by Michael K. Smith
After I got back to school in January, I found that the spring room-shuffling in the dorm had landed me with a thoroughly undesirable neighbor right across the hall. His name was George Kaufman and he was an asshole. No -- let's be blunt about this: George was a bigoted, red-necked, right-wing, foulmouthed, coprophagic, anthropoid, odoriferous, knuckle-dragging, homophobic, microcephalic son of a bitch.
For instance . . . I had grown a beard the previous quarter -- not to make a statement, particularly, but just because I was too lazy to shave every morning and full facial hair looks better (okay, it looks more "deliberate," anyway) than a three-day stubble. The very first time George saw me, he dubbed me "cunt-mouth" -- his idea of sophisticated humor. That's all he ever called me and it carried over to his few friends. I decided I would have to do something about George. I thought about simply knifing him in his sleep, but that would probably get me expelled. No, it would have to be something sneaky, indirect, and untraceable.
My opportunity came via a girl named Sandy in my English class. She had a steady boyfriend and she wasn't really my type -- not for dating, anyway -- and that allowed us to become casual friends, minus the usual sexual tension. Sandy was reasonably pretty (I thought) and rather vivacious when she wanted to be, but she seemed to have a poor self-image. I got the impression that her two sisters had been hometown beauty queens and Sandy was the Cinderella of the family; she thought "plain" was the best she could aspire to.
Over lunch one day, I explained to her my interest in hypnosis and my therapeutic successes, and I convinced her to let me put her under. She would remain aware of the whole process, which should allay any uneasiness she might have about what I was doing. So I went over to her room that evening and, in the comforting presence of her roommate, put her into an easy trance. Then we had a little talk.
I asked Sandy questions about her opinion of herself and found what I had suspected: An assumption of inferiority, constant self-comparison to her sisters, and resignation that she would never be very attractive. I assured her that she was in fact *very* pretty, that she didn't have to be a pin-up to have all the dates she wanted, that she had a warm and friendly personality that nearly any guy -- or girl -- would find attractive. Her roommate clued me in on a few details and I carefully reshaped Sandy's view of herself. It took maybe an hour and that was it.
Within a few days, Sandy's roommate called me excitedly to tell me her friend had actually approached a guy she had secretly liked and asked *him* for a date -- and the guy had accepted. Moreover, the date had been a complete success and Sandy was so pleased with herself she was practically in tears. That made me feel good, to know that I could help someone that much by actually doing so little.
The following week, before class, I happened to see Sandy conversing with another girl, obviously a buddy of hers. The buddy was immediately joined by my nemesis, George, who put his arm possessively around her. George hadn't seen me and I slipped back into the doorway and observed the three. Sandy's body language seemed to indicate that she wasn't a big fan of George's, which confirmed my judgment of her good taste in men. When she came into the classroom, I asked her who that was she'd been talking to; I thought I knew her from somewhere . . . maybe back home?
"Who, Cynthia? Cynthia Lewis? We went to high school together, so I don't think you'd know her. . . ." No, I guess I didn't know her, I said; she must simply look like someone I knew. Oh, well.
After class, I walked with Sandy over to the Library and as we cut through the little grove of fir trees out front, I said "Sandy, wait a minute." She stopped and looked at me questioningly. "Dive, Sandy, dive."
Her expression didn't change, but she said "Sure . . ." and waited for instructions.
"Sandy, does your friend Cynthia Lewis have any bad habits or personal problems that you think she'd be happier without?"
"Well, I'm afraid she's kind of a borderline anorexic. She panics if she goes even two pounds over what she thinks is her ideal weight and then she skips meals for days. It's made her sick a few times and her doctor had to bully her into eating. But the worst part, I think, is that she worries and loses sleep over it. She's terrified she'll get 'fat'. You know those charts on public scales, that tell you how much you should weigh for your height? Well, Cynthia takes those things literally; she doesn't realize she's just a large-framed person! She's never going to be a fashion model. 'Normal' weight for her is about ten pounds more than those stupid charts and she looks really good at that weight -- very busty and kind of voluptuous. I worry about her sometimes. . . ."
