Hypno Harem 2: Harem-Scarem!

by Morgan Wolfe

  “Awww,” mumbled Daisy.

  “You can lick my toes.”

  Daisy reluctantly climbed off and Brownie dived on top of him. “Master is so BIGG,” she cooed. “Biggest cock in the world!”

  “Well, heh-heh, I don’t know about that,” chuckled Woody. “You three make it feel that way sometimes. That’s for sure.”

  “Because we love you, Master,” said Happy, kneeling on the bed and quietly waiting her turn.

  “Um-hmmm,” agreed Brownie, already with five inches of cock in her mouth. Thing about Brownie, thought Woody, is she didn’t give blow-jobs quite the equal of Daisy and Happy, but she could swallow more of him than the other two. A real Deep Throat artist. How did she do it?’

  “We all love you,” said Daisy, settling down to caress the big toe on his left foot with her tongue.

  Woody smiled blissfully. This was heaven. Three beautiful young women totally devoted to his sexual pleasure, completely in love with him.

  But then the devil of doubt raised its ugly head, even here in heaven. Why did they love him? Answer: because he’d mind-hacked them. Before that, Daisy—back when she’d been Candi—wouldn’t even give him the time of day, as snobby to him as her mother, Emma, had been hostile.

  Dr. Popper’s book on Transcranial Influence had changed all that. In fact, it had changed his whole life. Before, he’d been just another struggling grad student. Now he was Woody Goodman, PhD, with a handsome research grant and his own office at Rice University. That he’d gotten on his own, without mind-hacking anyone. He wasn’t dumb. He just wasn’t… very sexy.

  KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

  And what about the girls? They were basically slaves, happy slaves to be sure, but what if he, ah, “unhacked” their minds? Would they love him still? Or would they hate him? Would they want revenge? Would they… Ohhh, my God! Oh, that feels soooo…

  “Ooo ly thah, Mathah?” asked Brownie, her mouth sliding up and down his rigid, purple-veined cock.

  KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

  “Oh yeah. Like it very much,” he said dreamily.

  Happy had crept up to his pillow and begun to tickle his ear with her tongue. God! Who would have thought the inside of your ear was an erogenous zone? “Do you like that, Master?” asked Happy.

  “Uh-huh, keep it—”

  KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

  Woody’s eyes opened. Knocking? Who’s knocking? Had he dozed off? No, just lost in a fantasy. He wasn’t in the Master’s Bedroom surrounded by love slaves. He was sitting in his home office, door shut, reading. Reading what? He glanced down at the book in his lap.

  The sad truth is that evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil. Eichmann was not a monster in the conventional sense; he was a monster in the

  Oh, yeah. The Banality of Evil by Hannah Arendt. No wonder his mind had wandered.

  KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!

  “Come in,” he called.

  It was Daisy, stark naked except for her collar and a cute frilly apron. “Master?” she said. Woody detected something in her voice, something close to annoyance. Strange.

  “What is it, Daisy?”

  “Master, I can’t fix supper and mind Berta at the same time.”

  Woody kept from rolling his eyes. Is that all? The problem with mind slaves is they couldn’t solve simple problems on their own. “Tell Brownie to mind her.”

  “Brownie is busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing laundry.” Something in Daisy’s voice told him this was a chore not to be interrupted.

  “Then tell Happy to mind her.”

  “Happy’s gone to the store to buy toothpaste and toilet paper.”

  “Oh. Well, tell Berta to watch TV.”

  “I did. She says she’s bored with TV.”

  Woody sighed. “All right. I’ll mind her.”

  “Thank you, Master,” said Daisy. She didn't sound especially grateful. She sounded like this was something he should have been doing all along. Well, maybe he should have. Berta was his newest sex toy—lots of fun—but she’d also turned out to be something of a handful.

  He put the Hannah Arendt book on his desk. “Daisy?”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Do you think I’m evil?”

  “Pardon, Master?”

  “Evil. Do you think I’m evil?”

  She looked baffled. “Evil, Master? You?”

  “Never mind. Go back to fixing supper. I’ll look after Berta.” He followed Daisy out of the room. It shouldn’t be hard to keep a kid entertained for an hour or so.

