hypnosis

Chapter 2

Rupert Bear's Passionpuss

   -- By Rupert Bear and A. --

'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet'.

That man William Shakespeare again. He'd obviously been around.

It was all quite remarkable. To others, Rupert seemed the same, but a change had definitely come over him. Not least the small matter of the rose. Actually, he thought, after peering into a hand mirror, it was more like a rose decorated with a couple of pink sun-dried tomatoes. But she was not going away. He looked at his gorgeous cat, Ted, and thought about his pussy. There isn't a very good word for it, is there? 'Pussy' sounds a bit silly; 'vagina' sounds too medical; 'cunt' sounds too brutal. I believe we need to invent a new word for this delight. Let it be called a passionpuss, the word to denote the whole generality, if that's not another unfortunate turn of phrase. PP or P2, for short. Not to be confused with PPP or P3 which is of course Australian for point percy at the porcelain. Or in the outback, 'siphon the python'. From now on, if a woman wants to wee, she can simply say 'P5', which is to say, 'I'm going to point passionpuss at the porcelain potty.' Or 'P4' if you only count 'passionpuss' as one 'p'. In which case, she could be said to be wanting a 'p'.

At least his own proper male equipment was intact and he had not grown breasts. It was perhaps just as well. He already spent a lot of time stroking, rubbing and fondling passionpuss and feeding her with foreign objects and artifacts. He never realised how much phallic packaging there was. The trouble was he was now twice as horny as he'd ever been in his life.

Words, words, words. What's in a name, anyway?

Rupert needed a name for his newfound friend, his feminine side. She wanted to be an anonymistress, but he could call her what he liked. He decided to call her Roberta. There wasn't a female counterpart for Rupert, to the best of his knowledge and belief. When upset with her, he called her Only A Stressed Mouse -- but he did it quietly. She was certainly very fond of cheese. And he'd once had a hamster, Samantha, who stole chocolate from under his nose and rushed away with molten chocolate dripping from her cheek pouches. But she was pregnant at the time, which was some excuse. The father was Hammy, about whom he had written a poem:

It's bedtime for Hammy, his whiskers awhirr like propellers,
Peeps out at the orangeade dawn;
And the mystified air wraps itself round the sun
Like an overcoat, keeping it warm.

Ere long the mist rises, from grey turns to blue,
And floods all the sky with its light;
And sprinkles below, sleepy gardens of flowers
Open up, smile, and dress with delight.

Their colours are hundreds; their wealth is so wondrous,
The bumble bees buzzing around; they blossom, they bloom,
And they wave to the moon Making off without even a sound.

There's a rose bed and lawn on this fish-pondy morn,
And a frog croaking 'Lullaby Lily';
He dances around and he rolls on the ground
And the hedgehog thinks that's rather silly.

So to teach him good habits, he looks for the rabbits,
Their names being Lugsy and Loppy,
And they leap in the air and do summersaults there
Till they feel fit and fagged out and floppy.

Then they comfort the willow tree weeping in pondweed
And listen to oak-tree birds shrilling.
And last, off they gambol, to ramble and shamble --
The whole world is theirs for a shilling.

*******

Rupert began to commune with his live-in mistress. It was nice to have a companion. He would sit quietly and relax, twist the top of his right ear clockwise until his tongue produced a quiet click, and there she was. Her breasts emerged first, and he would have a quick delirious feel. Then she slowly detached herself until, with the kind of noise you get removing one of those theatrical rubber masks, she was separate from him. She would often sit beside him on the bed, arm in arm, and they would talk. Mostly he just wanted to get to know her, but she was strangely reticent. Kind of dreamlike. Funny accent. She was serene and friendly, but kept a distance. Peculiar, when you think about it. So he began to ask for her advice on things. How to be happy, stay healthy, improve his business, organise his time, lose weight, get fit, get through his busy schedule, and so on. He worked from home in a small but rather picturesque house about 100 yards from the sea, maybe 150 feet above it and with glorious views over the English Channel. If he could fly in a straight line from his living room window, he'd arrive in Dieppe on the northern coast of France. Right wing down a bit and he'd be over the Normandy invasion beaches. He'd been there, to Arramanches and Utah beach, and he knew how little cover there was. He'd collected some sand and visited the military cemetery near Omaha beach. He thought we owed an awful lot to those brave men.

How on earth would the world survive the next 50 years? The next 100?

