Hypno Harem 2: Harem-Scarem!

by Morgan Wolfe

  When they came back, it was all he could do not to stare. They had shopping bags and the woman had completely changed clothes, different from head to toe. Gone were her heels, replaced by a pair of Mary Janes like his daughter wore. The pantyhose had been traded for a pair of white tights and in place of her blouse and pencil skirt, she was wearing—if you could believe it—a Minnie Mouse dress, red with big black polka dots and a flared skirt. They must have gone to a hair salon too because her stylish coif was gone, replaced by a pair of pigtails held in place by bright red bows.

  He would have thought they were going to a costume party but the guy was wearing the same clothes as before. They had him drive them to an REI and wait again, though not as long. This time they came back with only one sack.

  “Where to now?” Mike asked.

  “Anywhere,” said the guy. “Just drive around for the next hour. Okay?”

  “Okay with me so long as you pay.”

  “No problem,” said the guy. “Just drive.” They started opening the REI package, oblivious to him. He never tried to eavesdrop on his passengers but unless people whispered it was hard not to hear. Sometimes he put on ear buds if it was clear riders wanted some privacy but these two didn’t seem to care. The conversation got steadily more interesting.

  “Too bad we had to buy four of them,” said the guy. “It’ll take a long time to wear four paddles out.”

  “Depends on how hard you hit my ass,” giggled the woman.

  “Don’t use that kind of language. I told you I forbid that word.”

  “I’ll use it if I want,” she said huffily. “I’m a big girl now, Daddee, and I can say anything I want.”

  “Not in my presence, little miss.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “I will if I want!”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Yes I will. I’ll say ‘ass’ all I want.”

  “Stop that!”

  “Ass, ass, ass,” she smirked. “Nyah, nyah, nyah.” She stuck out her tongue again.

  “Not another word out of you or you’re getting a spanking.”

  Her eyebrows fretted together and her lips pouted. “You wouldn’t dare!” she hissed angrily.

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

  “ASS!” she shrieked, folding her arms defiantly.

  “That does it!” he said, grabbing her arm and dragging her across his lap.

  “Let me go, let me go!” she screamed in fury, her shoes flailing the air.

  Waiting for a red light to change, Mike’s eyes were glued to the rearview. A horn blast behind him jolted him to awareness. Don’t watch, he told himself. Eyes on the road, eyes on the road. Listen all you want but don’t watch.

  It was hard not to glance though and with occasional quick flicks to the rearview, he caught most of the action that went along with the yells and cries. He thought of using his phone to get a video of them but he needed both hands for that. Too bad, this would go viral in an hour. They were paying no attention to him, although it was hard to believe they were unaware they had an audience.

  The guy had pulled up the woman’s polka dot skirt and pulled down her tights. What a delicious creamy ass! Round and perfect as a nineteen-year-old. God bless her, she certainly kept herself in shape.

  “Let me go, you big bully!” she yelled. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Oh I’m not going to touch you. Here’s what’s going to touch you.” Mike’s eyes flicked to the rearview just in time to see—Jesus Christ!—a green ping-pong paddle just they had at home. The paddle rose, hovered, and came down.

  WHAP!

  “Ohhh! That hurts!”

  “It’s supposed to hurt!” the guy said. Suddenly he was looking at Mike. Mike guiltily shifted his eyes back to the road. “Excuse me, sir,” said the guy. “Excuse me.”

  “What?” Mike said in confusion. “Who? You mean me?” This was weird, like someone on television turning and talking to you.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Lemme go!” shrieked the woman.

  “Mike. I’m Mike.”

  “Lemme go or I’ll bite your leg!”

  “Little miss, you bite my leg and you won’t sit down for a week.” He turned back to Mike. “Would you do me a favor, Mike?”

  “Listen buddy,” Mike said defensively. “I’m not trying to spy but I can’t help but—”

  “Oh no, look all you want. I just want you to count for me.”

  “Count?”

  “I’m going to scream if you don’t lemme go!”