  Berta slammed down a pair of fours. “I win! I win! You’re the Old Maid!”

  “So I am,” said Woody tiredly. He gathered the cards while Berta chanted “Old Maid, Old Maid” over and over. He looked at the clock. They’d been playing cards since 6:30. How long did it take to fix supper anyway?

  Woody shuffled the cards. At first he’d lost on purpose but Berta was such a loud, obnoxious winner that he’d decided to take her down a peg. That was five games ago. She might look like a little girl but at the card table she was Bret Maverick.

  Of course, Berta didn’t really look like a little girl. She looked like a grown woman pretending to be little girl. Cute and definitely a turn-on but it was all just a game and after a while he got tired of the game. But not Berta—Roberta, rather—she loved being a little girl, absolutely lost in make-believe.

  Was that healthy? Who knows? She was the psychiatrist. She should know if this was just harmless fantasy or some psychological trap. And who was it a trap for? What about him? What did it say about Woody that he liked fooling around with a grown woman pretending to be a little girl? Was that sick? Was he bad? Was he evi— No, not there! Don’t go there!

  “Berta, how about you color your Bratz books for a while?” he suggested. Berta had several Bratz dolls and a stack of Bratz coloring books in her bedroom. Frankly, Woody wasn’t sure that he approved of the Bratz. They were shapely in an unseemly way for dolls and wore midriff-baring clothes and had seductive almond-shaped eyes and plump, sensual Botox lips that curled in little leers like they couldn’t wait to hop in bed. Daisy and the others didn’t seem to find anything wrong with them but he’d been shocked the first time he got a good look. The Bratz just didn’t seem proper for a little girl, even if she was thirty-four years old.

  “I don’t wanna color!” shouted Berta. “I wanna play Old Maid!”

  “Don’t raise your voice. Use your inside voice.”

  “You don’t wanna play Old Maid because you keep losing. You're a loser!”

  “Berta, that’s rude.”

  “Loser, loser, loser!”

  “I am not a loser!” said Woody somewhat heatedly.

  “Don’t raise your voice,” smirked Berta, in a sing-song voice, wagging her finger.

  Now he was angry. “One more word out of you, young lady, and I’m going to put you over my knee!”

  “Word,” simpered Berta, sticking her tongue at him.

  Woody leapt to his feet, sending the cards flying. He lunged at Berta, knocking over the card table. He grasped for her arm but she dodged out of reach. All he got was a handful of air.

  He’d scared her though. She backed away, eyes wide, tears forming. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she burbled.

  “You’ll be sorry,” Woody snapped. He grabbed at her again. She dodged, making for the door. He slammed it shut just in time, managing to seize her by the hair.

  “OWWW!” Berta shrieked. “Leggo, leggo! You’re hurting me!”

  “You don’t know what hurt is,” he growled.

  “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry!” she squealed as he sat on a chair and hauled her over his knees. Her legs flailed wildly and a shoe came off to hit him in the face, knocking off his glasses. Furious, he raised her skirt and yanked her panties so hard they ripped.

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  “Don’t hurt me, don't hurt me, don’t hurt me!” cried Berta. “I’m sorry, sorry, so
rry!”

  “Too late for that, young lady!” exclaimed Woody.

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  “I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good!”

  “You’ll be good and sore is what you’ll be!”

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  Woody brought his hand down hard on Berta’s naked rear. WHAP!

  “Owwwww!” she screamed.

  He raised his hand again.

  The door opened and he turned to see Daisy standing in the doorway, openly annoyed. “Mas-ter! I’ve been knocking for five minutes!”

  “What do you want now?” said Woody, patience strained.

  “Help, help!” yowled Berta. “He’s hurting me, he’s hurting me!”

  Daisy ignored her. “Supper is ready,” she said, lips pressed tightly together. “It’s getting cold. We’re all waiting.”

  “All right, fine,” said Woody. Daisy strode out.

  Woody let Berta off his lap. “You lucked out, young lady,” he told her. “Go wash your face and change your underwear, then join us at the table.”

  “You ripped my undies!” fumed Berta.

