of punch. These men were mine. I addressed the group in this way:

“When I next snap my fingers, you will all awake again, and continue to mingle as before. There are now some more triggers to which you will respond: when I touch your forehead, you will fall back into trance as always; when I touch any piece of clothing of yours, you will immediately take it off and discard it, unconsciously, and not bother with it anymore; when I move my finger up your chest, you will instantly get an erection; when I move my finger down your chest, your cock will go soft again; when my hands come in contact with your skin, you will get aroused sexually, and the longer the contact lasts, the more intense and overwhelming your arousal will get. The less clothing you wear, the less inhibited, and the more eager to please me, you will feel; when you are completely naked, all your inhibitions will be gone and you will willingly act as my obedient slaves. All these reactions will seem normal to you: they will be part of tonight’s ritual, a special night during which it is okay for these things to happen. They will help you bond with each other better. You will respond to these triggers eagerly, and you will be happy and non-judgmental when the others respond to them: every response will be a sign that tonight is going well.”

Those were long and complex instructions, but when I checked on their retention, I found it was flawless. They remembered every word of it by heart. I was so impressed that I had each of them repeat the instructions one after the other. No mistakes. Wow, this was going to be some special night! Snap.

They awoke and spread out in small groups. I went to Jack, the apprentice, first; he was talking about the difference between computer engineering and computer science with the programmers. I fingered the thin white shirt he was wearing, and he started to unbutton it while he continued to argue his point. When Walter responded to his argument, Jack removed his shirt and threw it on the ground mechanically; his chest was smooth and thin, almost hairless. The programmers did not even react. I made both of them strip from their pants, and they continued their conversation in their boxers and socks, their shirts hanging loose.

This was fantastic. I felt like a puppeteer, pulling wires and making these men act as I pleased. Darren and Brian came up to me. “I never thought it’d work so well tonight,” said Brian. Darren nodded. I moved my finger up their chests and said: “Exciting, isn’t it?” I glanced down and saw a swelling in their suit pants. Darren’s was the most obvious: it pointed straight forward as if he had propped a wooden stick there. We talked about Cynthia, the new receptionist, while I made them strip from their jackets, their ties, and their shirts. When I saw Johnny come out of the house, having changed back into his jeans, and Gary going in the house next to change too, I left my colleagues shirtless and erect to follow Gary into the study.

“Hi,” he said, nicely. “I was just about to change back into my jeans. It was a great show tonight. I can’t believe you made me do that… They said I couldn’t even lift that fucking barbell!”

I smiled, touched his forehead and told him: “You are now a store dummy. You will let me move you around, and you will stay motionless while I undress and dress you. Open your eyes.”

He opened them, but stood rigidly in place. I cannot tell you how arousing it was to move his shapely body around. I moved his arms behind his head, and then lowered the sweat shorts a few inches down his hips, exposing the white briefs under. I almost came just to stare at him that way. I gave him an erection, the tip of which poked through the briefs. Then I took off his sweat shorts, grabbed his white jeans, and slid them up his stiff legs; I had to make his cock soft again to attach them. I moved his left arm down his side, strapped his polo shirt over his right shoulder and made him hold it with his other hand, and then I moved his head so he looked down shyly. I contemplated the pose, smiled proudly at my work, and then I gave him back his will.

“I guess I’m almost done,” he remarked. He was about to put back his polo, but after I touched it, he simply let it drop to the floor. “Anyway, talk to you later.” He left, shirtless and cheerful.

I continued my rounds and after a while Frank had exposed his thin swimmer-like chest, Peter and Jonathan had taken off their suits and walked around in their white briefs, Mr. Moss stood in a white undershirt and boxerbriefs, Clyde was shirtless with a huge hard-on in his jeans, and Trent was once again wearing only his gray briefs. Then I made Kyle strip down to his black CK boxers and studied him for a moment. He was another guy whose attractiveness I had never noticed: the styled blond hair, the bubble butt, and the attitude.

I saw Johnny itch for somebody to talk to. Boy, that teen personified the concept of the rebel without a cause. He gave me a lively speech about all the flaws of society, while stripping off his T-shirt, and hanging it from his jeans. I touched him on the forehead and asked him to cross his arms and stand motionless no matter what. I detached his belt and his jeans, then pulled his jeans and underwear down his thighs to just below his bush of pubic hair, uncovering about a quarter of his ass. He looked like a partially unwrapped treat. I massaged his thick shoulders, and sensed him become aroused at my touch, as he had been instructed. He shifted in place, breathing deeply. Little moans escaped his lips. I left him that way, still entranced.

Passing my marketing colleagues on my way to the beach, I took the occasion to make them strip down to their underwear, loose white boxers for Darren and white briefs for Brian. They were still fully hard, and still talking about Cynthia. I also made the programmers take off their shirts, and Jack strip down to a pair of powder blue boxers. The technically inclined pursued their conversation about Star Trek in their underwear.

Derek and Julio, the antisocial artists, were walking on the beach, looking out at the sea. After a touch on the forehead, I gave them an intense urge to go swim in their underwear. They eagerly shed their clothes, then headed towards the sea, giggling, in their boxerbriefs, white for Derek and black for Julio. Every time they walked back to the shore before diving back in, they treated me to a very erotic sight: their tanned, sexy bodies dripping wet, and the soaked fabric of their underwear sticking tightly to their thighs and genitals.

I reluctantly left them to their fun and games, and walked up to Frank and Gary, who were talking to Mr. Moss about a stock option plan. They smiled nicely at me, and I pretended to listen. I rubbed my elbow on Mr. Moss’s undershirt, and he removed it while gently explaining to Frank why he wouldn’t be given 5% of the company’s shares even if it would motivate him to work harder. As Frank conceded that 5% was a bit much, I rubbed my leg against his, and he took off his jeans. He wore a sexy pair of black briefs.

“What do you think, Mark?” Mr. Moss suddenly said. Frank and he stared at me, eager for my response. Since they were almost naked now, I guessed the try-to-please-Mark part of the instructions was at work.

I told them about a progressive, phantom stock plan, and they nodded appreciatively at the idea. Gary was less enthusiastic; he mentioned that if the company became public, they would lose the goodwill. I poked my knee at his leg, and he stripped from his pants for the third time tonight. I made a bad joke about his packing a whole lot of goodwill in those white briefs. The three of them laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world. “You’re always bringing us back to the things that really matter,” concluded Gary, joyfully. Well…

Leave a Reply