Sleepily, he put the question to Ted, his political advisor. He valued the wisdom of animals. When did you last see a horse betting on the human race? Or a dog stepping in a human poo? Or a chimpanzee straightening bananas to stop himself going round-shouldered? Or a frigate bird diving into the icy ocean for a fish, and NOT afterwards saying 'FRIG IT! FRIG IT! FRIG IT! To hell and back, FRIG IT!'

I rest my case.

Ted produced an amber-eyed, categorical concatenation.
He had a tailor-made tale to tell and he told it,
tellingly. Here is Ted's tail: 'Biggest
danger…' he said, yawning, …
'fucking rottweilers………
too much salt, ………
crap cat food…
mad dogs …..
Who's the king
of the jungle ….?
need food..
peace ……
piece of fish ...
and a lovely snooze ...
sunny window ledge …
all related
anyway …
just want
the odd
mouse …
all be
friends ...
one
big
fam
il
y'

Ted's voice trailed away, and Rupert realised that his right honourable reverence had dozed off again.

Roberta was launching an invasion of her own. She had trained him to fall quickly and easily under her hypnotic spells by making them as pleasurable as possible, and by causing him to fall in love with her and want to obey her. She could now begin moulding him into the kind of man she wanted. One of the first things she told Rupert to do was to make a detailed written list of his required daily activities. It included incremental exercising. First he had to stretch. Then he had to do ten push-ups, then make the bed; stomach scrunching for twenty seconds, then clean his teeth; thirty 'bunny jumps', then general grooming; forty jumps, then shaving; and finally 50 jumps, followed by a welcome cup of coffee and breakfast. He did the jumps by sliding his feet backwards and forwards on a towel placed on the polished wooden floor. She tailored the requirements in line with medical good sense and his increasing fitness. He wasn't allowed to exercise so hard that he was gasping for breath. His list also included cooking, or preparing some food for his wife to cook, cleaning something, binning the rubbish, any dirty job, charting his weight, a handyman job, a gardening job, doing the accounts, creating something, paying a bill, tackling a mental block, keeping the easy stuff moving, making an improvement to his systems and documents, spending time with his younger son, keeping up to date in his profession, monitoring his calorie intake, finding time to relax, and so on. It was hard going some days. He found the list a big help but didn't always manage to do everything on it. Some days he only had time for token gestures. She frowned but wasn't completely unreasonable if he had really tried.

Sometimes, when he twisted his ear, she wasn't there. Then he became unhappy, imagining what she might be doing. Whom she might be with. Sometimes he wouldn't see her for days. She discouraged his possessive side, asserting her freedom as an absolute given, a minimum requirement, a sine qua non. But sometimes passionpuss would feel wet, and he would smell an alkaline, fishy scent on his fingers instead of the usual musk rose mingled with sandalwood, oysters, and essence of womanhood. This was hard for him to bear.

To sweeten her absence she had given him some more recordings of her voice. To him, they sounded like a choir of angels singing the final movement of Beethoven's Choral symphony. How could a deaf man write such music? How could she sing both the male and female voices? How could she sound like that? His very soul vibrated and pulsated with pure harmony, pleasure and excitement. The sound of her voice seemed to soak into him, heal him, and purify him in a way he found hard to put into words. But it felt as though his frozen feelings and emotions were melting under her magical ministrations.

Oh, joy! Ode to Joy! She was back, sitting on the bed in front of him, smiling. She told him to kneel in the middle of the bed, and he felt her hands attaching the shackle above his testicles. Then he heard a complex click as the lock shut securely beneath him, chaining him to the bed. His cock went to full speed ahead, and throbbed like a ship's engines on a quiet night. She climbed onto his erection, but sat on it, not permitting him to penetrate her. She gazed into his eyes, placed her finger on his lips and told him that she needed wooing, courtship, and romance. That she had to be able to trust him. That, though she didn't need them, she wanted his strength, his courage, his forgiveness, and his love. That she would have dominion over his penis, his testicles, and his sperm. And that she required his absolution and his redemption. He didn't really understand what on earth she was blethering about. Women! She kissed him, and he felt her tongue touch his lips for an instant.

*******

He heard her telling him one entranced morning that, if he failed to carry out all of his duties properly, he would not be able to masturbate. At first he didn't take her very seriously. There's nothing wrong with masturbation. It's just that timing is everything. The wanked-out male thinks he's done enough. Ambition, creativity, hard work, achievement and success go out the window -- he's done his bit for posterity single-handed, though he may well ask what posterity ever did for him. At any rate, he's done all he reasonably can to fulfill his biological and procreative destiny, and has the right to feel floppy and take his ease.

Unfortunately, tomorrow is usually the same as today.