  “Go on before I decide to put you over my knee again.”

  “You scared me,” she said, wiping at a tear. “That wasn’t fun.” She ran out of the room.

  Woody stayed in the chair for a moment, waiting for his enormous boner to go down. He’d scared Berta. He’d hurt her. And he was hard, oh so hard. Jesus, maybe he really was evil.

  “Mas-ter!” chimed Daisy, Brownie and Happy from the dining room.

  “Coming!” said Woody, rising.

  Berta appeared at the doorway. “I’ve washed my face and changed my undies, Daddee,” she said penitently.

  “Good girl,” he said in a kindly voice. He took her hand. “Let’s go have dinner.”

  Hef and the Bunnies

  Dinner was meatloaf with green beans and a squash casserole. It was tasty enough. In their months together, Daisy and the others had acquired some proficiency at cooking but Woody was—as always at mealtimes—just a little disappointed. And as always, he kept it to himself. The food was okay, nourishing, well-cooked but it was so… ordinary.

  Before he’d acquired a harem, Woody had never given much thought to the dining habits of a Harem Master and his slaves. One summer when he was a teenager, he’d come across a stack of his father’s old Playboys in a box in the basement. He’d spent June and July goggle-eyed over Miss September, Miss November, Miss December and all the other fold-outs of the month.

  There were also photos of Hugh Hefner—“Hef”—in the Playboy Mansion. There was Hef in his famous silk pajamas on his famous round bed accepting a martini from a girl in a Bunny outfit; Hef playing billiards with Dean Martin while the bunnies handed them ashtrays and drinks; Hef discussing literature with Norman Mailer while a bunny lit his pipe. Ever since Hugh Hefner had been Woody’s model of the perfect Harem Master.

  He couldn’t recall any photos of Hef having supper, but somehow he doubted Hef ever ate meatloaf and squash casserole. More likely he dined on venison or shark steak or aged cheese from a cave in France, always served with a rare vintage. The rare vintage served at tonight’s meal was Lipton iced tea, milk for Berta.

  “Master, what did you think of our dance number?” Daisy asked. Brownie and Happy looked up from their plates.

  “It went over really big,” said Woody. “The crowd loved it.”

  “But what did you think?”

  “I liked— uh, I loved it. Very creative. Funny, too.”

  “We rehearsed it for a week, three hours every day.”

  “Is that so?” asked Woody, unsure if that was a lot of work or not very much.

  “If we’d had two weeks, it would have been two hundred percent better,” said Brownie, taking a bite of green beans.

  “We choreographed it ourselves,” said Happy, pouring herself some iced tea.

  “If we’d worked with a real choreographer, it would have been five hundred percent better,” said Daisy, serving Berta another piece of meatloaf.

  “Well, yeah, but did it need to be?” asked Woody. “Seems to me it was more than good enough for 4Play.”

  “No, it’s too good for 4Play,” said Daisy.

  “What do you mean?” said Woody, with the uncomfortable feeling he was falling into a trap.

  “Do you know how much we’re making at 4Play?” said Happy.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Not counting tips, which you keep, each of you makes forty-five dollars an hour, which goes into our household fund.”

  “Right. Thirty-five dollars an hour,” Daisy repeated sourly. “Do you know what we could make in Las Vegas?”

  “No idea.”

  “With that act, maybe seventy an hour. With a real act, one that we’d rehearsed over and over with a professional choreographer, two hundred an hour.”

  Woody was surprised. “Really?”

  “We’re good,” said Daisy, putting down her fork. “When we started out, it was just, well, because you wanted us to make money. It was fun, good exercise. It still is. We like the attention and Harry makes sure nobody hassles us.”

  “Well, I'm glad to hear that.”

  “But we don’t want to go on making forty-five dollars an hour,” said Brownie.

  “We’re in our prime,” said Happy. “This is the time to capitalize on our assets.”

  “Not to mention our asses,” said Brownie. “Five years from now, we won’t be 4Play’s headline act.”

  “Eight years from now we’ll doing a novelty act with firecrackers like Dinah Might,” said Daisy. “If we’re going to make money, now is the time.”