So there was my leverage. "Sandy, I want you to take your friend Cynthia aside and explain to her that you know someone who might be able to help her with her weight problem. You will convince her to get together with me, and I'll try to readjust her sights to a healthier and more realistic weight target, okay? You will stay with her the whole time, so she has nothing to worry about, does she? Tell her all about the session you and I had -- you remember every bit of it -- and how it seems to have helped you. You'll tell her you worry about her and you want to help her. You're convinced of that, so you'll be able to convince her, okay?"
A week later, Sandy asked if she could bring a friend of hers around to talk to me about a problem she was having with her weight.
Close up, Cynthia turned out to be not at all hefty -- just not a little wisp of a girl, either. She was about five-foot-six, maybe a size fourteen, with large tits and wide hips. Not fat, though. Just, as Sandy had suggested, "voluptuous." She was quite pretty but she had a rather drawn expression, as if she spent too much time staring down at the scales.
We sat and chatted for a few minutes. Cynthia wasn't at all sure about this hypnotism thing, but she trusted her buddy, Sandy, and Sandy insisted I had been able to help her overcome her shyness about guys; Cynthia, in fact, remarked on the change in Sandy she had observed herself. I assured her that she would be completely aware of everything that was happening and that Sandy was there to make her feel more comfortable, too. And she finally agreed.
Cynthia was not a difficult subject. She was used to deferring to other people and she practically put herself into a trance. "Cynthia, when your doctor has scolded you for not eating, what did *he* say your weight ought to be?"
"About 125 pounds -- but that's *way* too much!"
"No, it isn't, Cynthia. You're taller than average and you have a larger bone structure than those tiny little girls whom you think are the 'right' size. You must convince yourself that your doctor is right: You, personally, individually, should weigh about 125 pounds. You will let your weight gradually increase to about that level, won't you? You will feel much better when you let yourself weigh what you *should* weigh, won't you? When you go a few pounds over your target, you won't worry and fret about it; you'll just eat a little less for a few days until you're back down to 125, give or take a couple of pounds. You won't rush it, you won't fast, you won't go on crash diets -- none of that is necessary, is it, Cynthia? You know you'll be much healthier, don't you? And your doctor will be pleased with you. You'll look very nice and very sexy at your proper weight, Cynthia. And that will make you much happier. Your friends won't worry about you so much. You're a beautiful young woman, Cynthia, and you have a very nice body, and you must not try to starve yourself for no reason. Do you understand?"
Cynthia nodded and actually looked relieved, as if someone had given her permission to do what she knew she ought to do. I said, "Now, pay no attention to anything I say for a minute, Cynthia." Then I turned to Sandy, sitting quietly in the other chair, and said "Dive, Sandy, dive." Now they were both under. I put Sandy on hold and turned back to her friend.
"Now, Cynthia, there's something else we need to talk about." She nodded. "How long have you been going with George Kaufman? And why are you attracted to him?"
"A couple of months, I guess. I know some people don't like him, and he's kind of loud sometimes, but he's all right. He pays attention to me and he doesn't care that I'm overweight. I mean, I used to be-- I mean, I guess I'm not really overweight, not anymore, but he--"
She was beginning to confuse herself so I said, "Cynthia, you're not overweight, remember? No matter what George or anyone else says or thinks. Are you in love with him, Cynthia? You two seem pretty tight when you're together."
She laughed lightly. "No, nothing like that! He likes to put his arm around me in public, so I let him. It embarrasses me a little, sometimes, but what the hell. But I'm not in love with him!"
"Have you fucked him, Cynthia? What do you usually do in the way of sex play, on dates?"
"Uh, yeah, we've fucked a couple of times. But it makes me nervous; I don't want to get pregnant, or catch a disease or anything, and he refuses to use protection. So, mostly, we just play around. He sucks on my tits and that feels nice -- but he sucks too hard sometimes, and leaves a bruise. And we jack each other off in the car. You know." She was a little uncomfortable divulging all this intimate information.