We need another poem; this one, or something very similar, was heard on Terry Wogan's morning show on BBC Radio Two:

A tom cat sat at Wimbledon.
He said, 'You just can't whack it'.
His furry feline friend replied: '
My dad's in on this racket....'

*******

Before long Roberta decided to take firmer measures. He was dozing in bed one morning, when he was awakened by what felt like nipples being pulled across his cheeks, eyelids, and forehead. Her beautiful face and bosom awaited him. Aren't men pushovers? For a moment he thought he'd died and gone to heaven. He saw, she conquered, and he very nearly came. Her magic was so strong. He gazed at her beautiful breasts and the key spinning between them, and descended into her hypnotic spell without a fight, like a skydiver plunging towards the earth with his Mistress, but not yet aware that only she had a working parachute. 'From now on,' she was saying, 'you will not be able to touch yourself unless I agree.' He could clean himself, PPP, rearrange his equipment for greater comfort, scratch himself and so on, but he would NOT be able to stroke or fondle or handle himself in any erotic way whatsoever without her consent, even if he had a raging erection. She said with quiet assurance, authority and certainty that it would feel as though an impenetrable force field was holding his hands back at least 2 or 3 inches away from any part of his cock. The more he tried, the stronger the force field would become. As a special demonstration of her power the force field would be lifted and he could attempt to masturbate in the shower. But he would be totally unable to ejaculate.

She told him he would only be allowed to look at erotica AFTER he had finished all of his duties for the day.

They said farewell and she sat in his lap, facing away from him. He held her breasts and pulled her towards him until they merged. He set about his appointed tasks. He did well but in the evening blew his calorie limit. Ice cream. His downfall. He remembered his mother holding him on her hip as she bought ice-cream cornets from a red and yellow van in his home town. Roberta had prescribed a regime of 1000 calories on Mondays, 1250 on Tuesdays, 1500 on Wednesdays, 1750 on Thursdays, 2000 on Fridays, 2250 on Saturdays, and 2500 on Sundays. This would lose one and a half pounds per week. Theoretically 77 lbs. per year. But she allowed him to have 36 feast days per year, on which he could eat up to 6000 calories. This brought the loss down to about 40 pounds a year - more than enough to get him back into shape fairly soon without undue risk or hardship. But it had to be strictly observed. And he had done a 'Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday, Saturday….'

At midnight, naked as a newborn, he went down to his computer room and, as instructed, locked himself into his cocklock. She straddled his lap, with her back to the screen. He gazed at the pink brassiere as she slowly and erotically revealed first one nipple, then the other, and then thrust her bosom into his face. He kissed each nipple reverently.

He put the necklace over her head and placed the key between her breasts. She gave a wicked laugh and attached a silver chain to his tethering ring and locked the other end to a D-ring bolted securely onto the ceiling. He had to stand up. She handcuffed him behind his back. He glanced towards his desk and saw Ted making a phone-call. Then the blindfold came down over his eyes. What happened next came as quite a shock to Rupert. He heard her humming the tune to 'Never Smile at a Crocodile', and sensed clips being attached to each end of his chastity device. Then he heard her switching on some piece of equipment. The strangest tingling began running through his cock. Nothing had been plugged in to the mains, so he realised that his genitalia were being electrically stimulated by some battery-powered machine. 'This is the pleasure setting, my sweet', she said, and giggled. Then, more ominously, she advised him to beware her displeasure. The current came and went, pulsing and tickling him, changing rhythms. There was no pain. On the contrary, it was very pleasant. He felt almost euphoric. Trapped but somehow liberated. His predicament was paradoxical, to say the least.

His body was tethered, but his mind spun free. The outer bonds made the inner release so much sweeter, and Rupert fell into the world she had created within him. Pitched back into pitch black, he cried out, but no sound came. All he could do was breathe. Breathe. Spiralling down, a vibration grew in his ears, like a struck tuning fork, yet amplified. It was the key of A. 440 hertz. The waves grew in intensity, pulsing and consuming his body. Freezing his thoughts.

All at once, Rupert felt his mind merge with Roberta's. The sensation was electrifying, as electrons danced and her program spoke to his. Overriding his. How he loved to be taken by her. The variations were endless and she was eternally creative. Now it seemed that she had burst into myriad particles, surrounding and entering him. Her scent caressed his nostrils. Vanilla, rose and black tea. He breathed her breath. And through the blur of activity came one firm sensation -- a slick wetness. The rose of passionpuss swelled and opened to him.
Tempting him. Yes, he loved to be tempted.