  “Well,” said Woody slowly, not sure where this was leading. “That makes sense.”

  “But to get to Las Vegas, we need money,” said Happy.

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen, twenty thousand at least.”

  “It doesn’t cost that much to fly to Las Vegas.”

  The three of them looked at him like he was the dumbest person in the world. Woody wondered if their mental conditioning was wearing off. Maybe they needed a brain hacking tune-up.

  Daisy spoke slowly. “When Happy says ‘get to Las Vegas,’ it’s like saying ‘get to Carnegie Hall.’ It’s the cost of putting an act together.”

  “Okay, I get it,” said Woody, hiding his annoyance. “But we don’t have fifteen thousand dollars, much less twenty. All I have is a bank account with less than six thousand dollars plus my grant money, which is controlled by the university. That’s it.”

  “You have the Lexus,” said Daisy casually.

  “Which is less than a year old,” said Brownie casually.

  “Bluebook value of at least thirty thousand dollars,” said Happy casually.

  “What is this?” said Woody. “A conspiracy? You want me to sell my Lexus to finance your strip act?”

  “The strip act was your idea, not ours,” said Daisy. “But now that we’re doing it, we want to make real money with it, not household change. You can sell the Lexus for enough to buy a good used car for yourself and enough for us to build a show that will put money in everybody’s pocket.”

  When did I lose control? thought Woody.

  Daisy, Brownie and Happy dropped the subject, though Woody knew they’d raise it again. And again, until they wore him down. Unfortunately, the girls had a point. Right now he and they were getting by, comfortable with what they had, but they had to think of the future. Where would all of them be a year from now? Five years from now?

  Privately, Woody wasn’t sure he wanted to live with three women, much less three women and a thirty-four-year-old little girl, for the next five years. However, he did have a responsibility to them – at least to Daisy, Brownie and Happy. He’d taken them out of college, disrupted their career plans, cut off their relations with other males. To simply discard them once they became inconvenient, that would be well, um, the E-word.

  Dinner over, the girls started to clear
the table. “Oh, gee,” exclaimed Happy suddenly. “Look at the clock! It’s later than I thought.”

  “Uh-oh,” agreed Brownie. “So it is.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Woody.

  “It’s Thursday. That's what’s the matter,” said Daisy. “We have an early show on Thursday.”

  “Since when? You never did before.”

  “Since Harry said so. Weekday attendance is down so now we do an extra show on Thursday to build it up.”

  “Master,” asked Daisy. “Can we clean up after we get home? Otherwise we’ll be late.”

  “You three go on,” said Woody magnanimously. “I’ll clean up.”

  “You will?” said Daisy, open-mouthed.

  “You’re so sweet!” said Brownie.

  “I love you, Master!” said Happy.

  “I do too!” said Daisy.

  “We all do!” said Brownie.

  Woody beamed like a sultan. All of a sudden he was a hero and a king to his slaves again, all for just a little kitchen cleanup. They were really good girls. They cooked, cleaned, did laundry, kept house, shopped, mowed the lawn, washed the car, spread their legs whenever he wanted and never complained. Well, not until lately. He might have to do something about that, but for now, everything was perfect, truly perfect.

  Daisy hugged him. “Just for that, Master, I’ll be extra nice to you tonight!”

  Happy frowned. “You slept with Master last night! It’s my turn tonight.” She pulled Daisy away and planted a wet kiss on his lips. “I’m going to make you so happy tonight, Master!”

  “It’s my turn!” said Brownie. “Master skipped me last week because of… of her.” She pointed a trembling finger at Berta, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during dinner. “He said I could spend an extra night with him this week!”

  “Well, you can’t have my turn,” said Daisy. “You can have Happy’s turn.”

  “No, you can’t!” exclaimed Happy. “I’m keeping my turn.”

  “Master, you promised!” wailed Brownie. “Tell them it’s my turn!”

  “My turn!” said Happy.

  “My turn!” said Daisy.

  Woody wanted to put his hands over his ears but that was undignified for a sultan. “It’s nobody’s turn,” he said loudly. “I’m sleeping alone tonight. By myself!”