  “Yes, out loud. A count of ten at, uh, intervals of six or seven seconds. It would be a big help. You can see I’ve got my hands—Stop that, young lady!—my hands full. Will you do that for me?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Thank you so much. Berta, I said stop!”

  “When do I start?”

  “You’re breaking my arm!”

  “I am not!… Right now.”

  “Start counting now?”

  “Yes.… You’re going to rue the day you defied me!”

  “One,” said Mike. The paddle went up, then down.

  WHAP!

  “Owww! Stop it, stop it!”

  “Two,” said Mike.

  WHAP!

  “Owww! That hurts! Please stop!”

  “Three.”

  “WHAP!”

  “Owwww! No more! I’ll be good.”

  In the backseat, Berta’s ass burned like fire. The heat was spreading out of her rear and into the rest of her body, especially her pussy, which rested naked on Daddy’s jeans and was getting them wet. Oh, oh, she’d never been so turned on!

  “Four.”

  WHAP!

  “Owww!” Berta screamed. “I’ve learned my lesson, Daddee. I’ll never use bad language again.” She wriggled her pussy up and down on the rough jeans. She wanted to put her finger in her slit and play with herself but Daddy gripped both her little wrists in his big strong hand and she couldn’t break free. She was a bad little girl but she loved her daddy so much!

  “Five,” said Mike.

  Woody slammed the paddle down hard on Berta’s round red bottom. Now he not only felt her excitement on his legs but smelled it too. She was one hot little brat, all right! The feel of her grinding against his groin made his cock stand up.

  “Six,” said Mike, who discovered he had an erection of his own. He’d never been into spanking himself, never even watched a video. But the real thing—in his car!—was a huge turn-on. He steered the Buick to a parkway where there were few red lights and the traffic was regular. He was keeping his eyes on the road for the most part but the sound was arousing in itself. The woman could shriek like a bobcat. The lungs under those breasts must be bigger than her boobs, which was saying something.

  “Seven.”

  WHAP!

  “Owwwwwwww, owwwww!” Between shrieks, Berta was bawling non-stop. Her ass was on fire, her pussy too. Red hot! And so flooded with pussy juice, you’d think it would put out the fire but it only made her got hotter and hotter. And the knowledge that her punishment was being witnessed by this complete stranger, Mr. Driver, made her face burn with shame and stoked the fire in her girl parts even higher.

  “Eight,” said Mr. Driver.

  WHAP!

  “Owwww! Oh-oh! It hurts!”

  All three of the occupants of the car—Daddy, Berta and Mr. Driver—were hot and aroused now. Their collective heat filled the car and drove up the temperature. Mike was sweating copiously and when he glanced at the rearview, he could see drops on the guy’s forehead. The woman—What did he call her? Oh yeah, Berta—she must be sweating too. It was like a sauna in here!

  “Nine.”

  WHAP!

  “Owww! Ohhhhh! Ahhhhh! Oh my… Oh my…”

  Berta’s screams had acquired a new pitch and volume. They weren’t just yowls of pain any more. They were cries of passion. She was shrieking with pleasure. Mike wondered if he’d have to get the back seat cleaned. Neve
r mind, this show was worth it. He’d have to make some excuse to get Diane in the car some night. They could even do it in the driveway when the kids were in bed, crawl in the back like teenagers. Wouldn’t she be surprised when he dragged her across his lap and started spanking her! Maybe he’d even use one of their ping-pong paddles. Oh, Jesus, just thinking about it made his boner about to…

  In the back, Daddy’s cock was iron-hard. He’d put down the paddle for a moment and managed to unzip and now it was pocking up from his lap. Berta had worked her way onto it and was practically impaled on him, shoving up and down like a bitch in heat. He could feel his cock getting ready to…

  “Oh-oh-oh-oh-God-God-God-God!” screeched Berta. Her brand new Minnie dress was all wet and smelly now. She’d have to take it to the dry cleaners. That would be embarrassing. Maybe she’d just buy a new one. They’d looked at her funny in the juniors store but they were happy to take her money. They had a bunch of other pretty party dresses. Maybe she’d go back and buy all of them. She’d have Daddy over and if she asked real nice, he’d take her out for ice cream. Mr. Driver could pick them up and wait while they had their ice cream and then drive them around again because she just knew on the way home she’d be a brat and do something Daddy didn’t like and then he’d have to discipline her, bring Mr. Paddle down on her little bottom so hard that she screamed and cried and kicked her little shoes and got herself wet again because she couldn’t help it, she got so hot and excited when he spanked her and her little girl part got so wet and juicy and oh God she was about to…

  “Ten.”