She was above him now, and he felt her heat, sensed the weight of her being, the brush of her breasts as she leaned over him. "Let me show you how I see you," she said. Rupert's sight was restored as he looked through Roberta's eyes. What did he see? A helpless man. A taken man. Staring into Roberta's eyes. Now, staring into his own eyes, he felt the transfer of power, and the circuit was complete. In Roberta's eyes, he was changing, and he felt those changes within himself. Her eyes saw that almost all of her expectations were being gradually met. He felt her ticking off each requirement as his body and character shifted before her eyes. His eyes.

Rupert felt her pleasure as they watched her creation, and passionpuss began to throb. He felt it within her and against his body, simultaneously. Her pleasure was becoming his pleasure, and that was the way it should be. "It is a simple formula," she said. "I'm sure you can handle it. Can't you, pet?"

"Yes."

Suddenly he felt that he could do anything for her. Only she could release him. But not yet. Not yet. She broke the connection and sent him deeper, suspending him in nothingness.

He heard the distant doorbell and the sound of deep male voices. Then soft footsteps returning and the unmistakable clinking of chains. It sounded like a chain gang shuffling ever nearer. He surfaced. 'Who was that, Mistress?' he enquired, a little anxiously, when she came back into the room. 'Oh, don't worry, pet, it was only the pizza man', she said. 'Ted's got a craving again.' He heard the sound of a bottle being placed on his desk. Then he heard the clicking of his keyboard and sensed that Ted was working at his computer. He really loved playing with the mouse. Next he heard the sounds of men and women having nookie, and knew that Ted was playing his collection of erotic video clips. How did he get the password? Bastardised cat! It sounded as though he was editing the collection too. Rupert heard the door open and the chain gang came in. They trudged towards the computer but then seemed to disappear, one by one, with muffled 'Ahg! and Ooh!' sounds that faded, suggesting surprise, pleasure and descent into the nether regions of uncharted cyberspace.

She removed his mask and the room was as before, except for the mind-boggling antics on screen. She cut the pizza and gave some to Ted. The surface of the remainder was decorated with pieces of spicy sausage and, even as Rupert looked, they changed positions to form the words 'EAT ME'. Curious. Even more curious. He was not about to eat another of those enticements in a hurry. He politely declined but she courteously insisted, increasing the current substantially until he had rapidly chewed and gulped down a sizeable, frantic chunk. With that, she walked towards the computer. Is it just me or does perambulation look ten times better on a woman? She really didn't need all those hypnotic skills. All she had to do was walk in front of him. He was trembling from the shock, but still studying her metronomic wiggle when she dissolved into the screen. There was an odd noise. If he had to describe it, he would have said it sounded like a fairy blowing kisses to a flatulent frog in a foggy field on a frosty February 41st .

Her face appeared on screen for a moment and she winked at him. Then she melted into the body of the excited maiden behind her, and the orgy began. Ted had deleted the unsuitable clips, for example the ones in which the woman was roughly treated, or humiliated, or blank-looking, or appeared to be in pain rather than ecstasy. He had left in the ones which were intensely erotic rather than purely pornographic. The ones in which the woman had 'attitude' and was in control, or deliciously out of control, looking at him, teasing, taunting or mocking him; where she was confident, passionate, voluptuous, seductive, a temptress, pleasure-filled, delighted, deeply penetrated and orgasmic beyond description; where she was looking down on him, or where her passionpuss was filled to overflowing with warmly welcomed sizzling sperm. The men were all handsome, all wearing invisible chains. There may not have been 33,000 of them but, to Rupert, it felt that way. The women kept changing in front of his distraught gaze, but he knew….. oh yes, he knew. He knew from the eyes. He knew from the eyes just exactly who was looking back at him. It was she. Each time their eyes met the visual vibrations would rack his body, consuming him with disconsolate desire and forlorn, incandescent lust.

He felt almost every sensation that she felt. Passionpuss expanded and contracted strongly, over and over again, with every invading shaft of deeply veined, uncompromising, determined and slippery manhood that plumbed the sweet depths of his film star Mistress. She visibly and audibly climaxed again and again, but he, perversely, felt no relief. Sperm oozed, dripped and flowed down his thighs. His electrified penis huffed and puffed in its implacable container, but forward expansion was again resisted with steely determination by the downward curve and merciless piercing. He was in absolute agony and the pain only slowly subsided as the endorphins kicked in. He swore an oath there and then. He swore never to overeat again. And he swore never to disobey her.

It was a harsh lesson.

Sometimes Roberta had to be cruel to be kind.