"Cynthia, you will not be nervous about telling me these things. I'm helping you with a couple of problems, right? Your friend, Sandy, is right here, keeping an eye on you. You're perfectly all right and completely relaxed, aren't you? Now, tell me about George. What kind of lover is he?"
"Oh, he's okay, I guess. His penis is awful small, but--"
"Small? Smaller than other guys' penises you've seen?"
"Oh, yes -- *much* smaller. I made out with several guys in high school and a couple others in college before I met George, and even the ones with average-sized penises were a lot bigger than George's little thing."
Wonderful! I couldn't help grinning. "Okay, Cynthia, this is what you're going to do: Starting the next date you have with George, you will begin telling him exactly what you've been telling me. When he paws you in public, if you don't like it, tell him so, okay? Tell him he's embarrassing you. If he sucks too hard on your tit, tell him to stop doing it, you don't like to have a bruise there. And when you handle his little prick, it will strike you so funny, you won't be able to keep from laughing, understand? You won't be able to stop yourself from making jokes about it, will you? You can do much better than George, you know that, don't you? In fact, after your next date, you should tell all your friends, female *and* male, just how tiny and inadequate George's equipment is, don't you think? Make sure the word gets around about him. He's used you, hasn't he? It's time you got even, isn't it?"
Cynthia's smile had taken on a beautifully wicked tinge. I realized she resented George's condescension toward her even more than she had said. I turned back to Sandy, who had been sitting quietly all this time, smiling at her private thoughts.
"Sandy, you will forget completely that you've been in this trance. When I count down to five, you will come out of it and not remember you've been under. You're watching me counsel Cynthia on her imaginary weight problem, and that's all that's happened. You'll remind her that her ideal weight is really more like 125 pounds and you'll give her all the psychological support she needs until she gets used to it, won't you? She's your friend and you're glad you were able to help her by bringing her to see me, right? Okay now: Five, . . . four, . . . three, . . . two, . . . one." I had turned back to Cynthia when Sandy blinked herself awake and shifted position slightly.
"Okay, Cynthia, is everything clear now?
About your best weight? And everything else we've talked about?" She nodded
and smiled. The girls went back to their dorm chattering happily and at
peace with the world.
A couple weeks later, I began seeing notes
scrawled in restrooms on campus: TINY GEORGE, TERROR OF THE BEAVERS! And:
LITTLE GEORGE KAUFMAN STRIKES AGAIN! I overheard two guys in the dorm cafeteria
laughing about what their girlfriends had told them about George "Little
Kaufman; the news was coming around third- and fourth-hand, now.
George himself was red in the face and snarling most of the time these days. There was a scuffle in the hall when someone made a crack behind his back and George made the mistake of taking a swing at the guy, who put him on the floor with one punch. It's amazing how much blood your nose can produce.
Sandy had told me, in between giggles,
what her buddy had told her about George the day after our session, so
I'd already known the "therapy" had taken. Cynthia's weight gradually increased
a few pounds and she seemed much more relaxed and much happier with herself.
I saw her with other guys besides George and she looked, . . . well, "fulfilled."
I asked Cynthia out a couple times myself, in fact, and it didn't require
hypnosis to explore her charms. She had tits like firm sofa pillows: Large
but not sagging. Her stomach and legs hadn't a ounce of flab and she was
a delightful girl to exchange caresses with. And when, on the second date,
we did The Deed in her dorm room, I discovered I didn't need the two condoms
I was carrying in my pocket: Cynthia had laid in a stock in the drawer
of her bedside table, in all colors and flavors.
Oh, yeah -- George transferred to another
school at the end of the spring semester. He wouldn't even tell anyone
what school it was, apparently for fear someone would call ahead and keep
the gossip going. I almost missed him. What good is it, being a hammer,
when you can't find a deserving nail?
Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies
may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial
rights are reserved.