  “WHAP!

  “Owww! Ohhh! Ahhh! Oh my God! GodGodGod!” screamed Berta as she came over and over on Daddy’s lap.

  “Ahhhh!” cried Daddy as white, thick cum shot up from his cock into Berta’s tight warm pussy.

  “Jesus!” yelled Mr. Driver as he creamed his pants and his foot slipped on the gas pedal.

  “What the fuck!” shouted the driver in the car in front as Mike’s Buick rear-ended him.

  SCREEEEECH! went two sets of brakes.

  Return of the Manchurian Candidate

  It was an old movie, black and white. Frank Sinatra was a US infantry captain in the Korean War. He and Laurence Harvey and a half dozen other soldiers were far from the trenches, however. They were sitting on folding chairs, half asleep with boredom. Somehow they’d gotten trapped in a meeting for a ladies garden club, and for some reason they were on a raised platform with the speaker, a short fat woman in a floral print dress and floppy hat, who droned on and on about hydrangeas.

  And then something happened. The camera cut to another angle and the fat woman had become a fat Korean in a serge suit speaking not to other ladies but to a gathering of Communist Party officials. The fat Korean gestured at the captured GIs, hypnotized to think they were at a garden club. He explained how with the proper conditioning, anyone’s mind could be broken and bent, reality distorted, made to do all sorts of things he wouldn’t otherwise. He demonstrated by giving a loaded pistol to Laurence Harvey, who played a sergeant named Raymond, and telling him to blow the brains out of two of the other soldiers.

  “Who shall I shoot?” asked Raymond in a dull, toneless voice.

  “Anyone but Captain Marco,” the fat Korean replied. “When we send your unit back, we need him to recommend you for your medal.”

  “Medal?”

  “The Congressional Medal of Honor. You’re going to be a hero, Raymond. Would you like that?”

  “Very much.”

  “Excellent. Now please be so good as to kill two of your fellow soldiers.”

  “All right,” said Raymond, shooting men on either side of Frank Sinatra.

  “That’s enough,” said a voice. “Turn if off.”

  They were in a conference room on the fifth floor of CIA headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, four bland middle-aged, mid-level government employees trying to get a handle on a particularly weird piece of intel.

  “So who’s the Manchurian candidate in this movie?” said Ted.

  “The shooter, Laurence what’s-his-name,” said Ed.

  “Harvey. This movie was made, what, in the fifties?” said Fred.

  “Early sixties,” said Larry, who was in Counter Intellgience and running the meeting. “He’s not the candidate though. He’s programmed by the North Koreans to shoot somebody running for president. It’s complicated and beside the point. I wanted you guys to get an idea of how people thought back then. This was a very successful movie made by very bright guys. The specter of brainwashing was absolutely real, and not just to Hollywood. We took it seriously. Before my time, of course, but there’s a bunch of fat files on mind control.”

  “The Monarch Program,” said Ted, who was in Political Analysis.

  “Right. Monarch, our own mind control effort. We never got anywhere but not for lack of money or trying.”

  “What about the Reds? Did they?”

  “Who knows?” said Ed, who was from the Asia section. “It’s not like we have assets in North Korea. Consensus opinion is they tried very hard and didn’t. I mean, closest thing this country’s had to a presidential dupe is Jimmy Carter and he was a bust for all concerned.”

  Raucous laughter broke out. Larry tapped a spoon on his iced tea for order. “Knock it off. Out of line, Ed.”

  “Sorry,” said Ed, trying to keep his face straight.

  “No you’re not. So after Monarch folded, mind control got filed with Castro’s poisoned cigar and all the other wacky shit this agency produces from time to time.”

  “Fascinating,” said Fred, who worked in Covert Operations. “but why are we sitting around going over ancient history? I’ve got an in-box full of real work.”

  “Because,” said Larry, “we have it from reliable sources that a team of North Korean spies is going to infiltrate this country looking for the Holy Bible of mind control.”

  “What?” said Ed.

  “What?” said Ted.

  “You’re shitting us,” said Fred. “How close are they to infiltrating?”

  “No idea. Maybe they already have. This intel is dated.”

  “Get back to the mind control part,” said Ed. “What Holy Bible? What are you talking about?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Larry. “Anyone heard of Otto Popper?”

  “Sure,” said Ted. “Austrian scientist, came to the States to teach as an old man. Very big name in neurology – or used to be. Short-listed for the Nobel, never won.”

  “Well, when he was a young professor at an Austrian university, still just a lecturer, he had a Korean assistant, charming young man named Shin-Yung. They were very close, if you get my drift. Shin went back to Korea a year later, became a professor himself. The two of them kept up a correspondence, started in 1968 and continued for about a decade.”

  “Still ancient history, Larry.”

  “Bear with me. Shin had a son, a prominent researcher in bio-chemistry. Shin died a while back and his son went through the old man’s papers. You know, what to keep, what to toss.”

  “So?” said Fred impatiently.

  “So he came across a batch of letters from Popper about something called Transcranial Influence. Seems Shin had worked with him on it back in Austria, knew all about it. Popper was wrestling with what he should do, kept going on about how ‘dangerous’ it was. He’d written a book on it but couldn’t bring himself to give it to a publisher.”

  “Did he?” asked Ed.

  “Did he what”

  “Publish it?”

  “What do you think? No, he didn’t. Wanted to burn the manuscript but Shin wrote and persuaded him not to, said it represented his ‘greatest triumph.’ Popper died last year. His son, who had no interest in his father’s work, donated all his papers to Templeton University.”

  “Including the dangerous manuscript?”

  “No. We looked and it's not there.”

  “Shin was from South Korea, right?”

  “Right.”


  “So how does North Korea get involved in this?”

  “Shin’s son got caught in a honey trap. The usual story, went to an overseas conference, beautiful woman, blah-blah. The guy has a loving wife, three kids, devoted to his family, but he slipped up and, well…”

  “And the honey trappers were North Koreans?”

  “Right. Deal was keep them supplied with sensitive documents and nobody gets the candid photos. First thing he did was turn over the Popper letters.”

  “How do we know all this?”

  “North Korean defector bought his way to asylum with his own sensitive files, including these.”

  “Do the Koreans know the manuscript isn’t in Popper’s papers at Templeton?”

  “Apparently. What’s more, they seem to have a lead that we don’t. The defector said they’re looking for a pet of Popper’s, a grad student who may have the book. He’s left Templeton, though.”

  “Do we know who he is?”

  “No but we’re working on it. Apparently the Neurology Department’s files are in disarray. Some weirdness in the grad program a while back. The former head, Dr. Emma Starke, is on indefinite medical leave.”

  “That have anything to do with Popper?”

  “Not sure but it might.”

  “So we don’t know who Popper’s pet is. Do the Koreans?”

  “The defector thinks they do.”

  “How do they know this when we don’t?”

  “Their army has six thousand hackers. If they can get into Sony’s email, they can get into Templeton’s. So, gentlemen, now that you’re fully informed, you know as little as I do. Suggestions?”

  “Seems we have two targets,” said Fred. “Number One is the Korean team. We need to neutralize them, but quietly. Nothing that makes the New York Times or, God forbid, the Huffington Post.”

  “Roger that,” said Fred. “Target Number Two is the manuscript. Personally, I think it’s bullshit. Ain’t no such thing as mind control.”

  “That’s what they said about the atom bomb.”

  “Exactly, so we’ve got to get our grubby hands on it before the Koreans do. I don’t know about you but if Transcranial Interference—”